"Maybe you can tell me about the rest of this stuff." Boomer stepped away from the distracting closeness of his companion and indicated the contents of the room with a wave of his hand. The creature called Sensation watched him with amusement.

"It’s just things," she said, tossing her long hair back from her face and pulling at the awkward fit of her uniform. Most of it doesn’t work anyway."

Boomer was trying to consider her with rational detachment, a difficult task considering the effect her presence was having on him. She would have that effect on practically anyone, he had decided after a while. It wasn’t just that she was attractive, which she most certainly was, or even the way her behaviour seemed untouched by normal human inhibition. It was the raw, powerful sensuality which she projected, her savouring of every moment, every breath. She was so alive, so vital that she took your breath away just being there. But she was a puzzle, and a disturbing one at that. If that were Komma’s body she occupied, the physiological changes the process had wrought were staggering ones: she was unquestionably female, from her shapely bare feet to the cascade of glorious red hair that spilled below her shoulders. Bare feet? He looked, and realised that she had kicked off what must have been uncomfortable boots. They lay abandoned at the junction of floor and wall behind her. He turned his mind back to his previous line of thought with an effort.

"So, what did they used to do?"

She shrugged. "This and that. That’s a music unit, only the input device is missing. That’s a nutrient generator without base stocks to act on. That’s a library interface with no library to interface to ... Do you really want to know?"

"Probably not," he admitted, disappointed at the list of items she described. The thought of an alien technology had intrigued him, but it seemed there was little here that would reveal any strange and wonderful secrets. "Tell me about the cube."

"All right." She leaned back against the wall and looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "It’s a - a gateway. Into the net. It’s self-contained, and it draws its power from within, so placed anywhere within an active structure it will charge itself for use. It can also act as a storage chamber. Uncharged, it can contain the personalities that inhabit the net for an indefinite period. We found that out ...," she smiled distantly, remembering, "when the old net was damaged. We drifted into sleep, and when we woke we were here. I like it here. More people. More power. More feeling!" And she stretched up, arching her back like a catlet. Boomer swallowed hard. Underneath the ill-fitting uniform she was all curves and muscles; in all the right places, too.

"Yeah. Right," he managed. "But what’s it for?"

She looked at him absently, absorbed by the feel of the hard surface at her back. "The net? The net is. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t be here. Oh!" She suddenly realised what he meant. "You mean us! We are the senses within the net. We look after it. To us it is a living thing. Look ..." She peeled herself away from the wall and in one smooth movement lifted her shirt over her head. Boomer blinked, opened his mouth to protest, but no sound came out. "This flesh," she went on, unconcerned, "consists of skin and bone and muscle. Within it, touching every part of it, is the vital energy of the blood. And within that are protective agents that heal and prevent damage. That is what we are, what we do. We cannot act directly upon what lies without, but within the flow of energy that is the net we do what we can - divert power that may overload systems, cause minor failures to prevent major breakdown, assist the passage of power, maintain the integrity of the whole."

Her skin was dusty and smooth, her breasts upright and sculptured in the dimness of the emergency lighting; her hair spilled over shoulders carved from ivory, cascaded like liquid fire across the perfection of her skin. Boomer’s mouth was dry, uncertainty plucking at him as physical desire conflicted with intellectual awareness. It wasn’t possible, something screamed at the back of his mind, for this model of female perfection to be sculpted from the same flesh as the stocky Corporal that she claimed it belonged to. And yet - if you looked hard, really hard, you could trace the genetic echo of Komma’s genial features within the shapely precision of her face. Concentrate on that, he thought, floundering out of comprehensions’ depth, analyse the points of comparison: she was a little taller, perhaps, but probably the same weight, even if redistributed slightly. Stand them side by side and you’d probably see the resemblance clearly. Don’t be ridiculous, the same small voice insisted, how could you stand them together when they are one and the same?

She saw him staring, looked down at herself with interest, reaching to cup one perfect breast in an equally perfect hand. "It is a fine flesh, this." She smiled at him. "Strong and healthy."

"I ..." His voice came out cracked. He swallowed, licked dry lips, and tried again. "I’m sure Komma will be glad to hear it."

She watched him, her eyes bright, unfathomable. "Do I disturb you, Lieutenant?" Her voice was warm and mellow. "Or may I call you Boomer?"

Something snapped inside the normally patient warrior. Confused and uncertain, he had allowed this creature to influence him, the sexual tension she generated distracting him from the realities of the situation. Surely she was toying with him, her act of innocence concealing more nefarious intent, her disarming openness a deliberate ploy of some kind. He closed the gap between them, caught her by her upper arms. "Now, look here, young lady. I don’t know who told you my name, or what you’re playing at, but ..." He broke off, seeing the way she accepted his sudden anger, calm, almost appreciative. There was no guile in those flame-speckled eyes, no concealment, only a disturbing honesty as they considered his confusion, reflected the image of his concern. "Dammit," he breathed, "what in hades do you want?"

She smiled slowly, affectionately, her eyes holding his in a steady gaze. Her arms lifted, her hands, gentle, touching his neck, on his face. "You," she whispered, drawing him down towards her, lifting her lips to his.

They kissed, a contact of unexpected gentleness, a moment full of possibilities. He resisted only momentarily. At the back of his mind that small voice protested once, and was stilled; stilled by the fires that she lit within him, by the taste and the touch of her. His hands released their grip only to draw her closer; he answered that gentle kiss with passion, and after that it was too late to reconsider anything ...

The journey took no longer, left him just as breathless and exhilarated. He stood - no, hung - in an open gridwork of light and darkness, the shape of chamber and passageway clearly defined, the light less intent in quiet storerooms, complex and interwoven within the living areas. For once he thought to look down, and the gridwork of the net dropped away beneath him, layer upon layer of light, an intricate weaving of shape and form, fluid and alive. Brief panic surged within him at the sensation of nothingness beneath his feet; never keen on open spaces at the best of times, this insubstantiality was disturbing to a man who had lived all his life within the secure confines of walls and ceilings. And floors.

Savour was there beside him, responsive to his moment of unease, a comforting hand on his shoulder, a reassuring smile on his lips. "These are some of the living quarters," he said conspiratorially. "We are looking for a friend."

The grid seemed almost deserted, empty of the brilliant ghosts of colour save for a few, quiet and dimmed by sleep, that drifted alone in the secluded confines of their rooms. They moved, comfortably together, through a series of chambers, the definition of the net bearing little resemblance to the physical configuration of the area. Komma wasn’t even sure where they were within the sprawling confines of the ship. There were living quarters scattered throughout the GALACTICA, a precaution against accident or attack that ensured the distribution of vital personnel should major damage or destruction ensue. On-duty pilots slept in the squadrons’ ready-rooms; off duty they were spread throughout the ship. Officers shared access corridors with lowly technicians, a healthy mix of grade and rank on every level. They could be in almost any of the designated living areas, even Komma’s own.

"Here." Savour drew him to a halt, then downwards, so that they sank through what must have been floor. Below them, curled together in harmonised intimacy, two ghosts were sleeping, the colours of their selves mingled and overlapping. Komma knew them - knew them instantly, and felt a surge of embarrassment at finding them so privately involved. He had long admired Cassiopeia from a comfortable distance, perceiving, as he did now, her gentleness and sensitivity as uncommon virtues. In the world of the net she was a bright flutter of orange and gold and red, just like a flame, full of warmth and reassurance. The barest hint of grey-blue touched her, an intimation of melancholy hidden deep within. It contrasted sharply with the crimson of her companion; shadings of red and brown, tinted a little with a hint of rose. Strength and vitality, an earthy sensuality touched with a little self-love, unmistakably Starbuck, sharing a moment of time with the women he clearly loved and yet could not commit himself to.

"I watch her a lot," Savour was saying. She has a very giving nature. She heals with her heart as well as her hands."

Komma nodded slowly, feeling he had intruded on something very private. Their intimacy disturbed him. Within the net the truth was revealed with unequivocal honesty, and the uncertain nature of their relationship was revealed as clearly as the physical energy they had so recently shared. The sight both embarrassed and attracted him. He felt ashamed at such opportunistic voyeurism, and glanced at Savour to try to understand why he felt no such awkwardness at their intrusion. The creature of the net was watching the sleeping pair with such gentleness and affection that Komma felt even more ashamed at his ambiguity of feeling. It suddenly occurred to him just how different this existence was compared to the complex games of human emotion, half-truths and subtle lies that marred interrelationships in his normal world. Savour felt only delight in the intimacy before him; in a world where every emotion was written clearly for anyone to see and understand there was no room for misunderstanding, only empathy. There could be no embarrassment at depth of feeling, since there could be no dishonesty, no ambiguity in relationships.

"He is one of Sensation’s people," the spirit was saying softly. "Lieutenant Boomer is another. That is why she chose to go without in your place. To share." He laughed softly at his companion’s expression, drew him gently away from the gathered intimacy of the sleeping ghosts. "I’m sorry." His apology came from the depths of him, a ripple of colour revealing it. "I forget how alone each one of you is. Everything is shared, within. Don’t be afraid of your feelings; they are part of you. If you lie to yourself, how can you be honest with others?"

"I don’t know." Komma’s voice was hesitant. He’d never been very good at expressing himself, too self-conscious, too lacking in self-confidence to find the way. "I’d never thought of it before."

"Sometimes it is easier not to," Savour told him gently. "But once you have learned how, the pleasure of being is addictive. It is the moment that matters, since every moment is one and the same. Even in defeat, adversity or pain there is learning, growth." He smiled, an affectionate grin. "Let us show you something else."

There was, Komma was beginning to realise, something reassuring about the presence of these - well, presences. Somehow they managed to give the impression of delighted children, and yet they projected a maturity that belonged in the oldest and wisest of mankind. Beside them he was no more than a child, floundering in an experience that left him breathless and confused. He had no idea how to cope in this world, what was to become of him here; but he trusted them, wanted, more than anything, to be worthy of them. He held out his hand to his guide, expecting him to take it. Savour laughed, bent his head and kissed it instead. Then he caught his companion’s arm and threw him bodily into the net, tumbling him over and over in an exhilaration of speed and light.

He fell, twisting and turning, through patterns of colour and sound, caught up on a confusion of image and impression. He lost all sense of direction, spinning and falling, gathering speed, a shiver of sparks impacting on his skin as he tumbled through the lines of power, tumbled and flew, flew straight into the arms of Scent, who held him, laughing.

It seemed a long time before he felt able to do more than just stay there, curled into her embrace, trembling, breathless and a little dizzy.

"Too far, too fast?" she queried with amusement as he recovered himself.

He nodded briefly, still too short of breath to talk, and uncurled enough to find himself sitting beside her in another gridwork of living quarters.

"No matter." Her voice was soft, soothing. "You have already come too far to turn back. Never regret the right commitments, or you will never commit to anything at all." She stretched, catletlike, rolling over behind him to rest her chin on his shoulder with amicable intimacy. "Sometimes HE regrets too much - a minor fault in one so strong."

Komma had been too bewildered by his journey to take immediate notice of his surroundings. Now he looked and, looking, understood. In front of him was the angular definition of an office, the sculptured power within an active console twisting up to spill into the working light it supported. And seated at that shimmering structure was a ghost filled with silver, lit from within by soft blues and harmonic greens.

"Captain Apollo," he breathed in wondering recognition.

The figure before him, fired with a spiritual strength that burned like a beacon in the net, was beautiful, the closest he had yet seen to match the fire and life of his current guides. Yet he was also touched by a shimmer of darkness: regret and sorrow, the heaviness of duty and responsibility, marked and marred the brilliance of his light. Komma was beginning to understand a little of what he had been shown: Boomer, the intellectual, balancing loyalty and responsibility against a desire to know; Starbuck, the sensualist, intent on enjoying life to its full; Cassiopeia, giving help to those in need without expecting a reward; now Apollo, filled with moral strength and striving towards an image of perfection that was always a reach beyond him. Savour had been right. The colours were glorious ones.

"He would understand the net," Scent was saying in his ear, "but it would not be his answer. He has touched many truths and not always recognised them as such. Sometimes it hurts, to see him strive so hard, when he already has what he needs."

"This journey has been hard on him." Komma turned to share the thought with emerald eyes, finding a reflection of brilliant silver deep within them. "He sets an example for others to follow; we’ve all lost so much, and yet he has endured his personal tragedies, too … you know all about it, don’t you? There’s no need for me to explain."

"I know - yes, I do. But you understand, and your perception does you credit."

Komma looked back at the working warrior and frowned a little in confusion. "It all seems much clearer here," he said. "And yet - all I’m getting to understand is how little I do understand. I guess people frighten me. I know he does."

Scent’s laugh was gentle, soft. "That’s not fear, that’s admiration - worship, even. It’s Psion that you fear, friend. But welcome to our world, indeed; if you know that you do not know, then you have taken the first great step upon the stairway to yourself. It is ignorance of ignorance that keeps men from true knowledge. But do not try to understand; learn to experience first. Without that you cannot interpret anything. These are matters for the heart and soul, not for the mind. Watch now; enjoy. Share." Her hand was a warmth on his shoulder, her presence an electric shiver across his back where her skin rested on his. He leaned into her weight a little, less wary of her presence than he had been before, and tried to do what she asked.

The warrior at the desk worked on, oblivious to his watchers, absorbed in something he found both tedious and necessary. Unexpectedly a moment of light flared in the gridwork; a door opened, closed, in a moment of power demanded. Through it tumbled a smaller ghost bearing all the colours of the rainbow and one or two more, a riot of shifting emotions, currently dominated by expectation. Behind him - for Komma recognised the child as Apollo’s adopted son - came a strange creature woven from the sparkling fabric of the net, fluid, beautiful. It took a micron or two for the watching technician to equate this brilliantly living thing with the clumsy daggit drone that normally accompanied Boxey, and he nearly missed the heartstopping moment of pure love that shone when the two ghosts embraced. Nearly, but not quite. It was light and it was colour, but it washed over the watchers in a wave of almost physical intensity, and Komma found he could not breathe for the glory of it. Scent wrapped her arms around his shoulders, poured a little of it back into him from the other side; he wanted to be that child, that man, held together by the strength of their giving, unconditional, undemanding. Then Scent had propelled him upwards, into the net, and the moment was left behind in a rush of colour and movement.

Lips touched, tasted, caressed; hands slid across silken skin, arousing and aroused, sharing a warmth and passion in moments of desire. She was musk and nectar to his tongue, fire to his loins. Her hair spilled over his shoulders as she laid sweet kisses to his face and throat, each touch a spark of pleasure, each moment driving rational thought further and further from his mind. Hands as soft as flitterwings slipped beneath his shirt, eased it from his shoulders; fingers played briefly at his waist, slid fabric from his hips. His head went back with a moan as she traced her kisses lower, her breath gentle on his inflamed manhood, her lips teasingly close, her hands upon his thighs, his hips. Aching with desire he caressed her shoulders, drew her close, and she rose again, a warmth of energy against his skin. Their lips met again; his hands cupped her breasts, his head bent to savour them. Sensuously she slid from the remaining fabric that enclosed her and his hands followed, down the curve of her stomach, across the warmth of her inner thighs. For a moment memory surfaced with distant concern; an expectation unfulfilled as his fingers tangled in silken curls, slid to encounter waiting warmth within. Her arms enfolded him, pulled him down and sideways, into an unquestioned softness. Again his mouth found the texture of her breasts, feeling her respond to his caresses; he moved against silk and satin, was engulfed by her warmth. Together they moved in shared ecstasy, the moment a blend of mutual pleasure that burned hotter and hotter until it was almost unbearable. Then it overtook them, exploded within them, and left them still and spent in each other’s arms.

Sensation smiled, an affectionate, knowing smile. Then, with gentle touches, she set about the pleasurable business of arousing her partner all over again.

He drifted upwards through a spiral of light, a patterning of power, listening to the sounds of the net. It hummed and sang to itself, an eternal hymn of life, full of the ringing of distant bells, sweet and harmonic. If he let himself relax into it, float in the drifting currents, drink in the subtle scents of it, incense and life, taste the air, warm and heady, he could start to feel the life of it, know the movement within it: textures he couldn’t place, sensations he couldn’t quite recognise. He stretched with the pleasure of it, and a hand reached down and enfolded his, drew him up, out of the enveloping experience and into a warm embrace.

"Don’t reach too far without us," Sight advised softly, letting him go. "You might get lost."

Komma studied her amber eyes, finding them full of gentle laughter. Beside her easy grace, beside all of them, he felt like an awkward daggit pup, clumsy and uncoordinated. Sighing, he looked around him, wondering where he was. For a moment nothing focused; then he realised what he was looking at, and the vision took his breath away. If the computer section had been an enchanted cavern, the ridge of the GALACTICA was a cathedral, a vaulted chamber carved from liquid fire and filled with fountains of light and glory. Ghosts of all colours swirled among them, but the eye was drawn to a figure that outshone them all, the shifting shades of his aura paled by the pure white light that filled him. Beside him, a second ghost: subtle shades of orchid and purple, somehow enhanced and not diminished by the presence of the man next to him. The young computertech had always felt overawed by Commander Adam; now he knew why. The man’s light dominated his domain, certain, determined, yet not lacking in warmth or sensitivity. His compassion, his inner strength, shone through, revealing the burden of his command, heavy but endurable, sustaining rather than destroying him. Beside him Colonel Tigh was a tower of implacable strength, capable, attentive to detail, impatient only with inefficiency and waste. Between them was a bond of friendship and trust forged by long association. Komma stared and then looked away, ashamed, feeling as though the light before him revealed every inadequacy, every weakness in his soul. Sight smiled softly, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders with understanding intimacy.

"You shine no less brightly, beloved." Her voice was gentle. "It takes many lifetimes to achieve such inner strength and understanding. Even within the net we know better than to strive beyond our reach. There is virtue in many natures, and not all will come to such brilliance as this. The net strips away all falsehoods, reveals truth for what it is. Do not be ashamed of yourself, or strive to become what you are not. Your strength lies in mediation, not leadership, in your gentleness and consideration." Gently she turned him back so that he was looking at the heart of the place. "Do not be afraid to see," she insisted. "Look hard, and learn. This is the soul, the spirit that moves your world. Understand that and you will come to understand many lesser things with ease."

He looked, seeing past the brilliance of the light to the man who contained it. A lonely man, isolated by the necessities of his command, inspired by a vision of the future, driven by a compassion and responsibility that encompassed every individual in the fleet. The burden he carried was heavy, the need not to fail its demands the burning force that motivated him beyond all other things. There was no room in Adama’s world for acceptance of failure; only constant self-doubt as he tested his chosen path to his limits, and beyond.

"How can he endure it?" Komma asked, a hint of anguish in his voice.

"Because he has to. Because the love and support of his people sustain him. Because, ultimately, he believes what he does is the only thing to do. When the shadow walked among you, then his light was dimmed for a little while. But in the end his faith in his people’s need rekindled it."

"The shadow …" The warrior shivered at the darkness that had crossed Sight’s colours when she mentioned it. "You mean Count Iblis?"

"I mean the shadow. There are no delusions in the net. We knew what he was; and those who came after him, too, so bright they blinded us." She smiled, dismissing the past without regret for it. "But do not let one light obscure the others; I come here for many things. Look again."

Her hand brushed his cheek, passed briefly across his eyes. The colours did not fade; they solidified. He was looking at the Bridge with more normal vision, the light of the net shining through and around each working warrior, outlining them in jewel-like colour. In the midst of it Adama still shone, aloof and apart from the administrative bustle of his command. Beside him Tigh was occupied with little things, signing duty orders brought by his officers, listening to the everyday problems that running a ship the size of the GALACTICA inevitably brought to light. Watching them and the Bridge crew that surrounded them, Komma began to appreciate the co-ordination that governed and controlled the running of the ship. Tigh wasn’t left with the minor irritating details of personnel and support; it was his role to ensure that such things didn’t distract Adama from the more weighty matters that determined the fortunes of the fleet. Under the Colonel, the Bridge officers pursued their duty with the ease of long practice and the knowledge that their lives were in responsible hands. They filtered away the even more minor things that Tigh didn’t have time for. Others watched the universe beyond the fragile confines of the hull: Rigel, intent on the snatched conversations between ships, conducting the traffic that swarmed and crawled about them with unconscious skill; Omega, constantly aware of the space around them, correcting their course and guiding them according to Adama’s will; from seeming chaos, the bustle of the Bridge folded down into well-ordered layers, each one supporting, complementing the next. And over it all, Adama: a white light of inspiration, the calm at the eye of the hurricane.

"I never knew," the watching technician breathed in delight. "All this - all this life!"

"Just one moment in a wider breath." His companion drew her hand away, brightening the solid shadows into the iridescent ghosts of the net. "Without others below them, this ordering would be futile and a sham. Each individual has a place in the patterning of your lives; each duty, however small, leads back to this heart and out again, dependent, constantly assured and reassured. It is an orchestra of sound and colour that your Commander conducts, a glorious interwoven tapestry in which the colours of each make up the music of the whole."

"So much," Komma murmured in awe, hushed, as though his voice could shatter or disturb the glories around him. "So many things I never knew." He turned to her, a shimmering of gold against the jewelled surfaces around them. "So much beauty in ordinary things."

She smiled. "So much more to see." And she pushed him away with an affectionate touch, tipping him over, back into the spinning of the net. Over and over he fell, no longer fearful of the precipitate journey, absorbing the light that twisted around him, the colours and the light, the shiver of power and the exhilaration of it, until he was quite dizzy and drunk on the experience. Sound tumbled in to join him, the two of them falling and spinning together in a laughter of breathless speed. Then they had arrived, in a world of curtained colour, drapes of shimmering light sweeping a crystalled floor.

"Where - where are we?" he managed, recovering his breath. She giggled at his gasps, twirled away from him in a spin of silver hair.

"Beta landing bay," she called back as she went.

"What?!" He stared about himself in total confusion. He avoided the landing bays as much as he could, enduring their vast opennesses only when he was forced to. He had no love of their echoing depths; the space was bad enough, but to look out of it into the universe beyond was unbearable. He would hurry into and out of shuttles with his head down and his eyes firmly fixed on solid walls, fighting rising panic and only feeling safe once the access hatches were firmly shut behind him. But this place of drifting draperies, this ballroom hung with curtains of light …?

He hurried after Sound, following her through one waiting drape to become wrapped in the next. Beyond it was a shuttle, a crouching, jewelled insect; next to that a Viper, an impatient dragon’s head, glittered in deadly menace. She stood - no, drifted, feet absently pointed downwards in unconscious grace - in front of the fighting craft, watching the ghosts that swarmed around it. Komma moved to join her, passing through the whisper of the curtains as they tingled against his skin. The figures clustered before them were relaxed and casual, engineers starting the routine task of transporting the ship from the landing grid back to the launch cradles. The Viper’s pilot stood apart from his ship, awaiting the arrival of comrades from his patrol. Sergeant Jolly was a solid warmth of colour in the net, loyal, dependable, steadfast. He was joined by the excitable streak of Greenbean, full of relief at the successful conclusion of another routine patrol. Lastly was Giles, occupied by the thought of some scheme or other, enthusiasm bubbling out of him: three contrasting warriors, their colours matched in a harmonising whole. Sound was listening to their conversation with a slightly indulgent smile; she caught Komma’s hand and pulled him to her side in time to hear the tail end of the discussion: something about vignon and some young ladies on the HESTIA who just loved warriors …

Sound laughed as Giles dragged the other two away, leaving the engineers good-naturedly calling after them to be careful. "There is so much life to be shared," she said, twisting away without releasing his hand so that they proceeded to spin together across the curtained floor. "So much richness in the process of being."

"Aren’t you ever still?" he questioned, laughing at the impromptu waltz that they shared, spiralling through curtain after curtain.

"Sometimes," she answered, bringing them both to a halt with a suddenness that would have made him dizzy in the real world. "Sometimes, when one of them goes out and does not come back. They have gone beyond us then, into the light and the colours where we cannot follow. Not yet." She smiled sympathetically at the sadness that crept into his expression at the thought of comrades lost, and leaned forward and kissed him gently on the cheek. Then she laughed and span away, her voice a shiver of indescribable glory. "Catch me!" she teased, unwilling or unable to dwell on sadness. She disappeared into the gathered curtains, reappearing in momentary glimpses as they swirled about her. They were, Komma had finally realised, the layer upon layer of forcefields that maintained the atmospheric visibility of the bay while allowing free passage to the ships and shuttles it served. It was a reassuring thought, finally to see those protective layers normally invisible to the human eye. In the net they had a solidity of existence that before he could only take on trust.

Suddenly realising he had lost sight of his guide he started after her, gaining confidence in the art of movement within the net, a ballet of drift and flying, driven by the whole body. He had never learned to swim, water being a scarce commodity on his homeworld and under strict control on the Battlestar, but he knew this was better. Much better. He remembered the time the gravity motors had failed after an attack, leaving his section floundering against nothing in the absence of direction. Then he had felt awkward, clumsy, unable to do much more than edge a cautious way to the safety of gravity beyond the affected area, hugging equipment banks for security and feeling faintly nauseous. Not now. Now he had but to think and he flew, had but to twist the barest amount and he would turn and dance in lazy abandon. This was what it was like to fly, unimpeded by restraint, freed from the fear of falling, unrestricted by anything other than yourself.

Sound spiralled around him suddenly, giggling. Beside her, he was clumsy, his mastery incomplete. Taken by the game he launched himself after her; together they dived through curtain and colour, dodged and twisted in a delight of the moment. Laughing, she eluded him, led him a merry dance past occupied ghosts and jewellike structures in the net. Laughing, he followed her, for one of the few times in his life unselfconscious in the pursuit of pure enjoyment. He was relaxed and happy, content in the experience of the moment, unconcerned about who or what he was other than simply being himself. He even forgot about where he was; until, with unexpected and yet inevitable progress, they dived through one final curtain - and looked beyond the net.

Imagine this: that you were born and raised in an underground mining colony under constant Cylon attack, where the surface was a dangerous place to be and the open sky a continual threat; where the environment above ground was savage and hostile, requiring environment suits for even the shortest excursion. Imagine that as a result you cannot feel safe under an open sky, even on a world where the air is fresh and the threat of attack is distant; that you seek safety and security in the cramped and confined spaces of military service, enclosed by technology and metalled bulkheads, nurtured by artificial environments and the ability to see the limits of your world.

Imagine that, and then imagine this: that before you, untouched and unimpeded by manmade constructs, lies infinity; the universe spread out in all its glory. Not the insipid light that human eyes can perceive, but all of it, a boiling sea of energy pierced by the screaming spectrum of the stars; colours that have no names, patterns that defy perception, distances without end stretch before you, surround you, engulf you, overwhelm you.

Imagine that, and you will know a little of the terror that seized Komma then, caught up in the power of the infinite and brought face to face with eternity.

Across the length and breadth of the GALACTICA systems fluctuated, power failed momentarily, lights dimmed, circuit breakers blew. On the Bridge a whole series of monitors scrambled, died, then returned to life before their operators could register more than a moment’s protest. In the central computer core emergency power backups kicked in, programmes hiccoughed, open data files scrambled. In Life Centre diagnostic equipment registered impossible readings, autodispensers churned capsules of drugs, dressing and sterilised fluids onto the floor. In the launch bay sparks flew from instrument panels, fuel lines jerked and bucked under unseen stresses, and one Viper launched itself, scattering the engineers who were preparing it and scaring the life out of its pilot, who scarcely had time to close his cockpit and power his helmet before he was tumbling, unpowered, in open space. Across the entire ship the wave of disruption ran, a few brief microns of chaos followed by a return to normality.

Deep in the bowels of the ship, low-level emergency lighting flickered, flared, then settled again. Sensation sat up, a shiver running across her skin.

Beside her, Boomer lifted a lazy arm and pulled her down again, into the warmth of his body, into the curve of his side. "It’s nothing," he murmured. "Just a power pulse. They happen all the time."

"M’m." She wasn’t sure. Then she looked at him and smiled. "Well," she decided, "whatever it is, I’m sure it’s being taken care of."

He was curled into a tight ball of pain and terror, tense and shivering. There were arms around him, embracing him with comforting touch, hands that soothed and eased the cramping of his muscles. Gently they held him, silent but reassuring, warmth pouring into him with insistent strength. Slowly, so slowly that he never knew how long he had been there, caught in the tightness of his own terror, he relaxed into their support, let their power flow into him. Gradually he unwound from the tight ball of huddled anxiety, unwound into their embrace.

They held him in a circle of reassurance, reinforced their support by insistent closeness; their warmth was all about him, bodies pressed against him on all sides, shutting out the threatening impressions of space. For a long time there was nothing but that sense of comfort. They held him, gentled him while he shook the reaction out of his soul; they eased the tightness out of his tensed existence, cradled him in unconditional love. Eventually he became aware of their individualities, submerged in the encompassment of the whole: Savour’s strength at his back, Sight’s warmth at one side, Scent’s calmness at the other, and Sound’s gentle presence before him. He opened his eyes, meeting hers lit with the power of her soul: not the little he had seen, echoes of her inner self written with casual honesty across her existence, but all of it, the inner strength and intensity that possessed the dwellers in the net. Like a nightwing caught in a candleflame, all his insignificant terrors withered and burned away before the brilliance of that light. He was cradled in it, light so bright, colours so intense that beyond them there was only darkness and a whimpering memory of another light that had lit forever the innermost recesses of himself. Without thought, without hesitation, he surrendered himself to the insistence of the moment and let in their brilliance.

They flowed into him, Sound, Sight, Scent and Savour, enfolding him in a shiver of sharing that transcended physical realities. He was one of them, part of them, touched by the ecstasies of their existence, made whole at last. Lovers strive to achieve that perfect union, reach to share such intimate togetherness. Few achieve it, hampered by the demands of the physical, distracted by the no less pleasurable moments of the flesh. But here there were no such restraints, no lies to hide behind. He touched them, shared their souls, knew their shape and sense, tumbled through their memories. For a moment that went on forever he and they were one, lifted to heights he had never imagined, caught in the pure joy of being, of life itself. Then - oh, then, when the moment was become unbearable and he knew that there could be no more - THEN they gave him their world. Out into the net, perception flowing along lines of power, impressions of souls moving unaware around them. He heard it, everything, every sound that made up the life of his ship, saw a thousand things in intimate detail, knew the scents, the savours of everything. Together, linked, one, they slipped into the fabric of the net and became it; experienced the pulse of life and power that made their world and possessed the Battlestar, slipping through infinity, a living, conscious creature of the stars.