The Cylon War
By Dave Learn


Part 1

    Jean-Luc Picard leaned back comfortably in his command
chair.  The Enterprise was on a routine exploratory mission
on the edge of Federation territory, mapping uncharted star
systems.  This, he thought, was wonderful.  A peaceful
interlude from many of the Enterprise's more dangerous
assignments, such as its periodic forays toward the Romulan
Neutral Zone.  Of course, with a name like Enterprise, the
ship had an uncanny history of finding trouble, even on the
most routine and unlikely assignments.
    He stood up for what must have been the fifteenth time
in twenty minutes to walk across his bridge.  All right, he
admitted to himself, he wasn't completely comfortable with
the assignment.  In fact, he felt downright nervous.  Not
because of the actual exploration; the thrill of the unknown
was always exhilarating for him.  It was what had driven him
into Star Fleet to begin with.  No, what concerned him were
the three passengers he had on board the ship.  They were a
constant puzzle to him, and he wished to make them feel
completely at home in his ship, unsure if he was doing a good job.
    Only a year before, he and his crew had encountered an
alien fleet coming from an unknown sector of the galaxy.
The fleet was led by a warship called the Galactica, and
interestingly enough, everyone in the entire fleet was
human.  Not just humanoid, which would have been interesting
enough, but human.  Somehow, on another planet -- one named
Kobol -- thousands of light years from Earth, a humanity had
evolved identical to the humanity which evolved on Earth.
The Darwinists were mystified as to how this could be, and
many were even more puzzled when the aliens revealed that
their ancestors had also colonized Earth, when the fossil
record seemed to indicate to the contrary.
    Scientific mysteries aside, it was clear that the
travellers required haven, and their desire to join the
Federation was soon made manifest.  They were granted an
uninhabited planet in Federation territory to colonize, and
those members of the fleet with a military inclination were
welcomed into Star Fleet at comparative levels to their
previously held ranks.
    The whoosh of the turbolift arrested Picard's line of thought as it
announced the arrival of the three guests Picard was so concerned about.  The
elder of the three, the commander of the Galactica and leader of the twelve
tribes stepped out.
    "Welcome to the bridge, Admiral Adama," Picard smiled as he sought to
conceal his uneasiness.  Why did he feel so uncomfortable around this man?  He
looked kindly and gentle, like a grandfather.  Perhaps, Picard mused, it was
simply because he was such a mystery.
    "Thank you, Captain Picard, though I must confess I am... unused to being
referred to as `admiral.'"
    "No doubt.  But you must admit, we could hardly call the leader of an
entire fleet what we call our first officers."
    "Indeed, I should think not.  But tell me, how long until we reach Mormo?"
    "Ensign Green, time until arrival at our destination?" Picard asked.
    The dark-curled man at the navigation console turned.  "Only another
forty-five minutes, captain," Green returned.
    "Is something wrong, Ensign?"
    "No sir, it's just..."
    "Just what?"
    "The name `Mormo,' Captain.  It just seems like an unusual name for a
planet."
    The dark-haired man standing next to Adama chuckled quietly.  "I suppose
any name might sound unusual to someone who's never heard it before, like
Lieutenant Worf's `Klinzhai.'"
    The huge Klingon at the tactical console peered down from his lofty
elevation at the discussion.  "Indeed?  Klinzhai is an honorable name for a
world.  It means, `Home of Warriors,' an appropriate title for the Klingon
homeworld."
    "No, it's not that, Apollo," Green replied.  "I have heard the name before.
It's the name of a demon in Judeo-Christian tradition, the prince of the
ghouls."
    "Interesting," replied Apollo.  "In Smythism, Mormo is one of the most
revered of all the gods of Kobol."
    "That's another name I've heard before," said Green.
    The android Data seated next to Green turned.  "Indeed?  When we originally
encountered the Galactica, I was unable to locate any reference to a planet
named Kobol."
    "This is incredible," Adama piped in.  "You're the first person from Earth
I've encountered so far who has heard of Kobol, Ensign Green.  Where did you
hear of it?"
    "A religious group begun on Earth during the nineteenth century believed in
a distant planet named Kobol.  That's where Moroni came from."
    "I don't believe it," gaped the blond man with Apollo and Adama.  "Moroni
was the name of the angel who gave the revelation to J'Sopha."
    "Gentlemen," Picard interrupted. "I do not believe that the bridge of a
starship is the best place to discuss religion.  Mister Green has shown himself
to be very narrow-minded on this subject, and has swayed the opinions of others
on this bridge as well."  He eyed the looming figure of Worf as he finished his
sentence.
    "Very well, captain," Adama acquiesced.  "Ensign Green, if I could have
your company once your duty shift is at an end, I would be very grateful."
    Blast it, thought Picard, why does Green have to be so pushy with his
religion?  Why can't he just let people believe what they want to believe and
let well enough alone.  His mind raced back to the time Q appeared on the ship
and appeared to transport them back to first century Palestine.  Green had used
the opportunity to share his beliefs with them, and both Worf and Wesley had
converted.  Now Green had a Bible study going for interested officers, and
Picard was concerned that more and more of his bridge crew would start
committing intellectual suicide.  And what good was an officer whose world view
was so narrow-minded and theocentric?
    Data quickly interrupted his silent condemnation in as puzzled a tone as
android could have.  "Captain, we are entering sensor range now, but we can
detect only minimal life signs."
    "Check sensors."
    "Checking sensors, captain.  There are no malfunctions.  All systems are
functioning normally."
    "Verified, captain.  That's Moroni ahead, but there are no life signs."
    "Impossible.  How can a population of a billion people just disappear?"
Picard demanded.
    "Apollo, good buddy, you don't suppose that --" the blond man began.
    "Let's hope not, Starbuck," came Apollo's swift reply.
    "Go to warp nine," Picard ordered.
    Within minutes the Enterprise arrived in orbit around the lifeless planet
Mormo.  The devastation was complete.  The newly-constructed cities lay in
ruins, the smoke rising from the once-crowded streets like giant funeral
wreaths to block out the light of the sun.
    "Good Lord."  Picard's words hung in the air as the horror of what shown on
the viewscreen sunk in.
    "All my people... the Council of Twelve..." Adama breathed in deep shock,
tears forming in his eyes.  Each of the three Galacticans were hit hardest.
These had been their people, their families, their friends.  For yahrens, the
fleet had travelled the length of the galaxy together, fighting off the Cylons
for some distant hope.  They had fought together, laughed together, shared
triumph and defeat, and now... all was ashes.  For once, the garrulous Starbuck
was silent.
    "What power could have done this?" Worf asked, amazed at the force of
Mormo's destroyers.
    The screen switched to show the space around Mormo.  Here was the
Galactica, brutally attacked and ripped asunder beneath a brutal onslaught.
The Rising Star, Counsellor Uri's vessel, drifted through space like floating
refuse.  Other ships, having successfully navigated the treacherous stars now
drifted in pieces around Mormo, destroyed by the hand of an unfeeling foe.
Among the ruins of the fleet drifted smaller, one-person vessels, the colonial
vipers, some more intact than others, bursts of energy playing about their
broken frames like flies on a hot pan.  Among them drifted other ships, built
like flying pancakes.  Although more of the Cylon raiders littered the sky, it
was clear which side had triumphed.
    "How can this have happened?" Picard asked.  "We defeated the Cylons just
after we encountered you.  We destroyed three of their Basestars.  Surely they
would have seen that we are more powerful than them and wouldn't have attacked
again."
    "No," Adama whispered harshly, "No, they wouldn't have cared.  I've told
you before, the Cylons won't rest until they've destroyed every last human.  Do
you believe me now?  They followed us this far, and they've destroyed us at
last.  By now they're aware of your Federation and are at work destroying your
people, too.  They won't be satisfied until either side is utterly destroyed.
Can't you see that?"
    As the Enterprise pushed onward though the battlefield, the wreckage of a
Basestar appeared, torn nearly in two by the powerful missiles of the
Galactica.  A larger, cylindrical ship drifted docilely in the midst of the
silent cemetery.
    "There!  What's that?" Picard asked, indicating the unfamiliar ship.
    Starbuck looked, breaking his silent reverie.  "That's a Cylon fuel ship.
Carries solarium, the most flammable substance we're aware of.  Light one of
those, and you've got one heck of a fire.  Almost as bright as a nova."
    So, Adama thought.  This is how it ends.  He imagined Tigh at the command
of the Galactica, guarding the planet until he was positive they were safe.  He
imagined his final moments as he saw the massive Cylon fleet approaching, as he
made the desperate attempt to save the fleet from destruction, placing the
Galactica and her vipers between the Cylons and the defenseless planet below.
I should have been there, Adama thought despairingly, to save my people, or at
least to die with them.
    "Captain," Green said, "Commander Data and I have detected a residual
chemical trail, such as may have been left by the Cylons.  I would have
dismissed it, but since Lieutenant Starbuck says that they run on chemical
fuel..."
    "What heading did the ship take, Ensign?" Picard asked.
    "The direction they've taken will lead them directly to Sector 001...
Earth."  He finished his answer with a gasp, an almost strangled sound which
nearly expired before it escaped his throat.
    "Lieutenant Worf, alert Star Fleet.  Inform that we are in pursuit of the
Cylon war fleet.  Sound a red alert throughout the ship, secure all hands and
prepare for battle.  Ensign Green, lay in a course to pursue the Cylons at warp
nine point five."
    The Enterprise turned around like a graceful swan until it pointed in the
direction the Cylons had taken after their attack on Mormo.  Then, in a
brilliant burst of light the ship disappeared from sight as it roared through
hyperspace toward the coming battle.


Part Two

    William T. Riker shinnied up the rough tree as silently
and expediently as possible.  Too much noise would attract
undesired attention and cost him whatever advantage he had.
All around him, the birds sung sweetly, blissfully unaware
of the struggle he underwent.  The brook deceptively wound
its way through the wooded countryside, a peaceful image
designed to lull him into unwariness.  The area emanated a
tranquil quality too absent from his time on board the
Enterprise.  Ironic that he should be fleeing through it for
his life.
    From his lofty perch, his eyes raced over the unpeopled
landscape.  There!  There was one of them.  A solitary
robot, programmed to kill humans on sight, stood down the
slopes some fifty meters.  Riker wondered that it hadn't
detected his presence yet.  At once he began to develop a
strategy to overcome this unit.  Besides it, there were at
least two, perhaps as many as five other robots searching
for him.  If he managed to overcome this one, he had a
chance.  With the robot's phaser rifle, he would be better
able to defeat the others.
    An attack relying on physical prowess would fail, he realized.  This robot
was at least as strong as Lieutenant Data and could pulverize him with the
twitch of a hand.  No, he smiled ruefully, he would need some of Worf's guile
and cunning.
    The robot patiently scanned the countryside with its
infrared vision.  The human, once located, would be an easy
target for destruction.  A noise from up the slope drew its
attention.  The leaves from a tree rustled loudly as
something plummeted from their haven.  The robot turned
about to locate the human.
    Rather than the focused heat of a human body, the robot
beheld a portrait of heat, like fire splashed across a
canvas.  Somewhere within the brush fire was the human, but
it would be impossible to detect where without closer
investigation.  It automatically readied the phaser rifle it
cradled in its arm.
    Looking for all the world like a king at court, Riker
sat enthroned on a stump while the flames danced for his
amusement.  At the entrance to his flaming palace, towers of
flame guarded their lord from the robot's advance.  The
robot looked directly at the commander but remained unsure
if it had found the human it sought -- it could find nothing
to distinguish Riker from the heat all around it.
    Riker relaxed as he witnessed the robot's bewilderment.
Then, gathering his breath, he lunged to his left before
landing on his chest some five feet away.  The robot, seeing
the sudden motion, fired the phaser rifle, missing Riker but
hitting the tree behind where Riker had sat.  The behemoth,
already weakened by the fire, broke at the phaser blast and
fell forward with a loud crack.  The robot never knew what hit it.
    "One down, five to go," Riker quipped as he ran to grab the robot's phaser.
As his hand reached out to claim his prize, his eyes lit on the last thing he
wanted to see: two other robots.  Their rifles fired, hitting Riker squarely in
the chest.
    "Game over.  One robot incapacitated," the computer's voice gently rang
through the room as the woods and robots disappeared from the holodeck.
    "Blast it.  Why can't I ever win?" Riker asked airily.
    "Success is dependent upon individual skill and selected game level," the
computer responded.
    Riker grinned as he gathered himself up.  "Well, at least I'm getting
better.  I managed to destroy one this time.  I'll have to tell Worf."
    "Number One, report to the briefing room," Picard's voice echoed in the
empty holodeck.
    "What is it, sir?"
    "We seem to have a problem.  The Cylons have returned."
    "The Cylons?  Have Adama's people been informed?"
    "They are... they are aware of the situation, Number One.  Report to the
briefing room."


    Ten minutes later, Riker stepped onto the bridge.  The command chair was,
of course, empty, as was Picard's policy when the bridge crew was in
conference.
    He turned to the navigator.  "Afternoon, Keith.  Do you know what's going
on?"
    The curly-haired ensign looked over his shoulder, sadness in his eyes.
"Yes sir.  It's not pleasant.  Captain Picard is going to need your support."
    Green was an unusual sort to find on a starship -- he was
a fundamentalist Christian, believing the Bible to be the
word of a supreme being.  Yet despite his narrow-mindedness,
Green showed himself to have an engaging personality, an
uncanny resourcefulness and a sincere devotion to his duties
that was unusually intense.  Despite its reservations about
his evangelical tendencies, Star Fleet saw no reason not to
graduate Green from the academy and assign him to its
flagship.  During his service, he had established an
exemplary record, the only mar being an infraction of Star
Fleet's religious freedom guidelines, where he had initiated
a conversation about his god.  Star Fleet did not forbid
discussion, but it had to be initiated by non-adherents to
the faith in question.
    Putting his thoughts of Green behind him, Riker stepped
into the briefing room.  His eyes roved the table -- he was
the last one to arrive.  Picard, Worf, Deanna, Data, Geordi,
Dr Crusher, Adama, Starbuck, and Apollo were already seated.
    "I understand your feelings, admiral," Deanna said to
Adama, "but you must not blame yourself.  There is nothing
you could have done to save your people.  The Cylons had
them hopelessly outnum -- what is that smell?"
    Picard sniffed the air and soon wished he hadn't.  "It smells like a
campfire.  Number One, what have you been doing?"
    Riker grinned.  "Sorry you don't like the smell, sir.  I was just pitting
myself against some Tholian assassin robots.  I had to set fire to the holodeck
to even the odds."
    "How did you manage, commander?  I can only destroy three of them before I
am overwhelmed, and would like some suggestions."
    "Sorry, Worf.  I only took out one before they killed me.  I don't think I
can be of much help."
    Picard dismissed the conversation with a wave of his hand.  "Enough.
Number One, you are familiar with our guests?"
    "Of course."  Riker nodded curtly to Adama, Apollo, and Starbuck.
    Picard formally began the meeting.  "We arrived at the planet Mormo
approximately thirty minutes ago to deliver he dignitaries back.  What we found
was this."
    At the touch of Picard's finger, the viewscreen lit up to reveal the
devastated Mormo.  The new cities lay in ruins, anthills crushed beneath a
giant heel.  The Galactica and her brood drifted emptily in space, torn to
pieces by the deadly onslaught which had overcome them.  As the viewscreen
progressed, other shapes appeared.  Baseships, huge metal sandwiches separated
by a pole wandered through the vacuum, ripped apart but identifiable.  And in
the background hung a Cylon tanker, the fuel which caused the conflagration to
surge.
    Riker sat in his chair, shocked into silence, his mouth agape at the sight.
"Good Lord, even the Borg couldn't do that..." he at last gasped.
    "Shortly after we arrived, Ensign Green detected chemical traces which we
believe were left behind by the Cylons.  We are in pursuit and should encounter
them within ten hours.  They are headed toward Earth."
    "Ah, Earth," Adama mused.  "You know, the belief in your world was all that
sustained for us the yahrens we wandered through space.  We thought that once
we located the thirteenth colony, all would be well, that we would at last have
peace.
    "Who would have thought this would be the peace we would win for ourselves
and Earth?"
    "Admiral Adama," Deanna said, "it is not over yet.  The Cylons haven't
reached Earth, and before they do, they'll have to fight Star Fleet."
    "Not over?"  Adama demanded, growing louder.  "Not over?"  He broke off to
a whisper, so that the others strained to hear.  "Of course it's over.  It's
all finished.  We can't resist the Cylons.  We thought we could.  We tried for
a thousand yahrens, and when we thought we had peace, they destroyed the Twelve
Colonies.  We thought we escaped them and found Earth, and they have followed
us even here, and destroyed us.  Mormo is a tomb, a place fit for that demon
your young ensign talked about.  We have lost, and it is over.  The gods of
Kobol have abandoned us to die."
    Adama rose and walked out of the briefing room.  Troi looked at Starbuck
and Apollo, and seeing they could be no help, whirled out after him.
    "Does anyone have any suggestions?" Picard ventured, trying to pierce the
despondency which had blanketed the room.
    "Destroy them."
    "I beg your pardon?"
    "I said, `Destroy them,'" the blond Starbuck said louder.  "They've hunted
us like animals for over a thousand yahrens.  They destroyed the Twelve
Colonies, and they won't stop until the thirteenth is gone, too.  You've got to
kill them before they kill you.  It's as simple as that."
    "I'm afraid Starbuck's right," Dr Crusher ventured.  "Any race that could
destroy an entire world, a whole people, like the Cylons have done to Mormo...
I don't see why they would stop there.  It's humans they hate, and Earth has
spread humanity all across the Federation.  Once the Cylons reach Earth,
they'll do the same thing again."
    "The cause is just," Worf spoke tersely.  "I will fight."
    Geordi looked dubious.  "I think we can handle it, captain, provided we can
outthink them.  The Basestars gave us a run for our money the last time.  We'll
have to be as resourceful as ever, or we're done for."
    "I am in agreement with Geordi," Data intoned.  "The Cylons proved
themselves quite capable of resisting our firepower at our previous encounter.
It was the power of the Galactica and her vipers which enabled us to win."
    "That's an advantage you're not going to have this time," Apollo
interjected.  "But they won't have Baltar, either."  A part of him began to
wonder.  What was his place here?  These were not his people; his people were
all dead.  Why should he fight the Enterprise's war for her?  Did he really
belong here at all, now that Mormo was destroyed?
    "I vote for battle, too, sir.  I can't see that there will be a resolution
to this conflict any other way.  If they haven't stopped yet, they're not
likely to," Riker said finally.
    Picard cupped his hands and stared at the table in front of him while he
considered.  At last he raised his head, having come to the only conclusion
possible.
    "We will fight."


    Troi raced after the distraught Adama down the corridors of the Enterprise.
    "Admiral!" she called.  "Admiral!  Computer, locate Admiral Adama."
    "Admiral Adama is in holodeck seventeen."
    Five minutes later, Troi opened the door to the holodeck.  Inside, Adam
sat in his Galactican uniform, his head bowed between his legs.  Bitterness
rushed through him like a deadly venom, mixed with the deadly elixir of
despair.
    "Admiral?"  Troi ventured, gently reaching her hand out to touch the
Galactican on his shoulder.
    "Commander.  My name is Commander Adama," his voice replied hoarsely.
    "Commander, I know how you feel."
    Adama was beyond anger now, and exuded only sadness.  "No you don't.  How
could you?  Have you ever led a people across the galaxy, offering them some
hope you struggled to believe yourself?  Have you ever led a people, pursued by
the monsters who destroyed their homes, led them into peril after peril,
following some hope, some myth, all on the chance that it will pay off?"
    "No, Commander, I haven't.  But you found Earth.  Your gamble paid off."
    "Did it?  What did I save them from, Counsellor?  Death on the twelve
colony worlds, and death is space.  So they had their hopes realized, only to
be deserted by the gods and find themselves dashed to pieces on the rocks.
What have I done?  I wasn't even there to help in the last battle.  I was safe
and comfortable on this starship."
    Troi looked at Adama.  She had imagined the statesman to be in his fifties,
perhaps his sixties before.  As she scrutinized him now, she would estimate
that he was in his nineties.  What was worse was that the anger, the bitterness
she felt from him before were dissipating, overcome by a larger weariness and
feeling of surrender.  A cold darkness was moving in.
    "Commander, are you all right?"
    "No.  How can I be?  My people, Counsellor, are dead.  My gods are dead as
well, and I wonder if they were alive at all.  What right have I to live?"
    "Commander, I think you should report to sickbay..."  Troi's concern was
growing into panic.  She could feel the numbness spreading through Adama's mind
like a cancer.
    "It's too late," he breathed silently as he stretched out his arms.
    "Beverly!" Troi shouted over her communicator.  "Get a sickbay to holodeck
seventeen.  Get them now!"


    "I'm sorry, Deanna," Beverly said, frustration etched into her face.  "My
team did their best.  There was no reason for him not to recover.  We got there
in plenty of time to save his life.  He just didn't want to live.  He had given
up hope."
    "Survivor's guilt," Troi said solemnly.  "We still can't overcome that
even in the twenty-fourth century.  But who's going to tell Starbuck and
Apollo?  They have a right to know."
    "You're the counsellor, Deanna," Riker said.  "That makes it your job --
you'd do a better job than any of us.  If you like, I'll come with you for
moral support."
    Troi sighed.  "Thank you, Will.  I'm going to need it."

    "He WHAT!?" Apollo thundered.  "How could he?  My fa -- Commander --
Admiral Adama would never --"
    "Apollo, Starbuck, I know this is hard on both of you, but it is
inescapable.  Admiral Adama committed suicide.  He felt to blame for what
happened to Mormo, and this was how he dealt with it.  He has invested so much
of his life into the Galactica and his religion, that the loss was just too
much for him.  I am sorry."
    "You're sorry?  YOU'RE sorry?  Listen, lady, that man -- that man --"
Apollo faltered and grew silent.  "That man was my father.  I can't believe he
did this to us.  I just can't believe it..."  Overcome with emotion, Apollo
collapsed onto the sofa as the sobs wrenched his body.  Starbuck moved in to
comfort him.
    "Hey, buddy, it'll be okay.  He's started his climb to godhood, remember?"
    "Only if he was good enough.  A suicide..."  Apollo broke down again.
    Riker and Troi stepped out into the hallway.  The door whisked shut behind
them.  "What do you think?"
    "Tears are how we heal ourselves emotionally, Will.  Apollo has faced the
death of his people and his father today.  I hope he can cope with his anguish.
Fortunately, he has Starbuck to help him."
    "What about Starbuck?" Riker asked as they headed toward the turbolift.
    "Starbuck does not release his grief like Apollo does.  He changes it into
anger and he uses that to his advantage.  In some ways, he is like you, Will.
His anger is what makes him so aggressive, so suicidal in battle."
    "Anger at whom?"
    "For him, the Cylons.  It has driven him to take risks no one else would
dare, even flying into a fleet of Cylon raiders by himself.  If he is not able
to vent that anger in the coming battle, I fear for his safety."
    "What was that comment about me?"
    "You are angry, too, Will.  You are angry with your father for your
upbringing.  It has driven you to be the best you could be, and has driven you
up into the position of first officer on the Enterprise.  You refuse to be
second best in anything, and if you ever lose control, you seek to regain it.
Even by leaving a relationship, Imzadi."  During her explanation, Troi had
grown increasingly angry and bitter.  Now that she has finished, she storms off
in a different direction, away from Riker, trying to escape her own anger and
bitterness.
    "Sorry I asked," Riker snarled, and entered the lift.
    "State destination please," the computer asked.
    "Main bridge," he growled.
    The door opened and Riker disembarked.  Picard stood in the center of the
bridge, proud and erect.
    "Are you certain, ensign?" he demanded.
    "Positive, captain," came Green's confident response.  "We are coming
within range of the Cylon war fleet... now."
    "On screen."  A cluster of ships appeared, rushing through the stars,
tailed by dazzling bright lights.
    "Magnify."  The cluster enlarged, a group of thirty Basestars glided
through the sea of darkness, escorted by a complement of thirty tankers.
    "We are fifteen hours from Earth, captain.  The nearest Star Fleet help is
seven hours away," Green announced.
    "As always, we face the enemy alone, eh?" Picard asked ruefully.  "Mr Worf,
open a hailing frequency to the Cylon fleet."
    "Hailing frequency open, captain.  It will be received by all Basestars."
    "This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the USS Enterprise.  Your presence here
is in violation of Federation territory, and may be regarded as an act of war.
I demand to know your reason for being here, or we will be forced to open
fire."
    "Captain, I've never heard you come on so strong before," Riker whispered
to Picard.
    "Number One, I'm glad you're here," Picard whispered back.  "Apparently, we
caught them refueling."
    On screen appeared an ugly visage.  Seated on an elevated throne, a
loathsome figure leered out at Picard.  Dressed with a flowing purple robe, a
dour expression on its sickly purple face, the creature looked for all the
galaxy like a humanoid bruise.
    "I am the Imperious Leader of the Cylon Empire," the bruise announced, a
if expecting Picard and Riker to grovel before it.  "We do not recognize the
existence of this `Federation,' nor do we recognize your authority.  We do
recognize you, however, Jean-Luc Picard.  Your frame marks you as that damned
race, human, and the sentence is death.  Prepare to be destroyed."
    "So much for getting them to leave, Captain," Riker put forth.  "Worf,
raise shields.  Arm phasers, arm photon torpedoes, and prepare to fire on my
command."
    The Basestar turned, locked its laser cannons, and fired.


Part Three

    The Enterprise shook at the force of the Cylon assault.
Braced for the impact, Picard grimly stared at the
viewscreen.  There was no escaping a conflict this time, and
he knew better than to try.  His previous encounter with
Baltar and his Cylons had taught him that much.
    "Shields at seventy-nine percent," Worf announced.
    "So much for a peaceful resolution.  Mister Worf, fire
photon torpedoes!" Riker barked.  No sooner was the command
issued than the massive Klingon obeyed, launching a volley
of the powerful projectiles at the Basestar.  The missiles
never had a chance, and were harmlessly detonated by the
laser cannons.
    "It's a waste of time, Will.  The Cylons are more than
capable of destroying our torpedoes before they can hit
them.  We need Lieutenant Starbuck and Commander Apollo
here," Picard said, as he reached for his communicator pin.
"Lieutenant Starbuck, Commander Apollo, report to the
bridge.  We need your advice, gentlemen."
    "Sorry, captain.  Apollo's not in very good shape right now, but I'll be
up," the Galactican Starbuck replied.
    "Captain," Ensign Green interrupted, "most of the Basestars are leaving.
They're resuming their course toward Earth.  Only four are remaining behind."
He paused momentarily as his hands danced lightly over the panel.  "A large
number of small ships are launching from the Basestars, perhaps two hundred
each."
    Riker turned to behold a despairing look on Picard's face.  "We're in
trouble?" he asked.  Riker had commanded the primary hull as it left the scene
battle when the Enterprise initially encountered the Cylons.
    "We're in trouble," Picard answered glumly.  "It took the Enterprise and
the Galactica, with her vipers, to defeat three Basestars, and even then the
Enterprise was nearly destroyed.  It's going to take all we've got to stop the
Cylons this time.  Perhaps even more."
    "Sir, the Cylon raiders are opening fire on the ship," Worf announced.
"Minor damage to the shields."
    "Mr Green, plot a course toward the sun, full impulse," Picard commanded.
Let's see of they'll follow us."
    "Sir?"
    "Ensign, I'm shocked," Picard dead-panned.  "Aren't followers of the Way
supposed to obey the authorities?"
    "Aye sir.  Course laid in," Green replied, grinning, as he laid in the
course.
    "Engage."
    The turbolift hissed open as Starbuck appeared.  He confidently strode down
to stand by the captain.  "How can I help you, captain?" Starbuck asked.
    "For one thing, put out that cigar," Picard replied as he waved his hand to
scatter the smoke.  "I can't stand the smell.  For a second thing, we need to
draw on your battle experience with the Cylons.  Will they pursue us, even if
it means risking their lives?"
    The deck shook as a Basestar answered Picard's question with a volley of
laser fire.  "Probably," Starbuck advised, "but they'll try to stop you.  The
Cylon raiders may even make suicide dives at the ship if it comes down to
that."
    "Hull temperature five hundred degrees," Green announced.
    "Get us as close to the sun as you can, Ensign," Picard replied.  "Captain
Sulu once flew a Bird of Prey inside Mercury's orbit."
    "Maybe so, but a Bird of Prey is a lot smaller than a Galaxy-class
starship.  Hull temperature 700 degrees.  Cylon Basestar closing."  Another
blast of laser fire rocked the ship from behind.
    "Shields at twenty-three percent, captain.  Damage reports coming in from
all decks," Worf rumbled.  "Light damage to decks one through fifteen, minor
injuries."
    "The Basestar is gaining, sir," Green reported.
    "Excellent.  Increase to warp factor one.  Keith, take us as close as you
can to the sun without seriously jeopardizing the ship.  It looks like the
Basestars lack the maneuverability of a starship.  Use that to our advantage."
    "And see if we can get them to fall into the star?" Green surmised.
    "Exactly.  Lieutenant Worf, when we complete orbit, the remaining two
Basestars should still be grouped together.  Implement my Picard maneuver to
attack the closer of the two.  Fire the phaser battery at the central column;
see if you can sheer it in two."
    The Klingon stared down at Picard.  "An excellent strategy, captain.  They
will not suspect it."
    Starbuck whistled in appreciation.  "Sure wish we'd had you guys while we
were looking for Earth.  We could have won a lot more easily."
    The Enterprise raced through space's dark night toward the blindingly
bright day of the star, a Cylon Basestar close on her heels.  Green could feel
the pull of the star on the ship as he flew it; he fought against the
increasing keel to one side as the ship ran along the fine edge of destruction
at warp two.  If he failed to compensate for the star's gravity just slightly,
the ship could be pulled into fiery destruction.  His only hope was that the
Basestar would fall into the lake of plasma below them before they did.
    The life-support and artificial gravity on the starship were strained as
they sought to maintain tolerable heat and gravity levels.  He did not dare to
look to see where the Basestar was, whether it had plummeted into the star
below or not.  All his attention was devoted to the task at hand.  He sweated
beneath the hot rays of the sun as they warped around it.  How long had he done
this?  Probably only a dozen seconds, yet it felt like an eternity as the
star's gravity pulled on the ship, beckoning it down to be consumed in fire.
    "Mister Data," he heard the captain ask, "what is our situation?"
    Data's answer drifted back, cool and relaxed. "Artificial gravity and life
support continue to compensate for the star's effects.  The Basestar still
follows us, however it is failing to compensate for the star's gravitational
pull.  It appears to be breaking up."
    "Excellent.  Keith, take us to a higher orbit before you pass out.  Data,
put the Basestar on screen."
    Green breathed a sigh of relief as the Enterprise rose into a new orbit.
At last he dared to look up at the viewscreen, where he saw the Basestar caught
in a fatal downward spiral into the sun.  As it disappeared from sight, it
began to break apart as the stress on its hull became too great.
    "One down, three to go," Riker intoned.
    Worf interrupted, "Coming within sensor range of the remaining Cylon
Basestars now."  He looked at the readings again, and spoke urgently.
"Commander, they have anticipated us -- there is a fleet of raiders with a
Basestar waiting for us!"  The viewscreen showed the Cylon raiders close enough
for the crew to reach out and touch them.
    "Shields on full!" Riker shouted as the Enterprise plowed into a wall of
Cylon raiders.  Amid a deafening crash, the lights on the bridge faltered and
grew dark.
    "Emergency lighting," Riker coughed.  All around him he heard the groans of
broken crewmen and twisted, strained metal.  Slowly the automated bridge lit up
as the computer responded.  "Good Lord..." Riker gasped as he looked around.
    The bridge was in chaos.  Huge pieces of the ceiling had fallen onto the
floor.  Green was crawling out from underneath a panel which had fallen on him.
He was apparently unhurt as he raced over to help Riker.  The captain... where
was the captain?  Riker's heart stopped cold as he looked at the captain's
chair, buried under a pile of circuitry and panels.
    "Data!" he shrieked, "Green!  Help him -- help the captain!"
    Green looked at the captain's seat.  Could anyone be alive underneath that?
He offered up a silent prayer to his God as he and the android second officer
turned to find out.  Together they moved a large piece of wreckage and he
beheld the bloody, broken captain as he looked emptily at the ceiling above
him.
    "Starbuck to sickbay," the straw-haired lieutenant next to him intoned.
"Medical emergency on the bridge."
    "Number One," Picard wheezed.  "Number One..."
    "I'm here, sir," Riker answered as he bent down to hear his captain's
rasping breath.
    "I'm cold... so cold, Will.  Take care of the ship.  Take care of her,
Will.  So cold."
    "Sir," Worf interrupted, his voice pained.  "Shields are down.  Geordi
reports marginal warp drive.  Severe structural damage to decks one through
seven, and engineering decks twenty-nine to thirty-two.  Minor damage to all
decks, casualties unknown.  I recommend we hide."
    Riker paused uncertainly while his head throbbed from his concussion.
"Make it so.  Take us to the seventh planet, hide us in the... in the..."
    "In the north magnetic pole, sir?" Data suggested gently.  The tactic was
one Riker had used once before while he served on the USS Hood.
    "Yes, make it so," Riker answered dizzily.
    Ensign Green looked to his console and saw it would be pointless to
initiate a new course from there.  He glanced at Data, who understood the
problem.  "Computer, lay in course to the seventh planet, north pole, warp two,
and engage."
    "Commander?" Green asked gently.
    Riker turned to Green, slowly.  His head pulsated in agony and he thought
he would pass out.
    "Do you mind if I pray for the captain while we wait for the medical team?"
    Praying?  What good would that do?  Riker failed to see how Green's
superstitious beliefs in some god would help anything, especially the captain.
"Why?" he asked.
    "Can it hurt?"
    Riker paused.  "No, I suppose not.  Go ahead."
    Starbuck watched in wonder as the curly-haired ensign knelt down over the
captain, gingerly placed his hands on the fallen figure and began to ask this
unseen god to preserve the captain's life.  To his amazement, the Klingon
joined him in prayer, coming down from the weapons console.
    Of course, he mused sardonically, on the off-chance that Green's and Worf's
god were real, it certainly wouldn't hurt to ask for its help.  With a fleet of
three Cylon Basestars and their raiders approaching, any help, especially
divine help, would be needed.


Part Four

    He ran through the corridors, amid the cries and groans
of the broken and wounded.  His heart wept within his chest
as he heard their cries for help.  They saw his medical
officer's uniform and pleaded for his help.  His heart ached
with compassion; he wanted to help each one but knew he
couldn't.  Deep in the bowels of the ship, these people were
not as injured as those on its fringes... or the bridge.
Medical teams would be along to aid these people
momentarily.  Doctor Crusher had ordered him and a team of
five, who followed at heels, to the bridge.
    They entered the turbolift, sealing themselves off from
the deck.  "State destination," the computer asked.  The
balding paramedic shot back his answer, "Bridge.  Make it fast."
    "Speed of turbolift cars is constant; it cannot be altered," the computer
replied steadily.  The paramedic rolled his eyes.
    They arrived in less than a minute at the pandemonium
which had been the main bridge.  Wreckage from the ceiling
and consoles was everywhere.  Those well enough to stand
were uncovering the wounded and the dead.
    Riker saw the paramedic team first, through an awful
mist which had filled his eyesight.  "All right, Green,
Worf, th-that's enough," he said unsteadily.  His voice
sounded hollow, coming from a long distance and at once he
felt like he was floating.  "Data, what happened?"
    The android second officer's voice came filtered back
through a cloth, muffled and distorted.  "We cannot be
certain, commander.  It appears that we were fired upon by
the Basestars as we finished our orbit around the star.  Our
problem was substantially aggravated by what appears to be
several warp speed collisions with the Cylon raiders."
    "Worf," Riker's voice gurgled -- had he swallowed blood? -- as he braced
himself on a chair, "Wh-What is our status?"  He did his utmost to focus past
the persistent throbbing in his head, the drumbeat of a thousand marchers.
Everything was dreamlike, unreal.
    The Klingon's eyes narrowed, "Commander, are you well?"
    "I'm f-fine, Worf," Riker stammered.
    "Commander, to try to function despite injuries is indeed honorable, but I
believe you are being foolhardy," Worf rumbled.
    "I'm all r-right," Riker insisted, straightening up.
    "Very well," the massive figure acquiesced.  "We are currently concealed by
the north magnetic pole of the seventh planet.  Warp speed is inoperative,
shields are down.  We are functioning on minimal power.  The Cylons are
scanning the sector for us."  He turned toward the lone Galactican in their
midst.  "Will the Cylons search for us if their scans are inconclusive?"
    "You can count on it," Starbuck said emphatically.  "If they're sure you're
in the star system, they'll be looking for you.  From what I know about this
ship, they'll probably have to rely on actual sight to find you."
    As soon as they had arrived, the paramedic team had gone straight to
Picard, following Riker's orders. The paramedic waved his medical tricorder
over Picard's still frame.  Picard was breathing less erratically now, a touch
of color was in his face.
    "Breathing is slightly irregular and broken.  Probable concussion, internal
injuries.  Spinal cord is nearly severed.  Doctor Crusher," he said as he
activated his communicator. "The is paramedic Card.  The captain seems to be
stabilizing, but I don't want to risk moving him.  You'll have to have Chief
O'Brien beam him down to sickbay."
    "Understood, Mike," the doctor's voice echoed airily around them.  "Crusher
out."
    Card turned to Green.  "Keith, I checked on Melody and Josiah for you.
They're both fine."
    Green nodded.  "Thanks, Mike.  If you can, tell them I'll try to see them
as soon as I can."
    As Captain Picard's form faded from sight in the glowing transporter
effect, Card turned to examine the others on the bridge.  About three ensigns
near the back of the bridge had been killed when the ceiling collapsed.  Worf
and Data were uncovering them now.  One yeoman suffered a broken leg, another a
severe head injury.  Both were being tended to by the EMT's and medics who had
come with him.  He turned to Riker.
    "Commander, we..."  He stopped and stared at Riker, pale as a sheet,
tremors shaking his body.  "Commander Riker, I hereby relieve you of command
for medical reasons.  You're coming to sickbay.  Commander Data, you have the
bridge."
    Data looked down from the upper level and surveyed the situation.  Riker
was ready to collapse.  "Understood," he replied.  "Lieutenant Starbuck, do you
have training in Galaxy-class starships?"
    "Yes sir.  Star Fleet required we receive about a year's training before we
came to actually serve on your vessels," the straw-haired man replied.
    "We are transferring control of the ship to the battle bridge.  Everyone
report there in fifteen minutes," Data ordered.

    Troi had been with Apollo when the Enterprise was
rocked by the Cylon forces.  The genocide of his people had
loomed too large for his comprehension until his father's
suicide.  With that, the flood of grief and despair found a
conduit and it overwhelmed his soul.  As Troi looked at him
now, she despaired of his sanity and even his life.  Like
Adama, he had shed his Star Fleet uniform for his more
familiar colonial garb.  The dark brown uniform hung heavily
on him with all the weight of years of fighting and dying he
had witnessed.  The room was as dark as his soul.
    "It's useless," Apollo repeated for the tenth time that
evening.  "What can you hope to accomplish against the
Cylons?  My people never won.  We fought for a thousand
yahrens, and all for nothing.  You know, it was the Cylons
who drove us out of Kobol originally --they drove us to the
colony worlds, but even there they found us.
    "We made peace, and they destroyed us.  They left a
dozen lifeless planets in our past.  And we fled again,
hoping to find Earth.  Now we've found it, but the Cylons
are still here, and they've destroyed us completely this
time... there's no one left.  No one."
    Troi shuddered at the emptiness she felt inside Apollo.
His voice was dead and lifeless, and there was no life in
his heart.  It was as dead as the planet Mormo, which the
Galactica's fleet had colonized.  "I have heard the name
Mormo before -- it's the name of a demon in Judeo-Christian
tradition, the prince of the ghouls."  How appropriate, Troi
thought dryly.  That world is a fitting place for Ensign
Green's demon, and these people seemed so much under its
sway.  They were all dead inside.  Spiritually, emotionally,
they were dead.
    "Commander Apollo," she began, "there are people left.
You and Starbuck are alive.  Other colonists are alive, they
weren't on Mormo at the time.  The thirteenth colony is
left, and we have the power to defeat the Cylons.  There is
hope.  As long as there's life, there's hope."
    Apollo looked up at her forlornly.  "Hope?  There isn't
any hope.  We're doomed and damned.  A few of us are alive --
so?  The thirteenth colony has been found, but none of you
will be once the Cylons are finished.  They almost destroyed
the Enterprise back there.  How many Basestars are out
there?  We haven't got a prayer."
    "We have a fleet of ships --"
    "So?  How many galaxy class starships do you have?
One.  The Enterprise was almost destroyed the last time she
tackled three Basestars, and that was with the Galactica's
help.  The Galactica's gone now, and there are more than
three Basestars moving through your Federation.  How can you
seriously expect to win?"
    Troi looked back at the gaping void in Apollo's eyes.
"The gods of Kobol have abandoned us to die.  We were told
to become perfect, and they would let us into Heaven.  We
tried, gods know I tried so hard.  They've abandoned us.  We
just couldn't do it, and so they've left us to die and
they're laughing at us now."
    "Commander, I sense that you are deeply grieved, but --"
    For the first time emotion registered on Apollo's face.
Contorted with rage he shouted, "Will you stay out of my
mind, Counsellor?  What gives you the right to go intruding
into people's thoughts?  Leave me alone!  Get out of my
life!  You don't know anything about grief, or pain!  My
family is dead -- I heard my little brother die over the
radio!  My mother, my wife, my son -- all of them are DEAD,
murdered by those damned Cylons!  LEAVE ME ALONE!!"
    He picked up a lamp, raising it above his head to attack Troi.  She quickly
decided it would be in her best interests to leave, and made a hasty exit,
leaving the cursing, angry Apollo to himself.

    Geordi LaForge glanced around him.  All across engineering, his technicians
and crew were hard at work at restoring power to the battered ship.  Other
teams were out repairing the structural damage to the Enterprise.  He glanced
down at the specs before him.
    "Blast it.  Sonya!" he called.
    Sonya Gomez's voice drifted back through the din of reconstruction.  "What
is it, Geordi?"
    "You've got the shields and the phasers tied in to into the dilithium
crystal chamber.  Why?" he asked.  "They're supposed to run off a separate
power source so we can use them at impulse."
    She slid down the service ladder.  "I know, but I thought that if we tied
them in to the dilithium chamber, we could keep power going to them even if the
other power sources were taken out by the Cylons.  It'll help keep the ship
running, even after a solid beating."
    Geordi considered her modifications further.  "All right, that makes sense,
but how would you power the phasers and shields when we're on impulse?"
    "I've adjusted the osculatory valve so that it allows a low level of
matter/antimatter mix to occur in the chamber, even on impulse.  When we go to
warp drive, the flow increases to provide more power."
    "So if we're flying at warp speed --" Geordi began.
    "-- our shields will be stronger, and our phasers more powerful," Sonya
completed his thought.
    "Ensign, I am glad to have you on this ship.  LaForge to bridge," Geordi
said.
    "This is Commander Data.  What is it, Geordi?"
    "Data?  Is something wrong?  Where are Commander Riker and the captain?"
    "They have been injured and are in sickbay right now.  I have assumed
command."
    "Oh.  Well, listen, Data, Ensign Gomez has modified the power system a
little.  We should have warp power and shields back on line in a few minutes,
along with phasers."
    "What do these modifications entail?"
    "If we travel at warp speed, our shields and our phasers will be stronger.
I just thought you might find that helpful if we go into battle."
    "It could indeed prove useful.  Thank you, Geordi.  Data out."

    Beverly Crusher gaped at the readings on her medical tricorder with
astonishment.  "That's impossible!" she asserted.  "There is no way in the
galaxy that you could be recovering so quickly!"
    "But I feel much better now, Doctor," Picard insisted as he sat up.
    "But your concussion --"
    "My head feels fine."
    "Your spinal cord was nearly severed --"
    "My back feels wonderful.  I haven't felt this good since I took command of
the Enterprise."
    "I don't understand," Crusher floundered.  "You had internal injuries, a
pronounced lack of blood, a severe concussion..."  She trailed off.  "Will
didn't think you were going to live."
    "What do your scans show now?" Picard asked gently, wondering if perhaps
Crusher's readings had been mistaken.
    "That you're in excellent health and ready to resume command.  Not so
fast," she amended as Picard rose to return to the bridge.  "My experience
tells me that you can't be that well already.  You're staying here for further
observation.  Doctor's orders."
    Picard sighed and leaned back on the sickbay bed, cradling his head in his
folded arms.  Beverly did have a point: he had been a breath away from death.
He had felt the cold hand of his mortality on his heart and had been about to
pass on.  Why hadn't he?  And why was he now in such better condition?  What
had happened?
    He overhead Beverly talking to one of her medics, and inclined his ear to
eavesdrop, to give him something to do.  "Mike," she asked. "What happened to
him?  I've never seen anything like this."
    "I didn't do a thing except for the preliminary check," the medic
responded.
    "Well what about other people?" she asked.  "Did someone else, maybe on the
bridge give him something?"
    Realization flashed across Card's face.  He grinned broadly.  "Yes.  Ensign
Green and Lieutenant Worf prayed for him."

    "Engineering reports partial power," Starbuck reported.
    "Lieutenant Worf," Data said.  "When a Cylon Basestar enters range, you are
to fire the phaser battery at its central column.  At this point, Ensign Green
will engage the warp drive and initiate the Picard maneuver toward the nearest
remaining Basestar.  You will then fire the phaser battery again at the second
Basestar."
    "Where do I figure in, Commander?" Chief O'Brien wondered over the
communicator.
    "After Worf will have hopefully incapacitated the initial two Basestars, we
will be in position to beam over a photon torpedo into the third.  The
matter/antimatter explosion should be sufficient to destroy it from the
inside."
    "Right," Starbuck said, "and I'm supposed to look at all these buttons and
lights and tell you what the sensors say, right?"
    "That is correct, Lieutenant.  How distant are the Cylons?"
    "Nineteen thousand kilometers and closing.  They'll be in range in fifteen
minutes," Starbuck replied.
    Worf spoke up from his position behind Data.  Since they were on the battle
bridge, he no longer had the elevation afforded him on the main bridge.
"Commander, what of the Cylon raiders left in the area?"
    "We shall leave them here.  Several Star Fleet and Klingon Warbirds will
encounter the Cylons in four hours, and we must hurry to join them at the
encounter.  There are no colonized planets within this system, and Lieutenant
Starbuck informs me that they lack sufficient fuel to reach another.  They will
be forced to colonize a world in this system."
    Fifteen minutes passed.  "Cylon Basestar coming into firing range... now.
No evidence that they can detect us," Starbuck announced.
    "Fire phaser battery at will, Lieutenant Worf," Data said simply.
    The Klingon aimed the weapon swiftly yet carefully at
the central column, and pressed the firing button.  Bright
red lights appeared on either side of the primary hull, and
raced to meet in the center.  A sudden crimson blast brought
brief day to the dark night in space as it illuminated a
deadly sunrise.  The Cylon Basestar took the blast right in
its center column and shook violently in a horrible explosion.
    "Two down, two to go," Starbuck said quietly, resuming
the absent Riker's count.  The remaining Basestars altered
course as they bore down on the wounded and angry
Enterprise.  Her location was no longer a secret.
    "Engage the Picard maneuver... mark," Data commanded.

    Enthroned in his lofty chair, the Cylon centurion
looked in stunned disbelief as the Enterprise appeared in a
separate location without ever leaving the first one.  Which
ship was the real Enterprise?  Scans were inconclusive -- both
seemed to be real.  The humans had developed impressive
hologram technology.
    Before the gold-plated Cylon's question could be
considered further, he made the unpleasant discovery as the
Enterprise closer to his ship unleashed a second destructive
blast of phaser power.  Her hull ruptured so severely, the
ship tore in two as the air escaped in a maddened frenzy,
dragging Cylon warriors and the centurion with it.

    "Three down, one to go," was Starbuck's only comment as he scrutinized the
information flowing across his terminal.

    The remaining centurion considered this new ploy by the humans.  She and
her crew would be prepared for this tactic.  She spoke in a mechanized voice,
her red eye sliding back and forth in her visored helmet.  "Destroy the human
ship closest us if they attempt such a maneuver again."  Her voice resonated
throughout the metal chamber as she spoke.
    She never saw the photon torpedo as it coalesced behind her, shimmering
with the transporter effect.  The powerful weapon detonated, removing the final
Basestar from the sector.

    "That makes four!  Yahoo!" Starbuck cheered.  "Cylon raiders approaching,
Commander."
    "Plot a course for the Cylon fleet, Ensign Green, at warp six," Data
commanded.
    "Course acknowledged, laid in, and engaged, sir," Green replied.  The
Enterprise took off in hot pursuit of the Cylon fleet.


Part Five

    Lieutenant Commander Data rose from the command chair
as the Enterprise entered warp space.  An android, Data did
not display the same elation as his bridge crew at the
Cylon's overwhelming defeat in this sector.
    "Estimated time to interception of Cylon fleet?" he asked.
    "Four hours and twelve minutes, sir," replied Ensign Green.
    "Ensign Green, Lieutenant Worf, and Lieutenant
Starbuck, I feel it would be best for the three of you to
take time now to rest.  I am an android and cannot tire,
however, I have noticed an increasing sense of fatigue in
you, and feel that relaxation is necessary if I am to depend
on your skill when we encounter the Cylons.  I suggest
sleep," Data said evenly and quietly.  As he spoke, a trio
of other officers stepped forward to relieve those on duty.
    "Very well, commander," Worf replied, speaking for them
all.  "We will return to the battle bridge in four hours."
The three rose and exited the battle bridge into a turbolift.
    "Where are you guys going?" Green asked as the door shut behind them and
Worf directed the lift.  He looked at the two.  Starbuck was edgy, wanting
badly to do something he couldn't do at the time.  He posed a sharp contrast to
the enormous Klingon, who brooded silently like a peaceful giant.
    Worf spoke first.  "I am visiting Commander Riker and Captain Picard in
sickbay.  I wish to see how they are recovering."  He paused for Starbuck to
say something, but he did not.  "And yourself, Keith?"
    "I'm going back to my room.  I want to check up on Melody and the baby, to
make sure they're all right."
    "Of course.  Josiah will grow into a fine warrior, in his own right."
    Green gazed at Starbuck concernedly.  "Are you all right, Starbuck?  I
said, `Are you all right?'"
    "I'm fine.  Just kind of nervous about the fight, that's all," Starbuck
shot back, a little harsher than he'd meant.
    "I understand," Green said.  "It's a little unnerving, being in space,
fighting a war when we're outgunned.  I think we'll pull through, though."
    "Maybe."
    The lift came to a halt, and the door slid open.  Green stepped out into
the hall, waving goodbye to the two as they passed down to their own stops.
Deanna Troi blocked his way.
    "Hello, Ensign," she said calmly, hoping to cover the uneasiness she always
felt around this man.  She could not understand why, but she could never sense
anything from him.  His emotions were plain to see, but her Betazoid sense
seemed useless where he was concerned; she simply could not read him like she
could others, as if there was a barrier.
    "Can I help you, Counsellor?" he asked gently, aware of her discomfort.
    "Yes, I require your assistance.  You know of Commander Apollo?"
    "Of course.  What's the problem?"
    "He is rather upset over his father's death.  Keith, I am afraid that he
may kill himself or someone else in his anger."
    "Well, I can understand why he's upset -- his whole world was just
destroyed!  What did you expect him to do?  Throw a party?"
    "Keith, that's not what I meant.  I am as appalled by Mormo's destruction
as anyone else.  But he has to deal with his grief, and instead he's letting it
consume him.  I can't help him."
    "So you want me to give it a try?"
    "If you would.  I know that you are a navigator rather than a counsellor,
but you are rather adept at helping people.  I thought that perhaps you could
help him."
    Green sighed wearily.  "All right.  Where is he?"
    "He's in his quarters."
    "I'll go see him now."

    Starbuck looked down at Apollo's lifeless body, despair gnawing at his
soul.  His friend since childhood, his closest companion was dead and he could
not do anything to save him.
    "Do something, please!" he begged of the being shimmering next to him, a
silent observer in the melodrama of Apollo's death.
    "You can save him, if you are willing," the eerie voice declared.
    "Anything!" he promised, anything to bring back his friend.
    "Anything?  Are you willing to die to bring him back?"
    Starbuck froze cold.  Death?  To save Apollo?  To give up all the pleasures
in life he had: the company of Athena and Cassiopeia, gambling, the thrill of
the battle as he protected the fleet from the Cylons.  For Apollo.  He knew the
answer in an instant, and declared it with solemn resolve, "Yes.  I will die in
his place."
    His friend stirred, life returning to his body.  Apollo's eyes opened.
    "You need only be willing," the apparition declared.
"He lives."  It turned toward Starbuck, "You are so much
more blessed than us," it shimmered.  "For one day, you will
be a god."
    "Computer freeze program," Starbuck shouted.  He stood
before the frozen being of light and began to walk around
it, berating it loudly as he released his anger.
    "Why did you lie to us?  Why did you give us this false
hope, this sham of a belief to cling to?  You offered us
godhood, and all you gave us was destruction.  Just dust and
ashes, that's all that's left of us.
    "You told us we could become gods if we became perfect.
Gods know that we tried.  We struggled to be perfect, but we
never could.  There was always something holding us back,
keeping us from becoming the perfected people you told us to
act like.
    "And you kept changing the rules!  I remember when you
decided to let Boomer's people pursue godhood as well.  Why?
What changed your mind?  Before then, they were damned for
some pre-birth rebellion.
    "You lied to us.  What kind of gods are you?
    "J'Sopha said that you sent him to restore the message
you had given us back in the ancient history of Kobol.  And
even though the Cylons drove us from Kobol into other
worlds, we trusted in you and strove to be perfect.  And you
failed us.  You let us be destroyed in the colonies, and you
allowed the Cylons to overrun us in Mormo.
    "Why?  What kind of gods are you?"
    The frozen hologram gave no answer.
    "Come on, answer me!" he shouted out to the multitude
of gods he had been taught to believe in.  "Or can't you
hear me?"  Realization began to dawn on his face.  "Or...
maybe you don't want to hear me.  Maybe you know I'm right,
and you deliberately lied to us, to steer us away from the
Truth, from the real God, the real way to God..."
    For many days afterward, Starbuck would still be unable
to explain exactly how what happened next ever occurred.
While the remainder of the holodeck remained still, the
glimmering figure suddenly shifted and advanced on him.  He
backed off nervously, in fear of it, as its appearance began
to alter.
    Whereas it had before been pure and bright, the figure
now hunched over, and the lighting in the room dimmed.  It
appeared to solidify so he no longer saw through it but
instead beheld scores of wounds lined with dripping pus, and
a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth with a line of drool
running to the floor.  Eyes sunk in, its nails become as
claws, the beast advanced on the human.
    "You are a fool," it crackled throatily as its putrid
breath filled the room.  "To insult us so, Starbuck.  We do
hear your accusations, and we are not pleased."
    Starbuck backed up, and tripped over himself in his
hasty retreat.  He fell on his back, cursing.  He drew his
phaser, and sitting up, fired it.
    The beast absorbed the shot and cackled.  "You must
learn, Starbuck, the truth of this reality.  You belong to
us, body and soul."
    Starbuck drew on the training in the lore of Kobol he
received as a child.  A demon had to answer to the name of
J'Sopha, the greatest prophet, who had restored the gods'
message after the people had distorted it.  "In the name of
J'Sopha," he shouted at it, "be gone!"
    "J'Sopha?" the beast laughed.  "J'Sopha can't help you
now, fool!  He's in Hell!"  With that the beast lunged at
Starbuck, cackling wickedly.
    Outside the holodeck, no one heard Starbuck's desperate cries for help.

    Apollo sat in the chair, gazing sadly out at space as
it rushed wildly by.  He remembered with sad fondness the
days he had flown through space with his friends.  True, it
wasn't very fun at the time -- they had been patrolling for
Cylons -- but they were the only memories he had of them.
Boomer... Jolly... Tigh... all dead, now.
    Cassiopeia, Athena, Zacha -- he tried to forget his brother.
He had had to leave him to the Cylons to warn the Galactica
of the betrayal.  If he had stayed, Zachary might still be
alive.  Other memories surfaced -- his own wife, murdered on
Kobol, Boxey, and his daggit, Muffin -- he fought them down
hard, unwilling to remember.  Boxey would have grown up to be
a viper pilot some day... The door chimed, signalling
someone's presence.
    "Come!" he shouted, to be heard out in the hall.
    The door slid open, revealing the young ensign he had seen before, briefly.
Ensign... Brown?
    "Can I help you?"
    "Actually, I was going to ask the same thing of you."
    "I don't understand."
    "I thought I might make myself available to listen, if you wanted to talk."
    "What's there to talk about?  They're dead.  That can't be changed."
    "True," the visitor responded as he walked in the door.  "But you're
hurting.  I want to offer you support."
    "Why am I hurting?"
    "Apollo, your friends and family are dead.  Why wouldn't you hurt?"
    Apollo fought hard to face that grief.  "Because... because they've become
gods."
    "Really?"
    "Yes, that's what J'Sopha said would happen when we died, if we were
perfect."
    "Were they?" the strange ensign asked.
    Apollo considered painfully.  "No.  Blast it, why are you bothering me like
this?  Did Troi send you?"
    "Counsellor Troi asked me to see you, because she was concerned.  But I
came because I was concerned for you."
    "Why would you care?  We don't know each other."
    "No, that's right.  We don't.  I just care."
    "So what can you say to me, mister?  Tell me something to give me hope."
    Green paused.  Why was he doing this?  Lord, give me wisdom, he prayed
silently before he spoke.  "Apollo, I can't say anything that will make it all
better.  Your friends are dead.  I can't change that.  But you're still alive,
and you still have hope.  You owe it to yourself to put it behind you and go on
living."
    "How can you put the genocide of your entire race behind you?  That's
ridiculous."
    "You can't forget it.  But you can stop from dwelling on it, and find peace
from it.  You can stop it from ruining your life.  Make your life into a
memorial for what your people were, not by ruining it but by making something
useful of it.
    "I think what's hit you the hardest is your family's deaths.  Am I right?"
    Apollo nodded.  An entire planet was beyond identity.  Who could grieve for
a whole world?  It was impossible to conceive of its destruction.  But his
family, his friends: they were dead.  Tears started to flow down his face,
reluctantly at first and with great resistance.  Slowly, the dam broke and the
tears washed his face, baptizing him into a renewed existence as he finally
accepted their deaths.  He would never forget them, but he would let go and
bury them.

    He drifted through the air as he heard the heartbeat of
his lifeline thundering across his existence.  Of himself
only was he aware.  Or was he?  He could sense others all
around him, hand holding him up, thrusting him down.  Hands
roved all over him, reaching, grabbing, pointing, poking.
He felt them inside his head, throbbing in his brain.
    "NO!  STOP IT!" he screamed, and the hands vanished.  With his support
vanished, he began to fall, faster and harder he plummeted down.
    All at once he was on fire, flames licking hungrily at
his mind while the sparks danced across his skin, burning
him deep, reaching into the core of his being, his self,
searing it for all eternity.  He cried out for help from his
fevered state and realized that help was not to be found.
    The hands had returned, and with them, voices.  The
hands grabbed him and pulled him, stretching him, rending
and tearing, digging and shredding, clawing into his arms
and legs and chest and brain and he screamed in fire-racked
agony.  But no one heard him.  It was as if he were cut off
forever from everything that was good.  He despaired and the
voices began to form sounds, the sounds, words, and the
words, sentences.
    "You left me!  How could you abandon me like that,
without even saying goodbye?  I thought we meant something
to one another.  Why did you lie to me?" a voice accused him
bitterly.  He tried to defend himself, but the voice had no
ears and would not listen.
    "You used us!  For a single night's pleasure, you robbed us and used us,
and then you left us behind, abandoning us to our feelings of guilt and
worthlessness.  You used us!" a thousand upon a thousand voices decried, a
million fingers pointing.  He screamed for mercy, but could find none.
    Then -- a light!  And as the light approached, the pain, the guilt,
disappeared, and the fire receded.  And in the center of the light stood a man.
    "Who are you?" he demanded of the man.  "What do you want here?"
    "You don't remember me?" the man asked.  "Really, I am disappointed.  You
met me once, and we talked.  I have never forgotten you."
    Somewhat shamed, he asked the man in a more gentle voice.  "What do you
want with me?"
    "I want you.  I have come for you.  Your friends have never stopped asking
for you, and I have come to release you from what you have desired."
    "But -- you're releasing me from this!" he said, indicating the flame, the
agony, the accusations.
    "Yes.  That is what I said.  I am releasing you from what you have sought
so diligently, and I have come to claim you as my own."
    William Riker opened his eyes and beheld his Klingon friend through new
eyes.
    "W-worf?" he asked weakly.
    "Yes, Commander.  I am here.  I have not left your side for three hours,"
the Klingon said with a loyalty that shamed Riker.  How often had he shown
loyalty to those he claimed to love?  Worf had shown devotion to his friend in
staying by his side.  He silently vowed to do better.
    "Worf, I saw him," Riker said with the greatest insistence he could muster.
"I saw him, Worf, and I believe."
    "Who?  Who did you see?" the Klingon asked, puzzled.
    "Joshua."
    The Klingon's face broke into a radiant smile, a sight few people had ever
seen.  Beholding it for the first time, Riker lay in his sickbay bed, stunned,
and then burst into a laugh of his own, strength ebbing through his body.
    "How's the captain?" Riker asked, remembering all too well the injuries his
commanding officer had seen.
    "I am all too well, Will," Picard replied chipperly.  "And Bever -- Doctor
Crusher has no idea why.  I appear to have stumped her and her medical
colleagues.  I am reporting to the bridge in fifteen minutes, before we
encounter the Cylons and our fleet."
    "I'll join you," Riker said, half-rising from his bed.
    "You will do no such thing," Picard replied sternly.  "You can hardly
stand."
    "As I remember," Riker responded as his feet contacted the floor, "The
first officer has a chair.  I'll be on the bridge in fifteen minutes, sir."
    The two stood face to face, each measuring the other's resolve.  At last
Picard burst into a grin.  "Very well.  But take your time.  Make it twenty."

    Battered and broken, Starbuck dragged himself across the floor.  What had
happened? he asked himself, not sure he wanted an answer.  The holodeck, or
whatever it was, had thrashed him within an inch of his life.  Trailing blood
behind him, he pulled himself over to the holodeck door, which slid itself
open.  He managed to get halfway out before his injuries overcame him and he
collapsed in the doorway, unconscious.


Part Six

    Paramedic Michael Card gasped in horror at the bloody
mess sprawled out across the hallway.  He bent down to check
its pulse and found, to his surprise, a pulse.  The person,
whether it was a man or woman, he could not be sure, had
been severely mauled.  It continued to breathe, and Card
prayed that it would not stop, so he would not have to
resuscitate it.
    The officer's uniform and chest had been torn to
ribbons, as if by some taloned beast, and its face had been
nearly ripped off.  Its arms and legs were slick with blood,
marked with a thousand wounds, and what hair was left hung
close to the crimson head, matted with blood.  As he bent
down to identify the unfortunate, he looked closely at the
mangled face.  Starbuck...
    "Card to O'Brien," he said.  "Medical emergency outside holodeck thirteen.
Beam us down to sickbay immediately."
    The grim tableau disappeared in a shower of light.


    The Enterprise streaked through the expansive void,
leaving the stars behind her like dust.  Battle waited for
her only minutes ahead, a final confrontation between man
and the mechanized butchers of his forgotten brothers.
    Captain Picard and Commander Riker waited on the battle
bridge, with Worf, Green, and Apollo for the coming fight.
Despite the wounds they received, the two had returned for
the last showdown, unwilling to be anywhere other than the bridge.
    Picard turned to his bridge crew for inspiration.  As a
Star Fleet officer, he had learned to depend on his officers
for insight and guidance in all situations.  This frequently
made him the subject of friendly ridicule among those
accustomed to making decisions independently, but no one
could argue with the series of successful campaigns he
enjoyed on the Stargazer, the Enterprise, or any other ship
he had captained.
    "Suggestions?" he asked simply.
    "Depend on your transporters, captain," Apollo offered.  "Neither we nor
the Cylons ever developed matter transference technology.  It's the last thing
they'd expect, and they can't stop you from using it like they can a photon
torpedo."
    As Apollo finished, Data quietly amended his statement, "This tactic has
proven very effective, captain.  The Cylons appear to lack sufficient shielding
to block a transporter beam."
    "So it is your recommendation that we use this tactic again?" Picard asked.
    "It is, sir.  Conventional battle tactics have proven to be less effective
than hoped against the Basestars.  Phasers have little effect on their thick
plating, and photon torpedoes must be fired at a close range to avoid their
laser cannons."
    "But the phaser battery?"  Riker asked, referring to the devastating phaser
blast Worf had once employed against a Borg ship in system J25, and again
against the Cylons.
    "We have already used that several times in the past five hours, and are in
danger of overheating the phaser coils should we use it again soon," Data
explained.
    "I think we can manage, Will, as long as we rely on ingenuity in battle.
The Cylon's main tactic is superior force; they're like a battering ram trying
to open an old oak door.  If we can out-think them, we can undo them," Picard
said.  He turned to Apollo.  "How did you envision using the transporters?"
    Apollo grimaced as he anticipated Picard's response. "Beam over away teams
to blast the Cylons away from the inside.  If you position them in the right
places, they can take out the control centers and leave the Basestars
helpless."
    Worf's eyes bore down on the Galactican mercilessly.  "That would involve
unacceptable losses of life while the away teams were on the Basestars."
    Apollo glared back.  "If you want to win a war, sometimes you've got to be
willing to leave someone behind."  He shuddered as he remembered his brother,
Zachary, left behind while Apollo flew ahead to warn the fleet of an ambush.
    "Captain, I believe that Commander Apollo has hit upon an idea," Data
interrupted.  "While you and Commander Riker were in sickbay, we destroyed a
Basestar by transporting a photon torpedo aboard.  Such a maneuver may prove
useful again."
    "Or," Riker considered, "we could always consider beaming segments of a
Basestar elsewhere."  Picard looked at him, confused.  "Don't you get it?  They
haven't got shields to block a transporter beam.  If Chief O'Brien can swing
it, we might be able to rupture the hull of a Basestar by beaming a section of
it somewhere else.  The decompression would take care of the rest."
    Picard quietly considered to himself.  "These are all very promising
suggestions, gentlemen.  I hope that we can attempt some of them with success.
Mister Data, which ships has Star Fleet sent for the battle?"
    Data turned his chair toward the front of the battle bridge and pressed the
controls for the main screen.  The viewer lit up with a display of the Cylon
fleet as it moved deeper into Federation territory.  Several Federation and
Klingon ships converged on the Basestars from all directions.
    "Star Fleet has ordered several ships to intercept the Cylon fleet.  Th
USS New Jersey should encounter the Cylons within the next five minutes.  The
USS Distance will arrive soon after, followed by several others, including a
number of Klingon Warbirds.  We will arrive in twenty minutes," Data said.
    "Bridge, this is sickbay.  Is Apollo there?"
    "I'm here," Apollo shouted as he turned, wondering where he should speak
to.
    "Apollo, this is Doctor Selar.  Doctor Crusher is with Starbuck now.  You'd
better come now.  You'd better hurry."
    "What?" Apollo half-rose from his seat.  "Captain Picard, request
permission to leave the battle bridge."
    Picard did not hesitate.  "Granted."
    As Apollo rushed from the bridge, Picard added softly, "I just hope w
don't require your advice during the coming battle."
    The Enterprise warped through the night.


    Apollo dashed into sickbay, nearly colliding with the Vulcan Selar.  "What
is it?  What happened to him?"
    "We're not sure.  Something nearly killed him in holodeck thirteen.  It
doesn't appear that we can save him."
    "NO!  You've got to!"
    "Doctor Crusher is doing all she can, but he is in critical condition.
Whoever attacked him was brutal."
    Doctor Crusher emerged from a small room, harried and exhausted.  She hated
moments like this.  "Apollo..." she began.
    Apollo knew where this was going.  He had just been through it less than
twenty-four hours previously.  "What can you do for him?"
    Crusher breathed deeply and leaned against the wall for support, hating
herself, hating her job, hating the dying man who had put her in this position.
"Nothing.  His attacker was brutal.  I've tried everything I can, but I just
can't save him."  This was a recurring nightmare for her.  She could not
tolerate suffering; the very reason she had joined the Star Fleet medical corp
was to end it.  And here she was for the second time in twenty-four hours,
unable to help.
    Apollo gingerly entered the room where Starbuck lie on the table.  The
mangled figure which barely resembled his friend rolled its head toward him and
looked up through its one good eye.
    "Apollo?" a raspy voice asked, blood spurting from the creature's mouth.
    "It's me, good buddy.  What happened?  Who did this to you?"
    Starbuck gathered his breath painfully, and gasped, "...in... lodeck
thirteen.  'member the a-angel?"
    Apollo remembered.  The unearthly luminous being had given the Galactica
the coordinates for Earth and saved their lives from countless yahrens of
unwanted wandering.  It had also saved his life.
    Starbuck coughed up blood, his body shaking.  "We-we've been tricked, g...
good buddy."  His head rolled back.  Apollo began to weep.
    "Easy, Starbuck.  Take it easy.  They'll get you out of this."
    "... no... too late for that," he breathed hoarsely.  "It at-... at-..
attack..."
    "It attacked you?  The angel?" Apollo asked, incredulous.  Starbuck nodded.
    "A lie... all a lie.  J'So-J'So --" Starbuck coughed violently, shaking on
the table.  "... from... evil one."
    "What?  Starbuck, are you out of your mind?"
    Starbuck shook his head.  Couldn't Apollo see?  His eyes began to dim, and
he felt his arms grow numb.  Yet somehow, he managed to laugh -- a rough,
choking sound, but definitely a laugh.  Apollo leaned close to hear his words.
"... f-finally... closed the b-bargain... m-made with... a-angel."  His bloody
mouth formed a smile.  "... l-love ya... g-good bud..."  His mangled hand
reached up and grabbed Apollo's.  "b-bye..."
    Starbuck grew still, his breathing drew to a halt.  Apollo stared at his
lifeless friend, still clasping his hand in his own, tears streaming down his
pained face.
    "Goodbye, Starbuck.  I won't forget you."

    From the mad chaos of warp speed, the Enterprise emerged into a virtual
frenzy as it dropped into the battle raging between the Distance and the New
Jersey and the Basestars.  Space was a collage of starships and Cylons as the
raiders ducked and weaved, blasting slowly but steadily away at the shields of
the two larger vessels.
    "Lieutenant Worf," Picard asked slowly, "can you hit one of those tankers
with a photon torpedo?"
    "Certainly, sir."
    "Make it so."
    Taking rapid yet careful aim, Worf fired a spread of torpedoes at a Cylon
tanker removed from the starships.  Predictably, the Cylon raiders destroyed
most of the projectiles before they could reach their destination.  One
torpedo, however, avoided destruction in time to detonate.
    The explosion was phenomenal, even from a distance.
    For an instant space lit up with a new star, the force of the explosion
destroying the Cylon raiders within the blast radius and badly damaging the
Basestar which drifted next to it.
    "Should I target another one, sir?" Worf asked.
    "My eyes!  I can hardly see!" someone complained, half in jest.  Picard
wasn't sure who it was -- he was reeling from the flash himself.
    "Negative.  Chief, can you give the transporters a try?" Picard asked.
    O'Brien turned from his new position on the battle bridge.  "Well, I reckon
I can give it a try captain.  What should I transport?"
    "Can the transporters handle a Cylon raider?"
    "I don't see why not.  According to what I learned in the Academy, Captain
Scott once used these to beam up a couple of whales.  I'll give it a try, sir."

    The Cylon centurion stood in the center of the Basestar, surveying the work
of his crew.  The Basestar was turning now, advancing upon the wounded
Enterprise.  Somehow the humans had survived the previous taskforce.  They
would not survive this encounter.  They would be destroyed.
    He looked to the viewscreen, his dancing red eye taking in everything that
it displayed.  A raider suddenly disappeared.  What had happened?  Sensors did
not indicate an energy release from the Enterprise such as might occur from a
weapon.  It did not make sense.
    He puzzled over it for five seconds, before the raider materialized in the
middle of the control room, complete with the inertia it possessed at the
moment of transport, and plowed through the centurion, his fellow Cylons, and
the wall before exploding.

    On board the USS Distance, Commander Hartman looked at the sensor readings
with stunned disbelief.  "Why those --"
    "What is it, Mister Hartman?" the captain asked.
    "The Enterprise, sir.  They just beamed one of the Cylon raiders into the
interior of a Basestar."
    "Did it work?"
    "Apparently, captain.  Energy readings from the Basestar have dropped off
radically."
    "Can we do that?" the captain asked, turning to his science officer.
    "No, sir," she replied.  "An Alaska class starship like ours hasn't got the
power for that.  We can manage a photon torpedo, though."
    "Very well," Captain Moore said, "Lieutenant Wiley, connect your station to
the transporter room and prepare to beam a photon torpedo into that Basestar
that's coming too close to us."
    "Aye sir."

    The Imperious Leader looked on in consternation as the third Basestar in as
many minutes came to abrupt defeat, exploding from within.  This was not
appropriate.  The Cylon way was to win, to conquer.  Not to lose to such
aberrations of life as these humans.  It was a disgrace.  These things weren't
even reptiles -- they were mammals, a far inferior classification of life.
That is why the Cylons would win.  Because they were superior.
    He eyed the screen before him and beheld something which arrested his
attention.  A vessel shimmered into existence from nowhere as it rushed toward
his Basestar.  How had the humans managed that?  Another ship, identical to the
first, shimmered into view beside it, and then a third, a fourth, a fifth.
    He turned toward a gold-plated centurion before him.  "Concentrate sensors
on those ships to detect their energy readings while they are concealed.  Fire
at any such energy surges."
    "By your command."

    Captain Krang of the Klingon Warbird Qagh watched with satisfaction while
his helmsman flew the Qagh in toward the Basestar.  To rush into death's jaws
so bravely lent honor to his ship and the houses of each Klingon on the ship.
    "Gunner," he commanded, "target laser cannons.  Destroy them."
    "Yes, my lord," the gunner replied.
    While the ship began blasting the gun installments, a group of warriors
prepared inside the transporter room for battle.  The away team assembled their
phaser rifles and slowly faded out in a shower of sparks, appearing on the
inside of the Basestar to fight their way to the bridge.

    Geordi's voice rang out on the battle bridge, his annoyance loud and clear,
"Captain, you've got to get us out of here -- now!  The Enterprise can't take
another shot like that."
    Picard coughed, trying to clear his lungs of the dust that had filled the
air.  "It was a lucky shot, Geordi.  O'Brien's taken care of them now.  There
are only fifteen or so Basestars left, and none of them are near us.  Isn't
that good enough?"
    "No, captain, it's not.  Look, this ship got a beating about ten hours ago
that only two weeks' repair time at a starbase can heal.  I've given her some
aspirin, but I haven't had time to do surgery yet."
    "What are you saying, Geordi?" Riker asked.
    "Commander, my people made some temporary repairs to the Enterprise, and
those are starting to fall apart.  That shot alone knocked out the transporters
and warp drive.  Our shields are down to seven percent.  We've got to get out
of here, and get out of here fast."
    "Very well.  Make it so, best possible speed."
    Ever so slowly, the Enterprise turned from the battle and began to move
away.

    Worf looked at the readings on his panel and double-checked them.
"Captain, someone is stealing a shuttle from shuttle bay three."
    "What?  I thought I ordered you to put locks on those after Doctor Stubbs
caused all that trouble with the time travel mechanism."
    "I did, sir.  Nonetheless, someone is stealing a shuttle."
    "Raise the shuttle."
    "No response."
    "Blast it."
    Worf smiled.  "Phasers are inoperative."
    "Do you think it's Apollo?" Riker suggested.
    "What he want with a shuttle?" Picard asked.
    "To get on board a Basestar and take out some Cylons?"
    "In his state?  Good lord, I hope not.  For their sake."

    Captain Roberta Taylor stood on board the USS New Jersey as she watched
another Cylon tanker explode in a brilliant flash, removing two Basestars from
the fray.
    "Well, admiral?  Do you think they'll be willing to consider listening to
us now?"
    The rough-looking admiral rubbed his gruff beard.  "I hope so, captain.
God knows I hate war.  Ensign Grant, open a hailing frequency to the remaining
Cylon Basestars."
    The red-haired ensign obliged.  "Hailing frequencies open," she said.
    "Imperious Leader, this is Admiral Maguire of Star Fleet.  As you can see,
we are more than prepared for you and your fleet.  We have either destroyed or
incapacitated twenty-one of the twenty-six Basestars you brought into this
sector.  You have destroyed one of our starships and three of our allies'
warbirds.  It's up to you now.  Do we continue this war until one side is
destroyed, or would you like to call a truce and end this senseless bloodshed?"
    The Imperious Leader appeared, wrapped in his purple robe, exuding a sense
of majesty, even in humiliation.  He spoke two simple words proudly yet simply.
    "We yield."


Part Seven

    His eyes locked straight ahead, the man piloted the
shuttle directly to his destination.  Nothing could pull him
off his course.  Nothing could stay his hand.  His father
was dead.  His son was dead.  His wife was dead.  His
sister.  His friends.  Everyone and everything he cherished
was dust and ashes, blown by the wind in the wake of these
mechanized killers.
    The serenity of the ships floating around him drew a
stark contrast to the turmoil in his own soul.  He wanted
vengeance, and he was going to have it.  They could kill him
but they would not stop him.  He would rise from his ashes
and strike down a thousand more.  Nothing, not even death,
he swore, would contain his hatred.
    There.  Straight ahead of him was the imperial ship,
the Basestar which housed the ruler of his people's
murderers.  He grabbed the weapons he had brought with him:
a score of grenades, two phasers, and a phaser rifle.  He
was determined to die this day, but he would take as many of
the soulless monsters with him as possible.
    After pressing a few switches, he stepped into the back
of the shuttle as it raced at a dangerously increased speed
toward the Basestar.  He reached up, touching the
transporter device and faded out in a shower of light
moments before the shuttle collided with the Basestar,
crumpling harmlessly like a tin can under a car wheel.

    "Admiral Maguire, we seem to have a problem."  Picard
stared at the graying man.  Picard found Maguire's gaze
disconcerting.  He was not rude or haughty in his stance,
but his eyes were unnervingly peaceful and yet penetrating
at the same time.
    "What is it, Captain Picard?" the admiral asked.
    "One of the Galacticans, a Commander Apollo, has stolen
an Enterprise shuttle.  He has ignored our hails and appears
to be headed directly toward the Cylon fleet.  Our
transporters failed shortly after a recent blow, and we are
unable to retrieve him.  Can the New Jersey manage?"
    The admiral turned to Captain Taylor.  "Roberta?"
    She nodded, and quickly turned to her bridge crew.
"Mister Lawry, prepare to beam up the occupant of that
shuttle.  Lieutenants Weaver and Schlitt -- get to the
transporter room and be ready for anything.  Commander
Apollo may prove to be unreasonable."
    Her con officer suddenly turned in his chair.
"Captain, he's accelerating into the Basestar!"  The screen
showed the minute Copernicus as it suddenly picked up speed
and rushed toward destruction.  It exploded in a burst of
light which left the Basestar intact.  "God have mercy on
us.  We've lost him."

    On board the Basestar, Apollo ducked into an alcove to
scope out his surroundings.  He had transported into the
heart of the Basestar instants before the shuttle collided
with the Basestar.  The Federation forces would think him
dead and not come looking for him.  That was the way he
wanted it.  He would settle this score himself.
    He stepped into the hallway and began to furtively walk
through the ship.  The broken shells of lifeless Cylons
littered the floor.  Some had been killed by the intership
fighting, but others had died in a more personal manner.
    The hallway was also filled with Klingon warriors who
had fought to the last, each clenching fist declaring
defiance, each mouth silently shouting its undying glory.
They had fought well.  There were far more Cylons lying
among the dead than Klingons.  He stared at the Klingon
dead.  "You will not go unavenged."
    He shouldered the phaser rifle and moved on.  He came
around a corner.  Two red eyes, dancing in the dim corridor,
leapt out at him.
    "Halt," a synthesized voice commanded him.
    "Only when I'm dead," he replied and fired into the
darkness, just under the lights.  How many times had he and
Starbuck done this during their flight? he wondered.  The
Cylon's incessant noise ground to a halt as he stepped over
their broken shells and looked for more.

    "We will wait for your shuttle, your highness," the admiral said to the
purple creature on the screen.  "Then we can negotiate terms for peace."
    "Agreed," the Imperious Leader replied, and cut the channels.
    "He sure is pleasant," Taylor observed dryly.
    "Do you trust him?" Maguire asked her softly.
    "No.  Do you?"
    "Not one bit.  Lieutenant Key, I want a scan of that
shuttle.  Scan it for explosives, particularly solonite.
The Cylons tried that ploy on the Enterprise a year ago."
    The dark-haired con officer turned to obey, checking
the readings on his console.  "No explosives... however,
sensors detect about forty Cylon lifeforms on that ship,
each armed with some sort of energy weapon, maybe a laser
rifle of some sort."
    "This is it," the admiral groaned, covering his face
with his hands.  "We're back on the eve of destruction all
over again.  They're not going to be happy until one side or
the other is destroyed."  He straightened up, pulling at the
bottom of his uniform top.  "Inform the Imperious Leader
that his boarding party is not welcome here.  We want peace,
not more senseless slaughter."

    Apollo jumped at the sudden report of the laser cannon.  So it had started
again.  Somehow he wasn't surprised.  It would always be like this, one group
fighting another, preying upon them, destroying helpless innocents.  There was
no escape from it.  The evil was bred into the very bone.  If they did not
fight the Cylons, the humans would fight the Klingons.  Or the Romulans.  Or
the Borg.  There would always be someone, some race portrayed as the ultimate
evil, a people without love.  He was as disgusted by himself as he was of the
Cylons.
    He reached the corner, concealed by the shadows, and boldly leapt around,
into the room, his rifle firing wildly.  Long years of battle experience paid
off as his first blast hit home.  The Cylon seemed to literally explode as the
phaser fire hit her dead center.
    The second Cylon turned and aimed his rifle at Apollo.  He fired once, and
Apollo's rifle flew from his hands, landing on the floor a good five feet away.
    He stood facing his red-eyed nemesis waiting for the blast he knew would
surely come.
    It did not.
    "Enough," the Cylon said with its electronic monotone.
    Apollo looked at his fallen rifle uncertainly, and then back at the Cylon.
Why didn't it kill him.
    Its eye seemed to be fixed on him, even as it wandered across its forehead.
"I have had enough of fighting," the voice said.  With weariness?  It threw the
rifle to Apollo, who caught it easily.
    He stared at it dumbfounded, as if he had never used a weapon in his life.
    "Kill me," it said simply.  "That is what you came here for."
    Apollo stared back.  He raised the gun to fire --
    -- and just as quickly lowered it and tossed it to the ground beside his
own.
    "No," he said finally.  "I have had enough fighting, too.  No more."  He
stared at the silver nemesis he had hated all his life.  And it seemed to smile
back.

    "They are doing WHAT?" the Imperious Leader bellowed, his voice echoing
from the walls and the ceiling.
    Spectrum looked back, unmoved by his leader's anger.  "They are refusing to
fight, Imperious One.  Hundreds of them, and their numbers are increasing.  And
the human Maguire has offered sanctuary within the Federation to any Cylon that
approaches a starship without weapons."
    "NO!  For over a thousand yahrens, we have preserved the Cylon Way!  These
humans sought to destroy us.  They aided our oppressors when the tide had just
begun to turn.  Why should we not repay the evil they have done us?  These
rebels will undo all that we have ever accomplished.  We are ruined!"
    A troop of Cylons strode in, alongside Apollo.
    "Kill him!" the Imperious Leader shouted, his arms flapping wildly.  "Kill
the human!  I order it!"
    "Why?"  Again the same monotone.
    "They aided our oppressors!  They threaten our existence!"
    "Their ancestors intervened in a war they did not understand," a
golden-armored centurion replied.  "We have all suffered in this ageless war.
Let it end."
    "DAMN YOU!  Spectrum, kill him!"
    Spectrum looked at the ensemble of weaponless warriors.  He turned to the
highly revered Imperious Leader, who suddenly looked rather silly sitting so
high up in the air.
    "No."
    "Give it up," Apollo shouted, wondering if the Imperious Leader could hear,
or would even listen.  "We've fought for over a thousand yahrens.  What have we
gained?  My people are dead.  Your people are dead.  Who has won this war?
None of us.  We're all losers.
    "Is that what you want?  Two races of people, rushing madly through the
cosmos, fighting and killing one another, caught up in an endless game of
annihilation?  Is that really what you want?"
    Apollo shook his head.  "You're sick.  I've got no idea how you've
controlled these people for as long as you have.  Maybe you painted us as the
evil monsters we saw you as.  That doesn't matter.  It's over."
    Apollo started as an unknown noise assaulted his ears.  He turned and
witnessed a sight he had never seen before.  Piece by piece, the Cylons shed
their armor, removing their confining cages.  Freed from their shells, they
slithered across the floor like the legged spineless reptiles they were.
Apollo gasped in wonderment.  He had never seen a Cylon without armor before.
And somehow, the sight was not as repugnant as he'd expected.

    "Captain, we've got impulse and transporters back, but don't push them.  If
I were you, I'd ask for a warp tug to take us back to starbase," Geordi
advised, looking his engines over in a state of worry.  He did not want these
to fail again.
    "Understood, Mr LaForge.  We're just going to rejoin the main fleet.  We
won't be doing any battle, just transporting some personnel to the New Jersey
for a conference with Admiral Maguire.  Picard out."  The captain sighed.
Geordi treated the engines like they were his children, he mused.  He probably
wouldn't even let them go out on a date with a food synthesizer if he didn't
know the synthesizer's parents.  Picard smirked at the thought.
    "Mister Green, would you care to join me on the bridge of the New Jersey to
meet the new Cylon delegation?" Picard asked.
    "Objection, sir," Riker interrupted.  "We don't know for certain if they're
friendly for real this time."
    "For crying out loud, Will, they --"
    "I'm putting my foot down, sir."
    Picard rolled his eyes.  Sometimes he was grateful that Riker consistently
turned down promotions which would take him from the Enterprise.  And then
there were times like this.  "Very well.  Mister Green, would you care to
accompany Commander Riker to the New Jersey and meet the delegation?"
    Green laughed.  "I'd be delighted, sir.  The captain of the New Jersey is
an acquaintance of mine.  It would be a pleasure to see her."

    Days later, Green stood before a vast audience in the Enterprise's
recreation deck as he closed out his concert.  It had been dynamic; the energy
he showed as he banged on the piano had swept everyone into his music.  Whether
it was a humorous, upbeat song such as his "Dear John Letter" or the songs with
more somber themes, such as "Grace by which I stand," the magic was undeniable.
    "He's got talent," Picard confided to Doctor Crusher, who stood by him.
"Just imagine where he could be if his music didn't always have those religious
themes."
    "Oh, I don't know, Jean-Lu -- Captain," she corrected herself.  "He seems
to be perfectly content where he is."
    "Not quite.  He hasn't reenlisted.  He said something about starting a
`ministry' back on Earth once his term is finished, whatever that means, or
signing on a civilian ship called the Anastasis.  Apparently it's owned by some
friends of his with similar beliefs.  Still, despite our philosophical
differences, I will miss the man.  He's an excellent officer."
    Green's voice floated through the air, breaking in on their conversation.
"All my life, I was searching for something out there, some meaning to life.
To put it simply, I was seeking God.  I convinced myself that if I could only
become perfect, that if only I had perfect thoughts, acted perfectly, that God
would accept me as worthy and I would find Him.
    "If only.
    "But I couldn't, not on my own strength.  I could never approach God, never
attain the perfection I needed to be with Him.  That's when I found out that
God was seeking *me*, He was actively seeking a relationship with me, that He
came down to my level so He keep meet me where I was.  And He did that.
    "More than that, He died for each one of us so that we could be made
acceptable to Him.  When we accept His Son into our hearts, He looks on us and
doesn't see our impurities, our imperfections any more.  They've been paid for.
    "He proved himself to me in such a complete way, such a holy way, that I
could never be the same again.  People who knew me before never knew that I
could believe something so strongly, but I can now.  The only proof I can give
you is that he lives in my heart.  He lives in my heart.  That's the only proof
I can give you."
    Wonderful, Picard thought.  He's proselytizing everyone here, including the
Cylons.
    But Green's voice cut through his thoughts and he found himself riveted to
his words, as though they had some eternal significance.  He listened as Green
sang passionately, imploringly

    Most people don't find
    Till they're half dead,
    That someone has to pay the price.
    You can pay it yourself --ha --
    Or let someone else.
    But who would be that nice?
    To pay a debt that isn't His!
    Well, I know Someone like that,
    And He's your best friend,
    He really is.  He really loves you!


    As Green continued to sing, Picard felt himself deeply impressed again.
The performance was moving in its power.  All across the rec hall, he saw
people stirring as they moved forward to the stage where some of Green's
helpers were.  Worf was up there someplace, he recalled.  He turned to leave,
saddened at the unfortunate effect Green was having on those assembled as the
closing words of Green's song reached him.

    You know, you're gonna find out
    That He's the Way,
    No matter which way you choose.
    But I pray you'll find out
    By His love for you.

    Picard felt something tug at his heart, a powerful yearning which swept
over him.  Somehow tonight seemed immensely important, as though he had to make
an important decision now.  Emotionalism, he scoffed.  This is ridiculous.  He
surveyed the room as dozens moved forward in response to Green's plea.  Humans,
Vulcans, Cylons, members of nearly every race seemed to respond to a feeling of
immediacy that night.
    Picard shook his head sadly and then --

    that light!  blinding!
    that noise!  deafening!

    He had heard the sound before, during one of Q's illusions a few months
before and seen a similar light at the same time, but what was causing it this
time?  What in the blazes?
    The loud singing quieted, the lighting dimmed to normal, and when Picard
looked around, despair gnawed at his soul.
    Over a third of the people who had been in the room had vanished, and
somehow the refrain from a song sung earlier by one of Green's friends began to
replay itself in his mind.

    How could you have been so blind?
    The Father spoke, the demons dined,
    The Son has come and you've been left behind.
    I wish we'd all been ready...