DISCLAIMER: Battlestar Galactica is the creation of Glen A. Larson, and the reimagined universe of Battlestar Galactica 2003 is the intellectual property of Ronald D. Moore and David Eick. I do not own the rights to the Battlestar Galactica stories or characters. This is an AU work; no copyright infringement is intended, nor is any profit being made. This author does, however, reserve the rights to characters and plots of his own creation.

NOTES: The now complete first and second seasons of The Long Journey Home (both last posted on 14 October, 2011) open by branching off from a scene in the season one episode "Six Degrees of Separation," which was more elaborately treated in "The Plan." However, the story actually deviates from canon 35 years before the holocaust, and will remain largely non-canon until it reaches a distinctly different conclusion at the end of season four. Like the series itself, therefore, this story will continue to unfold by seasons, and to date it has attempted to honor the series breaks as closely as possible. However, while the chapters that follow in this, the third season, will start on New Caprica, the stand alone episodes that were such an integral part of BSG's third year will be ignored here in favor of a continuing focus upon the main themes and plot threads developed in the first two seasons of this story. For those who have not yet read them, the first two seasons can be easily accessed via "All" for the rating, and "Number Six" for the lead character.

Reviews in general, and constructive criticism in particular, will always be welcome. I WELCOME REVIEWS IN PORTUGUESE, SPANISH, FRENCH, ITALIAN, LATIN, GERMAN, AND THAI AS WELL AS ENGLISH.

CHRONOLOGY: Readers will find a timeline for the first two seasons in chapter 48 of season two. Since the story does not employ a strictly chronological format, this may at times be useful.

WARNING: Some chapters do have adult content, including violence and sexual situations. Individual warnings will preface each such chapter whenever the content so warrants.

THE LONG JOURNEY HOME

THE THIRD SEASON

CHAPTER 1

DOUBLE TROUBLE

Day 298 ACH

10:12 Hours

Battlestar Galactica

Danny Novacek shuffled through the hatchway, and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The Admiral's quarters were wreathed in shadow, and the darkness caused his head to swim. He had spent seven years in a brightly lit cage on the Cylon baseship, and the lights in Galactica's brig were never turned down. The play of light and dark in so confined a space confused and disoriented him.

The lieutenant was heavily manacled, and under equally heavy guard. Three marines in full armor, their assault rifles constantly at the ready, had escorted him to his meeting with the Cylon queen. This was how the blond-haired Sixes in the adjacent cell referred to Shelly Adama, and Novacek was content to go with this particular flow. Having Saul Tigh come back from the dead had pushed him to the brink of madness, but he had clamped down hard, sucked it up, and put on his game face. The Cylons had never beaten him, and he wasn't about to let Adama's toaster whore get under his skin. Danny Novacek had endured worse … a lot worse.

A figure stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the room, and walked slowly towards him. The Six had blond hair, neither long nor short, but what drew the eye was the roundness of her stomach. Bulldog knew quite a bit about the birds and the bees, and he reckoned that Shelly Adama was in her fifth or sixth month.

"Sit down, Lieutenant," the Six brusquely commanded. She pointed in the direction of the couch. One of the marines brought up a chair, and Shelly sat down on the opposite side of the coffee table. She looked over at Brandy Harder.

"Sergeant, if he attempts to get up without permission… shoot him in the knees." Shelly's voice was ice cold.

The Cylon queen stared at Novacek, openly taking his measure. There was no compassion in her eyes, no mercy … but in Bulldog's private universe that was par for the course. On the baseship, the Threes had periodically introduced him to the business end of a cattle prod. On Galactica, he had spent the last six weeks watching the tall blonds with the deceptively angelic features frak with the brig rats from the Pegasus. The toasters were as creative as they were cruel, and the four humans in their cell weren't cut from very tough cloth. He suspected that two of them were close to suicide.

"If this was a television drama," Shelly icily remarked, "I would be ordering Sergeant Harder to remove your restraints as a gesture of trust. But this is real life, and I don't trust you at all. I can't afford to. You could kill me with impunity because I'll download, but my baby doesn't get a second chance and I won't put her at risk. So, be advised that any sudden movement on your part will earn you a bullet. It won't be fatal, but I guarantee you that it will hurt. Now, let's talk about your future, which at the moment is anything but rosy."

Bulldog was sorely tempted to lash out at the bitch. Where's Bill, he badly wanted to ask; off somewhere trying on your dresses? But he held his tongue. This meeting was the toaster's idea, and he wasn't about to play her game.

"You murdered a superior officer in a time of war," Shelly went on, "and you did so in front of a dozen witnesses. Sergeant Harder, what is the penalty for this particular infraction?"

"The punishment is death, Ma'am … by firing squad."

"When did you change sides, Lieutenant? What could the Cavils have possibly offered you that would persuade you to turn against your own kind? Because that's what you've done. Given the chance, you would have killed my husband with the same lack of remorse that you showed when you killed my father. But unlike Saul, Bill won't resurrect. The damage to our leadership … the hit to our morale …"

Shelly looked at the pilot sitting opposite her, and sadly shook her head. "Bill's death would have created a void. It would have paralyzed us, set the Cavils up for a cheap and easy victory. So, I'm curious, Lieutenant: why did you sell us out? And for what price did you sell your soul?"

Bulldog resolutely fixed his gaze on a photograph hanging on the far wall. He had learned this particular trick during the long years of his incarceration. It wasn't enough simply to ignore the enemy—you had to convince yourself that she wasn't even there.

Shelly leaned forward to open a folder lying on the coffee table between them. "Lieutenant, it might surprise you to learn that there are Cylons on this ship sympathetic to your plight. Ellen Tigh … my mother … has defended you from the outset. She passionately believes that there are extenuating circumstances in your case, hence the extended psychological evaluation that Doctor Fordyce has conducted over the last couple of weeks. Mother's right … you were in cylon hands for a very long time, and we should not capriciously discount the possibility that you have been programmed- 'brainwashed' is the human term- to carry out the Cavils' bidding."

For answer, Danny Novacek snorted derisively. He had stuck to the cover story from beginning to end, never varied from the script. The Threes had tortured him for information, and the Eights had tried to wheedle it out of him, offering him sex to go along with the hot food and regular showers. But he had given them nothing. He had experienced the good cop, bad cop routine when he was still a kid growing up on some very mean streets. The Sharons weren't very good at manipulation; in fact, they were downright pathetic.

"But Doctor Fordyce has come to the conclusion that you are not delusional. You still know the difference between right and wrong, and she has found no evidence to suggest that you have been conditioned. You have free will, and the choices that you have made are very much your own. I'm afraid, therefore, that your attorney does not have much to work with. He's over on Colonial One right now, pleading your case. President Baltar will listen carefully, and I have no doubt that he will listen sympathetically, but the facts will tie his hands no less inescapably than they tie my husband's. You are guilty, Lieutenant, and premeditated murder is a capital crime. The tribunal will convict you, and you will face a firing squad. Don't harbor any illusions about your fate."

"So, what's the point of this cozy little chat," Novacek finally sneered. He shifted his gaze, and looked steadily at the Cylon. "Did you drag me in here so that you can take an early walk on my grave?"

"No, Lieutenant; I am trying to find a way to save you from your own stupidity, but your anger and pride keep muddying the waters. I strongly suggest, therefore, that you put a lid on the righteous indignation, and adopt a whole new and much more cooperative attitude. You're a good pilot—one of the few who's fully qualified to fly a Viper and a Heavy Raider. This makes you a valuable resource … one that we simply cannot afford to fritter away. Frankly, I don't care whether you live or die, but I would like your death to count for something. So, why not put this finely tuned sense of rage of yours to productive use? Wouldn't it be more satisfying to put the Cavils in the crosshairs than to go on tamely permitting them to play you for a fool?"

"You know what, Six? You're right. As soon as I get back to my cell, I'll start spit shining my Viper. Give me a couple of days, and I'll have it looking like it just rolled off the showroom floor." If the bitch wanted to act like an idiot, Danny had abruptly decided to treat her like one.

"It would help if you apologized to Colonel Tigh, showed a little contrition, and volunteered for a suicide mission. My husband is big on the idea of death with honor, and everyone loves a hero … especially a dead hero. In a few weeks, my sister Natalie will be leaving with a task force to take the fight to the Cavils. With a little prodding, I'm sure that she'd agree not only to take you along but also to send you out in a blaze of glory."

"Wow, what an honor! Will the teacher put a gold star next to my name?"

"Do keep in mind, Lieutenant, that the alternative is a firing squad."

"Those are my options? Eat a bullet, or agree to kiss Saul's ass and take orders from another toaster? Does Bill even know what's going on here?"

"The Admiral has a fleet to protect, which doesn't leave him a lot of time to deal with minor personnel matters. He expects me to handle this sort of problem for him, and I've decided to give you a choice because executing you would be wasteful and inefficient. Take my offer, Lieutenant, and you will be duly tried and convicted, but the President will see to it that your execution is stayed. At the appropriate time you will be dispatched, in chains, to a baseship. There, you will treat my brothers and sisters with deference and respect. You will comply with their orders, and you will do so without question. And if one of them- or fifty of them—should choose to frak you, you will smile politely, drop your pants, and perform with the requisite degree of enthusiasm. Who knows? In a moment of weakness, one of us may take pity on you and opt to keep you around as a pet. Play your cards right, Lieutenant, and you might just come out of this war in one piece."

Shelly stood up, signaling that the meeting was over. She looked down at Danny Novacek, and a playful smile crossed her lips. "Do we have a deal, Lieutenant? Are you ready, as you so elegantly phrased it, to kiss papa's ass?"

"We have a deal," Bulldog said through gritted teeth.

"Excellent. Sergeant, please escort Lieutenant Novacek back to his cell."

When the quartet had exited her quarters, Shelly picked up the phone and called Colonial One.

. . .

"I admire Lieutenant Novacek," Gaius protested; "really, I do. The man spent seven years in captivity, and during all that time he never gave the enemy one piece of useful information. When he was finally released, he volunteered to work side by side with his former captors, and he did so without complaint. That's truly remarkable. I wish that I could help him, but this is strictly a military matter, and I cannot interfere."

"I beg to differ, Mr. President, on any number of grounds. The first is strictly procedural. The Colonial Articles of War require a tribunal to be convened, the panel in question to consist of five officers on active duty and superior in rank to the accused. There are only seven such officers in the fleet, and one of them is Colonel Tigh himself. The murder victim can hardly be considered a fount of impartiality. Then there's Admiral Adama. We intend to call him to testify as a hostile witness, so he will have no choice but to recuse himself. Sharon Valerii is also on our witness list, which leaves us with Colonel Thrace and Captains Adama, Katraine, and Kelly. We have no objections to these four officers serving as judges, but there is no fifth person available to round out the tribunal."

"What about Captain Lysander or Colonel Phillips?"

"They are not in the Colonial fleet, and the regulations do explicitly stipulate that the panel shall consist solely of officers serving in the same branch of the service."

"Oh, come, Mr. Hughes. In our present circumstances, we cannot afford to be so inflexible. I happen to know that military law requires the Judge Advocate General's office both to prosecute the case and to defend it. But the only attorneys in the fleet are civilians, so of necessity this case is being passed on to you and Miss Cassidy. Admiral Adama will empower a tribunal, and Colonel Phillips will chair it; his impartiality is not subject to question."

"And this tribunal will hear evidence for what, exactly? What charges will be preferred against my client?"

"Assaulting a superior officer … premeditated murder … I should think that the particulars are fairly obvious."

"Mr. President, with all due respect to your wife, Lieutenant Novacek did not murder a machine—he turned it off."

"So you freely admit that your pilot killed my father?" Sharon was intently studying Alan Hughes. He was the first attorney to cross her path, and it had taken him less than ten minutes to convince her that Philista was right: lawyers were assholes. "Slippery" didn't begin to describe the man; he was a walking oil slick.

"Mrs. Baltar, Colonel Tigh might well be your designer, or your manufacturer, but he is not by any stretch of the imagination your father. You don't have a father. You and Colonel Tigh are both sentient machines, and there is no statute or executive order in place that affords you standing in a court of Colonial law. This is a lapse that the Quorum should make good in its next session, and if you would like me to draft the necessary language, I will donate my time pro bono. But my client cannot be indicted or prosecuted under laws that do not yet exist. As a matter of current law, Colonel Tigh is res, not persona. Now, if someone wishes to come forward and establish a claim to this machine as his or her personal property, the individual in question would be entitled to file a civil suit for damages. Barring such action, however, my client should be released forthwith."

"And yet you plan to have Boomer testify on behalf of the defense," Sharon angrily observed. "How can a machine testify?"

"She will be entered into physical evidence," Hughes corrected. "Let us keep in mind," he placidly went on, "that Captain Valerii currently holds the inter-galactic record for successful suicide attempts."

The telephone rang, and Sharon got up to answer it. She listened for a moment, and then hung up.

"Nice try," Tory Foster said contemptuously. This was her seventh day on the job but her first real opportunity to prove her worth—in this case, by shielding the new president from his ignorance of the law. "Your logic would also apply to the four men who are being held in the brig for raping one of the Sharons, but they're never going to get a trial. They're each looking at twenty-five years hard labor … if they somehow survive the punishment that is being handed out daily by their cylon cellmates. You should consider yourself lucky, Mr. Hughes, that you even have a client."

"Lieutenant Novacek will have his trial," Sharon announced. She resumed her seat at her husband's side. "I have just spoken with Shelly," she informed the gathering. "The lieutenant has decided … to cop a plea? Is that the correct expression? He will plead guilty to a charge of premeditated murder, but he will receive a life sentence, which will be served on Natalie's baseship."

"Hey, wait a second," Hughes started to interject.

"Shut up, Counselor." Sharon's eyes had narrowed dangerously. "Bulldog is going to be returned to active duty. He'll be on the front lines, and he will cheerfully take on every lousy, high-risk mission that Natalie throws his way. He will be spending his off-duty time on his knees, licking cylon ass … or any other portions of their anatomy that my brothers and sisters choose to shove in his face. That's the deal."

"You had no right to talk with my client in my absence … none whatsoever!"

"Welcome to the real world," Tory scoffed.

"Adama will never go along with this; he wants blood!"

"Then add me to your witness list, and make it clear to the Admiral that I'm eager to testify. Mention the Valkyrie; that will certainly get his attention."

"I'm already familiar with the sordid details, Mrs. Baltar. Do you have anything else that I can use as ammunition?"

"Tell him that you're prepared to put our child on the stand. John doesn't like the military, and he knows all of Admiral Corman's dirty little secrets. Adama can't afford the public exposure. So, I want you openly to threaten him, but leave the rest to Shelly and me. We'll see to it that he toes the line."

Toes the line? Baltar looked blankly at his wife. Her speech was now littered with human slang, and he had absolutely no idea where it was all coming from.

"Before we finish up," Hughes said brightly, "let's talk about the four unfortunate young men currently languishing in Galactica's brig. Miss Foster is right … they're never going to be charged with anything—because there's no relevant statute on the books, civilian or military. At this point, I am sorely tempted to bring suit against Admiral Adama for false imprisonment."

"Because you can't rape a machine," Sharon softly added as she rubbed her belly. "I'll have to try and remember that the next time I'm forced to excuse myself so that I can go throw up."

"They're guilty, Mrs. Baltar, and we all know it … but they're not guilty in the eyes of the law because the law is imperfect. It's always catching up with reality … with the real world." Hughes figured that he could play this game at least as well as Tory Foster. He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"And while we're at it," he smoothly continued, "we might as well talk about the Fours and the Sixes that you've got locked away. Every Cylon who was up and running on the day of the attacks is, at a minimum, an accessory to mass murder—every … single … one of you. But none of you are ever going to be charged for your crimes, which reduces the cylon prisoners to scapegoats. You can't prosecute them—that would be too embarrassing all the way round. I suppose that you could keep them penned up for the rest of their lives, but justice might be better served if we sentenced each of them to a thousand hours of community service, and then put them on probation for a year or two."

"If you want to represent Vireem and the rest of the Pegasus brig rats, Mr. Hughes, I'll arrange for you to interview them." Gaius looked curiously at the young attorney while he marveled at the power of coincidence.

"But someone's already approached us about defending the Fours and Sixes. In fact, he's our next appointment. Tory … what's his name?"

Tory looked quickly through her notes.

"Romo Lampkin."

. . .

Day 301 ACH

15:00 Hours

Battlestar Galactica

Four of them were sitting patiently at the table and two of them were leaning against the wall, but the seventh and last of the Sixes was pacing steadily back and forth. The black clad blond reminded Romo of the caged leopard that he had seen at the zoo when he was eight years old. The Six possessed the feline's grace, and her eyes were alive with memories of freedom and the hunt. This was a weakness that he could exploit, hence his decision to focus his attention on her to the exclusion of the others.

He slid into the one remaining chair, put his briefcase on the floor, and slowly and carefully placed a thick legal notepad on the table in front of him. He aligned the bottom of the pad precisely with the edge of the table, and removed a bulky pen from his pocket. This he set in the exact center of the tablet.

Romo rested his elbows on the glossy surface, and pressed steepled fingers to his lips. The gesture conveyed confidence and authority, and it had served him well in many a courtroom.

Lampkin appraised the overseer copy, knowing that she could read his body language but not his eyes. These were hidden safely away behind the dark lenses of his glasses.

"Do you know why I'm here," he finally asked her.

"The President has appointed you to serve as our advocate," the Six replied. Her tone was dismissive.

"A long time ago, I clerked for Admiral Adama's father. Joseph Adama was the finest civil liberties litigator in the Colonies. He took the cases that no one else would touch … represented the worst of the worst. He did so not because he craved notoriety, and certainly not because he held the law in high esteem. He didn't. Joe Adama had a singular passion, and that was to understand why people do what they do. Why do we cheat our friends? Why do we reward our enemies? Why do we go to war, sacrificing our lives for lost causes? Why do we forgive, defying logic and the laws of nature with one stupid, little act of compassion? For good and for ill, we're flawed … all of us. Cylon … human … it makes no difference. Like my mentor, I have always wanted to know why, so I spend my life with the fallen, the corrupt … the damaged."

Romo paused, removed his glasses, and put them on the table with the same deliberate, economic, and well-rehearsed motion that defined all his gestures. His hands swept back and forth across the tabletop.

"And that brings us to you." He picked up his pen and unscrewed the cap, signaling unmistakably that he was now ready to get down to business. "You are the dregs of cylon society … hated by humanity, cut loose by your own. The other Sixes want to put you to death, as in permanent death … the kind that comes with being airlocked when you're far outside resurrection range. Are you ready to die?"

Lampkin watched as the Six turned inward, saw the finality of it register in her brain. A look of intense regret washed briefly across her face.

"No," she softly answered. Romo sensed the collective release of breath all around him. None of them were prepared to die.

"And yet you're guilty of the worst crimes imaginable, things far beyond mass murder. Tell me … why do you deserve to live?"

The Six looked at him with eyes suddenly large and luminous. "We're all flawed," she acknowledged. "You played God when you created the cylon, and then we mimicked you to perfection. Like you, we sought to create life without the complications of love. Our sin, like yours, is one of hubris."

"Should sin be corrected, or punished?" The Six sitting directly across from Romo had a thoughtful look on her face. "This is where we went astray. We believed that God inspired you to create the cylon so that your corruption and sin might be punished by your own hand. We were wrong, but does that make us evil? Are we like the humans in our cell, who raped one of our sisters and derived pleasure from her pain? Are we like the Ones, who tortured the human females on the Arethusa so that they might bathe in another being's suffering?"

"God commands us to bring forth the next generation of His children," a third Six noted in a matter-of-fact tone. "Knowing cylon pairings to be sterile, we pursued what paths were open to us. We encouraged many of your surviving males and females to enter into physical relationships with individual Cylons of their choice, but without exception they spurned our advances. By a process of elimination, artificial insemination became our only viable option."

"That's your defense? 'God made me do it'?" Romo impatiently drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "In our system of justice, the gods tend to enter the picture only when we're dealing with the criminally insane. Believe me, there aren't enough cubits in the universe to get me to enter a plea of 'not guilty by reason of insanity' on your collective behalf. If you don't want to spend the rest of your natural lives in a cell, I would accordingly suggest that you come up with a more believable justification for your behavior."

"Isn't that your job, Mr. Lampkin? We've told you the truth; now, it would seem to be up to you to use it to our advantage." The black clad overseer studied him for a moment. "Perhaps you're not a very good attorney. Perhaps this case exceeds your talents."

"There are no charges pending against you, so our first step will be to petition the President to schedule an arraignment." Romo's face gave away nothing. "I will file a motion with the President's office in the morning, requiring you to be indicted or released within 48 hours. I will also bring up the issue of an amnesty, and make it clear that it would be in everyone's best interest for it to be comprehensive. If Baltar nevertheless chooses to prosecute, you will plead 'not guilty', and we will proceed from there. Our core strategy will be to argue that you are being singled out for special treatment in what amounts to a show trial, and that there is absolutely no chance for you to receive the fair and impartial hearing to which you are entitled as a matter of law. Endless motions to dismiss will follow, while behind the scenes I'll try and work out a deal that has you plead guilty to a lesser charge, with the time that you have already served being counted in your favor. You'll be staring at additional jail time, probation, and community service, but your demeanor will largely determine the outcome. I suggest that you study up on contrition, and practice speaking from the heart. I can't take you into court dressed in sack cloth and ashes, but there's nothing to prevent you from crying your little eyes out … and tears are always a winner with the jury. Most importantly, I want all of you to read this."

Romo leaned down and opened his briefcase. He pulled out a leather-bound volume, sat it on the table, and nudged it towards the Six opposite him.

"Law and Mind: the Psychology of Legal Practice … by Joseph Adama." The Six looked at him blankly.

"A lawyer only argues the facts when they're on his side … but in this case, there's not one single, solitary fact that favors us. So, we have to diminish the value of the physical evidence and the eyewitness testimony. There are a lot of legal tricks that can make the evidence vanish into thin air, but persuading a jury to discount the victim's testimony in a case involving sexual assault is a great deal more difficult. This book will show you what you're going to be up against, and also how to combat it."

Romo pocketed his pen and picked up his briefcase, but he left the notepad untouched on the table. "Do your homework," he admonished the overseer Six as he prepared to take his leave. "Because I guarantee you that the people who will be called to testify against you will be doing theirs."

During the whole of the interview, Lampkin had never jotted down a single note. As he walked away, he idly wondered whether the Sixes understood what he was trying to tell them.

. . .

Day 303 ACH

16:00 Hours

A Sewer Somewhere Beneath New Caprica City

Marcus Lysander played the beam from his flashlight up and down the walls, and nodded approvingly. He knew that there was a door built into the wall, but in the uncertain light he couldn't spot it. To detect the joint, he had to close his eyes and run his hand over the wall.

"Colonel, I must say that you're crews do outstanding work. Even if enemy centurions knew what they were looking for, it's doubtful whether they could find the entrance."

"Thank you, Captain. I wish that you could congratulate my teams in person, but …"

"'Madam President' is right," Lysander finished for him. "We can't afford to draw undue attention to our handiwork, and we certainly don't want people to make the connection between us." The two officers briefed Sharon Baltar on a daily basis, and they were equally confident that they had so far managed to keep her husband completely in the dark about much of what was going on down on the surface of the planet.

"Alexander, I have one very special project that I'd like you to complete before people start moving down here next week. And I don't want Sharon or anyone else to learn about it, so I want you to keep the work crew as small as possible, and only employ people who can be relied upon to keep their mouths shut."

Colonel Phillips looked curiously at his friend. Working flat out for two weeks, the men and women of the 3654th had finished the water and sewer system, installed underground utilities, and got a good start on the apartment blocks that Sharon had ordered them to build near the river. There was a lot still to be done, but the infrastructure would be fully in place on day 309.

"I want you to convert one of these emergency shelters into a dungeon," Lysander continued, "one strong enough to house as many as fifty Cylons at a time. Think in terms of one large holding area, and a number of small cells isolated from one another. The facility needs to be completely soundproofed on the outside, but I want the interior walls to be thin enough for sound to travel freely."

"You really expect the Cavils to catch up with us, don't you?"

"Yes … and I want to be prepared." The expression on Marcus Lysander's face was grim. "We'll take prisoners, and I have no scruples about torturing them for intelligence. You'd be amazed at how much information people are prepared to give up when they hear their friends not only screaming in pain but begging for death."

. . .

Day 307 ACH

08:30 Hours

Natalie's Baseship

The two Leobens waited patiently for the others to file in and take their seats. They did not have to draw anyone's attention to the lone holoband lying in the middle of the table. Everyone in attendance knew what this meeting was about.

"Admiral, do you remember when you killed me on Ragnar Station … beating me over the head with that flashlight?"

"Yeah, you could barely stay on your feet. You were in a lot of pain … sweating heavily. You said that it was your allergies," Adama laughed.

"But you had already figured out that the radiation from the storm was attacking the silica pathways in my brain. How did you put it? You said that it was decomposing."

"True, but I was just jerking you around … enjoying your pain. Doc Cottle's autopsy was inconclusive. We never did pin down the cause of death."

"If it was a guess, it was a good one," Simon studiously observed. "I reviewed Major Cottle's notes, and then I went in and examined the cadaver myself. I found clear evidence of cellular disruption at the junctions where the silica pathways fed into the surrounding organic tissue, and the silica relays themselves were corroded in varying degrees throughout the cerebrum. Two's brain was literally melting."

"We had to box that Two," Natalie commented. "The download was successful, but everything was scrambled. The memories were all there, but they were disjointed, and the capacity for coherent thought was lost. If it hadn't been for the Five whom you abandoned on the station, we would have had very little to go on."

"The storm was emitting pulsed radiation along a narrow bandwidth, one near the top of the EM spectrum …" Leoben turned and looked expectantly at his niece. With her well-founded reputation for unconventional thinking, he reckoned that Kara would be the first to grasp the truth.

Kara picked up the holoband, and began idly twirling it around her index finger.

"And this gizmo just happens to operate on the same band, or one very close to it," she speculated. "Well, well, well."

"Over the last six weeks, every time that Larissa has used the holoband to jump to Galatea Bay, we've used this device to study it." The other Leoben deposited a hideously ugly metal box on the table. Its surfaces were covered with protruding dials, and there were brightly colored wires and gunmetal gray conduits running everywhere.

"This modified oscilloscope allowed us to isolate the frequency," his brother concluded; "or, to put it more precisely, we were able to capture the amplitude of the pulse wave, and identify the portions of the brain being stimulated. The resonance has no measurable effect on organic tissue, but it does cause the silicon elements in our brains to degrade. At Ragnar, the radiation was constant but unfocused, so it worked steadily over time. In the holoband, in contrast, we're dealing with a single, high energy pulse that short-circuits everything in its path. The spike fried the silica relays in Gina's brain, and it appears that the data were hopelessly corrupted before the download even began. We're talking a window here to be measured in microseconds, but that's demonstrably more than enough time to do irreparable damage."

"Can we turn this thing into a weapon?" John Bierns wanted to cut to the chase.

"We already have, Major. Have you ever heard of Starfish Prime, or Operation Fishbowl? No?"

"Starfish Prime was a bit before my time," Baltar explained, "but I thoroughly analyzed the data. We set off a 1.44 megaton burst four hundred kilometers above Aquaria. It was well out over the ocean, but it knocked out traffic lights and set off burglar alarms more than eighteen hundred kilometers away in Aquaria City. The Defense Ministry subsequently commissioned me to do a theoretical study of a much larger weapon, code name Medusa. This was Operation Fishbowl. The idea was to determine whether the electromagnetic pulse from a single high altitude nuclear detonation could fry unshielded electronics across an entire continent. The answer was frightening. Since a large land mass has a much stronger magnetic field than you would encounter over open water, I concluded that the resulting geomagnetic storm would fry every microchip and interrupt every electrical circuit under the horizon. Even the ULF communications net buried deep in Picon or Caprica's planetary crust would have been disabled. One blast would have left us defenseless."

"And microchips are silicon based," Adama murmured.

"Precisely, Admiral … you've gone right to the heart of it." Baltar was now very much in his element. "We may reasonably conclude that the holoband affects the Cylon brain in exactly the same way that the EMP triggered by a high altitude nuclear burst impacts our electronics. What we have to do now is configure a weapon that emits radiation on the same frequency employed by the holoband. Catch the Cavils on the surface of any large land mass, and you can eliminate them all at one stroke."

"Would such a weapon be effective against a space station approximately the size of Erebus?" Natalie was thinking of the Colony.

"No, I'm afraid not. Remember, we're talking about a weapon that's effective only within its own horizon. Smaller targets aren't worth the effort."

"Where does this leave the Raiders and the centurions," Bierns wanted to know.

"I'm sorry," Baltar said apologetically, "but these kinds of weapons don't discriminate. I doubt if poor Zenobia would survive, never mind the centurions."

Bierns sighed deeply. He would cheerfully wipe the Ones, Fours, and Fives off the face of the universe, but how much collateral damage was he prepared to tolerate? Gina's criticisms had wounded him more than he cared to admit, and he was no closer to the answer now than he had been on Gemenon.

. . .

Day 309

09:45 Hours

Battlestar Galactica

The Brig

Romo Lampkin looked around the barren cell, trying to see it from his clients' point of view. Seven cots, seven blankets, seven pillows … not even a pot to piss in, he noted. He wondered how the Sixes handled their bodily functions, and made a mental note to raise the question of hygiene with the Sergeant of the Guard.

Three hours earlier there had been eleven cots, but in a stunning turn of events, the four Pegasus ratings had been released. A dishonorable discharge had not kept them from receiving a hero's welcome from their fellow officers and ratings off the Mercury class battlestar. These were among the first to be ferried down to the settlement, and Romo suspected that all of this was the payoff for the strong support that the surviving Pegasus crew had given Baltar in the recent election. He didn't know how his brash young colleague had pulled this particular rabbit out of the hat, but in truth he also didn't care. Having four humans going around publicly congratulating themselves for raping a skin job and getting away with it would make the defense of the Sixes that he was planning to mount a lot more effective.

"I would imagine that, right now, you'd like to beat the crap out of someone." He deliberately made eye contact with each of the tall blonds, wanting them to see him as an outraged co-conspirator.

"You don't know the half of it," one of them curtly replied. Her hands were both curled into tight fists.

"Rape is more than a crime. It's a violation. Admiral Adama is angry, I'm angry … a lot of people are angry …"

"Did a Two rape Esther Cohen or Ruth Gabriel," he suddenly pressed. "Is that how they became pregnant?"

"No!" Romo's unexpectedly accusatory tone had taken his clients completely off guard. "You're right," one of them said; "rape is more than a crime—in the eyes of God, it is one of the most terrible of sins. The Ones are capable of it because they are nonbelievers, but the Twos … even the Fours and Fives … no."

"I'm glad to hear it, because the President has refused to grant you amnesty. There will be a trial; as a matter of fact, you're going to be arraigned later this afternoon. The charge will be crimes against humanity. There will be multiple counts, but don't let that upset you. You will plead 'not guilty' to all of them, and I will take it from there. You should know that I have managed to separate your trial from that being given the Fours; since your role in this atrocity was a purely administrative one, this will work to our advantage."

. . .

Day 311 ACH (Founder's Day +1)

New Caprica City

The Temporary Morgue

Caprica Six and Erin Mathias stood side by side, surveying the wreckage. For the new Chief of Police and her principal lieutenant, it was a rough first full day on the job.

Mathias was repeatedly shaking her head, the gesture conveying a mixture of despair and disgust. "You know, Six, with all of the booze that our people were drinking in the Founder's Day festivities, I thought that today would be a busy day … that we'd be gathering up the drunks and seeing them safely to their tents. But this …" She gestured at the three corpses laid out on the examination tables in Doc Cottle's new lair. The bodies had been discovered shortly after daybreak. A party of late night revelers had found them floating in the river.

"Does the Eight remember anything?"

"No," Caprica admitted. "She was out on the edge of the settlement by herself. This was her first time on a planet, and she wanted to breathe in the smell of it … before it was tainted by the corruption of death. How ironic."

"The killer fired one small caliber round into the center of her spine at close range." Cottle took a long drag on his cigarette. "The bullet's intact, so if you can ever find the gun, ballistics should be able to generate a match. I'd say that your murderer knows how to use small arms."

"Which describes just about everyone off Galactica, Pegasus, Astral Queen, Prometheus, and about a dozen other ships," Mathias said despondently. "Did she have a human boyfriend?"

"Until yesterday, she'd never even spoken with a human." Caprica stared down at the Eight's face, which seemed more puzzled than surprised. "She says that a few men offered her alcohol. Two of them even got her up on the stage and taught her how to dance. However, she detected no animosity; everybody seemed to be having a good time."

"The Sagittaron's death is going to have serious repercussions," Cottle remarked. "Cyrus Dalyattes was one of their Elders, and he was very well respected. There was no water in his lungs, so he was dead before he went into the river. The toxicology screening revealed a lethal level of biophosphonate in his blood stream. We use that particular drug to slow down cancers that have penetrated the lymphatic system, but it's strictly last resort because even small quantities can cause acute cellular destruction. I asked Mike Robert if he had been treating Mr. Dalyattes for cancer, but he said no, and that agrees with the preliminary autopsy findings."

"Have you checked your inventory?"

"Yeah, and we're down about three hundred units. To make matters worse, there's no paper trail. Someone just walked off with the damn stuff."

"Is this one of the drugs that you keep under lock and key?"

"Our stock was in the medical safe on Galactica; you'll have to ask Mike how he was handling it on the Inchon Velle. I haven't asked him to look over his supply."

"Don't," Caprica tersely ordered. "Erin, I want you to put Sergeant Hadrian on this. I'm told that she's methodical, and that she won't quit. Tell her to run a complete inventory check in both infirmaries. I want to know who had access, and I want to know what else we're missing. Can I count on your full cooperation, Sherman?"

"Of course … and that goes for Mike Robert as well. We need to get to the bottom of this, and we need to do it quickly."

"Caprica, the Sagittarons' religious beliefs and their day-to-day lifestyle are both wildly unpopular. Even the Gemenese hold them in contempt." Erin Mathias didn't like where she was going with this, but there didn't seem to be any viable alternative. "We need to assign someone to go back over the medical records and look for patterns. Our killer may have left a trail."

The blond Six gently smiled. "Sharon wants to get Helo out from under foot, so I'll ask the Admiral to put Lieutenant Agathon on detached duty. Sherman, I don't want to interrupt your honeymoon, but things will go more smoothly if D'Anna is there to walk him through the records."

"Doctors don't get honeymoons," Cottle gruffly responded; "at least, not in this fleet. D'Anna will be glad to help."

"Thank you," Caprica gratefully replied. "And that brings us to our third victim …"

"Yeah, and the cause of death isn't exactly a mystery, is it?" Cottle paused to light a new cigarette. "I mean, a broken neck doesn't leave a lot to the imagination, does it?"

"Method … motive … opportunity … we're looking for a Cylon with a grudge, aren't we?" After everything they'd been through, Caprica found the idea of one of her brothers or sisters committing cold-blooded murder oddly depressing.

"We'll have to bring Colonel Tigh in for questioning," Mathias observed. "He was on the surface all day yesterday … he still is."

"Erin, we can't very well question every Cylon who was down here for the celebration, and it could be any one of us. Hades, it could even be me!"

"Caprica, we can't let this go … and we should start with the Eights. Was the one those animals from the Pegasus gang raped down here? Does she have an alibi? Admittedly, getting those bastards released in return for nothing more than a dishonorable discharge and time already served won't have won the late Mr. Hughes any cylon friends, but we really should start with the most obvious suspects."

"And so my poor sister gets to be victimized all over again? That's hardly fair."

"Why don't you let D'Anna and Doctor Fordyce sit her down for an informal chat? They've both been working with her throughout, and my wife should be able to determine whether she's hiding anything."

"Will doctor-patient confidentiality be an issue?" The time that she had spent on Caprica had taught the Six a great deal about the sometimes arcane universe of human ethics.

"Amelie can ask her to sign a waiver. If she agrees, then alibi or no alibi, it seems obvious to me that she'll cease to be a person of much interest."

"All right," Caprica agreed; "we'll do it your way. In the meantime … Erin, I want you to give Romo Lampkin around the clock protection. This trial couldn't have come at a worse possible time. It's managed to anger humans and embarrass Cylons about equally, so right now Lampkin's enemies are probably legion."

"I'll put Jammer, Cheadle, and Nowart on the detail. They're meticulous, and they won't allow Lampkin to push them around. Do you want surveillance on Vireem, Gage, and crew?"

"No," the Six decided after a lengthy pause. She was still a CSS field agent, and in her milieu justice was often very rough indeed. "We might get lucky," she coldly remarked. "Our killer might decide to strike again."

. . .

"You know," Cavil fumed, "if that almighty god to whom our miscreant brothers and sisters are all so devoted really does exist, right about now he must be laughing out his ass. What a frak-up!"

"The best laid plans," the overseer Six shrugged; "into every life a little rain must fall …"

"Since when did we start inviting Sixes to these gatherings," another Cavil angrily asked.

"About the time that I reached the conclusion … the well-founded conclusion … that the eleven of us couldn't plot our way out of a paper bag," the Cavil who hated to be called John bluntly retorted. "We need help, and I'm machine enough to admit it."

"Well, it's about frakkin' time," the pornographically inclined Cavil viciously remarked. He was still mourning the loss of his prized collection of smut, although his pet Eight was now shaping up nicely. "It was your stupid idea to upgrade the hybrids that got us into this mess in the first place."

"All right … so I got too clever by half. I admit it; are you happy now?" John reached for the ambrosia, but the Six beat him to it. He cast an irritated glance in her direction.

"You can blame me for the freak getting away from the orphanage, but who the frak would have ever guessed that the CSS would take him in? That's when it all fell apart, but we couldn't turn back because we already had thirteen frakkin' years invested in the project. Do you know how many hours I spent holding that stupid piano player's hand … how long it took me to persuade him that the gods had given him a gift that he had to pursue even if it meant abandoning his family? And the stepmother … all those homilies I delivered on suffering being good for the soul. 'Yes, sister, the gods have smiled upon your child' … 'Kara has a special destiny' … 'she will need inner strength that only you can give her' … 'it's for her own good' … blah-blah this, and blah-blah that. Back when I was still sleeping, I used to dream about killing that woman. My dreams were very creative."

"Only someone came along when Kara was thirteen years old and put the fear of the gods into good, old Socrata Thrace." This copy of Cavil was still fuming. "After that, the stupid cunt never laid another hand on the little bitch. Fast forward a few years, and she also disappeared right out from under your nose. Let's see," he sneered, "Socrata abruptly stopped following your advice about the same time that little Johnny went and became a big, bad CSS agent. Do you think there just might be a connection? Do you think that Starbuck might have ended up on a rust bucket like Galactica because her freak of a brother stuck her there?"

"It's all water under the bridge," John lamented. "We have to play the hand we've been dealt, and there's no getting away from the fact that this generation of hybrids can't fully master our fancy new weapons systems. We need Kara Thrace. We need three copies of her right this frakking minute, and in a matter of months we're gonna need five more."

"I warned you." Cavil wanted to get this meeting over with so that he could get back to testing the Eight's new software. "I told you months ago that the hybrid on this tub would have a nervous breakdown if you tried to plug it into the new systems."

"Sorry to be late," another Cavil apologized as he walked into the chamber. "But as I recall, brother, at the time you were smugly certain that everything would turn out for the best. How did you describe our new baseships? I believe that your exact words were: 'they'll have so many bells and whistles that the hybrid on this tub will need therapy just to cope with its inferiority complex'. As it turns out, you were prescient … we just didn't appreciate how prescient."

Cavil grimaced. He hated it when Cavil threw his own words back at him.

"Thank you for that oh, so helpful contribution," John growled. "I hope that we're not keeping you from anything important," he added in mockery.

"Oh, I do have places to go and appointments to keep, but I can spare you a few minutes of my time." When it came to sarcasm, Cavil wasn't going to take a back seat to anyone. "Now, let me see if I have it all straight. We can't find the humans because the hybrids can't sense their precious brother, who went off line about the same time that our baseship burrowed into the fleet. We don't have the slightest, frakkin' idea where Kara Thrace has got to—and it wouldn't matter if we did because we have no effective way to lay our hands on her. We have three brand new baseships, but the hybrids can't process information fast enough to deploy their integrated tactical systems to full advantage. So, we've made good some of our losses, but without a new generation of hybrids to offset Bierns' collection of parlor tricks, we're gonna continue to get our asses kicked on the battlefield. Have I missed anything?"

"Wow! I'm stunned, truly stunned … whatever would we do without you?" Cavil could only hope that his unscheduled absence would leave the Eight hornier than ever. "We can't win this frakking war without Kara Thrace! Is that the gist of it?"

"Now boys," the Six soothed, "quit throwing stones at one another. There is a way to take our not so beloved child off the board, and it doesn't even involve killing him. And did I mention that I want him … want my very own hybrid pet? I'm putting in my claim right now. I'm taking Lee Adama and John Bierns as my human and hybrid slaves. Training them to my satisfaction will prove so amusing."

A warm feeling suffused her body as the memories coursed through her silica pathways. Up on the rooftop … how good it had felt to beat the crap out of the Eight who had gone over to the humans … she could see the truth, even if her idiot brother couldn't. In the Delphi museum … toying with Kara Thrace … putting her on her knees. The hybrid bitch would already be in their hands if her traitorous sister hadn't interrupted the fun. . . .

"Six, you're beginning to get on my nerves." John Cavil wasn't long on patience, and he didn't especially like Sixes to begin with. "Just get on with it."

"Why, of course, brother; but you really need to learn how to control your temper … among other things." The One's lack of staying power was leaving her more and more frustrated, and she was planning to take it all out on her harem.

"Six …"

"Oh, very well," she said with a long, theatrical sigh. She held up her hand and pretended to examine her nails. "It's obvious, really. You unbox Mara and his birth mother, and you bring them back here. When he catches up with us, or vice-versa, you let the three of them have a good, long cry over the wireless—and then you start torturing them. Personally, I'd begin by cutting something off; a finger or a toe would do nicely. The idea is to get John's attention, make it clear to him that you don't object to steeping your hands in cylon blood, and intimate that there's a lot worse to come. Then you offer him a trade: his freedom for their lives. He agrees to become my obedient slave, and they go free. Once we've taken him out of the equation, our superior firepower will once again rule the battlefield."

"And you seriously think he'd agree to this?" John Cavil had never been much of an optimist, and he just couldn't see the First Born willingly committing suicide in this fashion.

"It just might work," a Cavil who had so far remained silent observed. "You weren't there, brother; you didn't see the way the abomination reacted when I threatened his Six. He came close to tearing me limb from limb. I suspect that he'll pay any price we care to name if that's what it takes to keep his dear, sweet mother safe." Cavil frowned thoughtfully. "You know, while we're at it, we ought to collect Kara's mother too. What's good for the goose is good for the gander … isn't that the way the expression goes? And what if we programmed Aspasia Six to kill Adama on sight? Hmm, I see a lot of upside here, and there's no downside at all."

"Fine … okay … it's worth a try," John conceded. "But the Colony is not exactly lurking around the corner. In fact, it's halfway across the frakkin' galaxy, and we can't spare a baseship. Somebody's gonna have to haul ass in a Heavy Raider …"

"I'll go, but I want to take my Eight with me," Cavil quickly volunteered. "It'll be a long trip, and a machine has needs."

"Just bring the CPU's back in one piece. And," John swore, "do take the time to make sure that you've got the right ones!"

"Now can I have Thalia," the Six asked on a hopeful note.

"Sorry, Six, but she's boxed on the Hub, and that's where she's gonna stay."

"Never mind," she sighed. "I'm patient … I can wait …"

A hybrid slave to call my very own …

The Six shuddered with sexual delight.