"Don’t," Boomer murmured in faint and indolent protest as she blew teasingly across his skin. He no longer knew how long he had been in this place, only that he was surfeited and satiated, loved and beloved with passion and pleasure as never before. It had been as though she had known every little desire that his body harboured, had sought them out and gratified them, every one. And in return they had danced together in mutual passion, her flesh responding to his touch as she guided his hands, his lips, to those places that pleasured her the most. Gently she had taught him, teased him, shared with him the secrets of a woman’s body that before had been guesswork and fumbling fingers in the dark. Never again would he hold a woman in his arms without thinking of these short centons; never again would he allow his own passions to blind him to his partner’s. Sensation had shown him how the sharing of mutual pleasure enhanced the moment, raised it to heights that he had not thought possible.

"You weren’t a Socialator before …?" he had asked, unable to formulate the nature of his companion into words. She had laughed softly.

"I am Sensation," she had said, as if it explained everything. Perhaps it did, at that.

"You certainly are," he had echoed, with a sigh of contentment. Now he lay relaxed and drowsy as she gently massaged his skin with her fingertips; her light touch spiralled him into distant and contented dreams.

"Sleep," she murmured softly, laying flitterwing kisses on his face and eyelids. "Sleep and dream, beloved. Remember me, and what we have shared. If we never touch again, this time will be ours forever. Sleep now, and regret nothing. I will be watching over you."

He smiled distantly, drifting into warm darkness, and, secure in her presence, let sleep steal over him.

He woke cold. Cold, where before there had been warm skin against his, the comfort of another body sharing his space. Now there was nothing but recycled air where she had been, the absence of her weight on his arm, the curve of her body left in the support beside him. He felt bleary and drained; his muscle ached and his stomach told him he was ravenous, but deep inside him there was a warmth he would never lose, a memory to cherish forever.

Tiredly he groaned and rolled onto his side, lifting himself up on a weary elbow. There he stopped, taking in the room before him and realising, truly realising for the first time, jut what it was he had done.

Komma sat on the edge of the cube, watching him with a gentle and slightly embarrassed smile. He was dressed, which meant he had recovered his uniform, which Boomer vaguely remembered being strewn about the place, and he was quite definitely the stocky, genial figure that he had always been. There was a moment of sheer, embarrassed silence, and then Boomer rolled onto his back and groaned again.

"Oh, my lords," he announced to the ceiling. "Now what am I supposed to say?"

Much to the Lieutenant’s surprise, Komma laughed softly at the question. "How about - are you all right, Corporal?" he suggested. "Or even - did she get back safely?"

"Did she …?" Boomer sat up and stared at his companion with suspicion. "Just how much do you know about what’s been going on?"

Komma smiled, watching with unsurprised ability as the colours of anxiety flickered through the warrior’s aura. He hadn’t known, until the moment that he drew real and not imaginary air into his lungs, just how much the dwellers in the net had gifted him. Without, as he now thought of the real world, the colours were diffuse and less easy to read; but they were there, with a little concentration, a barely visible halo of light and shade that wrapped itself around the man in front of him, revealing his inner self and the emotions that played beneath the façade of flesh.

"Enough," he answered, wanting to be tactful. Then, with revealing honesty, "She shared everything with me. That’s how it is in the net."

"Everything?" Boomer accepted the statement with a distinct sinking feeling. The full realisation of just exactly what ‘everything’ meant was coming to him with embarrassing detail. He and Sensation … "Everything?!"

Komma nodded slowly, unsure of how he was supposed to react. He could understand the warrior’s embarrassment, but after the net it didn’t seem as important as it might have done before. "She thought," he stated carefully, unwilling to make the Lieutenant feel any worse than he did already, "that I was entitled to know what she had done with my flesh while she wore it …" He trailed off, watching as Boomer threw his hands over his face and groaned from the bottom of his heart.

"Lords of Kobol, what have I done? What have I done?!

"Enjoyed yourself?"

Abruptly Boomer was sitting up and glaring at the technician, reacting with anger to a situation that he was not able to cope with. "What the hades has that got to do with it? Dammit, man, how can you sit there, knowing …?" He broke off, staring at his companion with hostility, quivering with inner tension. Komma sighed.

"I can’t change what happened." Then, softly, he added, "I wouldn’t want to. Lieutenant - why are you so angry? Because of what you did, or because I know what you did? Either way, it doesn’t matter." He smiled wryly. "I mean, I know I’m hardly your type, but - well, Sensation’s hardly me, is she? And you shared with her. I got the experience second-hand, so to speak. I never imagined," he added, half to himself, still caught up in what he had shared within the net, "how it would be - for a woman. Different."

Boomer continued to glare, but with some of the heat taken out of it. Komma was right. Neither of them could change what had been. And what was it that he felt so bad about, anyway? He wasn’t a member of some obscure Gemon cult to believe that there was anything wrong with physical passion between two members of the same sex, however much his preferences tended towards the female persuasion. Persuasion? Hades, that body had been decidedly female when he had made love to it. And he didn’t regret that, not for one micron. Perhaps it was just the thought of it - of the intimacy he now shared with the man before him, a man who not a couple of centars before had been little more than a passing acquaintance, a colleague, not a friend. They had shared- what had they shared? Boomer stared at Komma where he sat, his face betraying a concern and sensitivity that revealed hidden depths beneath an unassuming façade. What had he done, these strange centars past? While Boomer made free with his flesh - where had HE been?

"She said …" The Lieutenant’s voice was strangely defensive, "that there were more like her -wherever she came from. Did you meet them?"

There was no dishonesty in the smile that lit the Corporal’s face at the question - no, at the memory. It came from deep within him and was an expression of wry pleasure, of experiences he could never explain and yet would cherish forever.

"Oh, yes. There were four of them. They looked after me."

It might have been the smile that convinced him. For a moment the two of them had hovered on the edge of decision, poised on the brink of where the events that had been might take them. It could have been to enmity where neither would forgive the other, one for what he had done, the other for knowing it. But the nature of their experiences, the creatures they had shared them with, the natures of the men themselves, all spoke against it. Boomer quietly realised that the only way to survive this situation was to understand it, accept it, gain from it. And the only way to do that was to make enforced companionship into the basis for something more permanent; to make this man his friend.

"Four of them. Like her?" Boomer let his face twist into a wry memory of Sensation, a smile, if he had known, not unlike the one he had just seen. "You lucky bastard."

Komma eyed him carefully, assessing the intent behind the statement, seeing the acceptance that had underlain the initial anger. Then he grinned, colouring a little as he did so. "I guess you could say that. But you didn’t do too badly yourself, Lieutenant."

"No. And the name’s Boomer, remember I don’t think formality is called for at a time like this. Pass me my uniform, would you? I’m getting cold sitting here."

"Sure." Komma got to his feet and started to look around for the scattered components of the discarded uniform.

Boomer, having realised that he was sitting in the strange piece of equipment that had resembled an armchair without legs and now resembled a sculptured couch, the surface contouring itself to his weight as he moved, climbed wearily to his feet. He ached with tiredness, the good tiredness that comes with exercise. Slowly he stretched, easing muscles that felt indolent and relaxed.

"Say, Komma," he asked, suddenly realising that, while he had indulged in unfamiliar pleasures, his companion had experienced something quite unlike anything he had known before, "are you okay? I mean - what happened to you? Not an everyday experience, was it?"

"Hardly." Komma dumped the pile of assorted fabric and materials onto the couch and smiled happily at the warrior’s concern. The memory of the net and the creatures within it was a warm glow deep inside him, the gift they had given him helping to add to a new perspective on his world. "I don’t think I could explain it. It’s different in there - and yet, somehow it’s the same; just more honest, I suppose. I’m fine, I think. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever felt better in my life."

They stood face to face at this point, Boomer registering with unsurprise that Komma was slightly shorter than Sensation had been in the same flesh. It was awkward, remembering that earlier intimacy, to stand so close, knowing that the man also remembered it, wondering how to react to his presence.

"I wonder," Komma murmured, realising the need to break the awkward silence and finding it difficult to be his normal self-conscious self in the company of a man he now knew so intimately, "how much I could get telling certain female warriors about how you like to …"

"Komma!" Boomer’s voice was horrified. He felt so uncomfortable in the situation that the easy, relaxed remark was almost shocking; the comfortable relationship of lovers assumed by a stranger. Then it came home to him. In a sense that was what they were, or had been, at any rate. "You wouldn’t, would you?"

"Nah." The man grinned, then looked at him frankly. "I couldn’t discuss things like that with a stranger. Besides, I’ve never been able to say more than two words to a good-looking woman before my tongue ties itself in knots." He paused, thinking about it. "Maybe I could now. After I knew them for a while. Maybe."

"Maybe." Boomer echoed the remark with sudden affection. You couldn’t be angry with Komma for long, he realised. There was no harm in him at all, no forcefulness or expectation. "You and I had better be honest with each other, you know. Considering …"

"M’m." The Corporal stared at the Lieutenant for a long centon.

"Friends?" Boomer offered eventually, extending his hand. Hesitantly Komma took it, curled his fingers around it, remembering. Their eyes met, and then they laughed and the pilot drew the technician into a brotherly hug, no longer afraid of the physical contact, finding only undemanding comradeship in it.

"Oof," Boomer protested as they parted. "You’ve got a hug like a Caprican ursus."

"Sorry."

"Don’t be. It’s reassuring. If you’d hugged like Sensation I’d be worried."

Komma thought about that and then laughed softly, understandingly. "Yeah. I guess you would, at that."

Boomer shooed him away, bending to collect his underwear, and started to dress. "We," he considered, turning his mind to further things, "are in one hades of a mess, you know."

"We are?" Komma had moved to collect the long-abandoned manifest, frowning with absent annoyance at the fact that the topmost sheet had folded over on itself when it had been dropped to the floor.

"Uh-huh. You just think a micron. This will have to be reported. And Sagan knows how I’m gonna manage that."

The Corporal thought - a long and careful consideration that allowed Boomer to finish shrugging into his shirt and start on his boots. "Don’t," he advised eventually.

"What? Don’t report it? Komma, we have to!"

"Why?" His hand brushed the surface of the cube gently, almost affectionately. He looked across at his companion with innocent, disturbingly honest eyes. "Lieutenant - I mean, Boomer," he corrected himself with a half-smile, "you think for a micron - even if we could report it and be taken seriously - what that would mean. Apart from the possibility of the Colonel hauling you over the coals for not raising the alarm the micron I disappeared, that is."

"M’m." Boomer frowned at his second boot. "I’d been thinking about that."

"Well, think about what would follow. Doctor Wilker down here, for a start, trying to fathom the workings of the gate, probably disrupting its settings, or something. And you and me - me, mostly - medical testing, concentrated debriefing, having to explain everything …" He tailed off, seeing the look his companion was giving him, seeing too the doubt that coloured the aura about him.

"You’re asking me to put personal consideration before duty." Boomer’s voice started stern, then lost the emphasis as he added, "And it’s beginning to sound like a good idea." He sighed and reached to pick up his holstered laser. "I don’t know, Komma. I really don’t. You’re right - I should have hauled Sensation up to the Bridge and made my report the centon that you were swallowed by the gate, only I didn’t because I judged, at the time, that that might place you in jeopardy. I think the Commander would accept that. Trouble is, I don’t think he’d accept an explanation for my subsequent behaviour. ANY explanation."

Komma shook his head. "I don’t think you can explain the Senses," he remarked, a little sadly. "Only experience them."

"Right. And then, how are we going to prove what happened? Short of you going back there, in front of witnesses. It’s beginning to look impossible to ME, and I went through it! You know," Boomer continued thoughtfully, "if Wilker did start poking around in here, he might damage something. Hurt her, maybe. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that. Komma …" He was suddenly decisive. "Would you say, in your honest opinion, that Sensation and her - associates - were in any way a danger to this ship or its crew?"

"Of course not." The answer was indignant. "They need the ship - it’s as much their home as it is ours. It IS the net. They protect it, not threaten it. And as for the crew …" Komma thought of brightly-coloured ghosts, of life and emotion open to be read with understanding and affection; of the Bridge and the white light at its heart; of the spirits that had shown and shared with him the glory of their existence; and he smiled, a distant, gentle smile. "They watch over us. Feel for us. They would not harm us."

Boomer considered him for a moment, struck by the underlying reverence in his voice. Whatever Komma had experienced in those few short centons, it had affected him deeply; there was a subtle expression of strength in his manner that spoke of an inner change, a shift not in character but in soul. It was hard to isolate, impossible to identify, but it was there. "Well, in that case - since this situation represents no apparent threat to the wellbeing of the GALACTICA, nor does this equipment cause any drain on our resources, I hardly think the matter needs reporting. Do you?"

"Only to my immediate superior officer - sir."

Boomer grinned. "Right. Consider it reported, Corporal. Now …" He looked thoughtfully around the room. "Where were we when we were so rudely interrupted?"

Ah …" Komma dropped his eyes to the clipboard in his hand. "Three-quarters of the way through the manifest check. Next on the list is metosealant."

"M’m." Boomer’s eyes had lingered on the support couch, slowly reassuming its armchair shape now it had no weight resting on it. His mind slipped easily into the memory of her, warmth and softness under his hands, the silkiness of her skin, the sweetness of her mouth. She had left a warmth within him, a lingering contentment that would sustain him. Recalling himself to the present with difficulty, he looked up to meet the eyes that watched him with affectionate understanding. "Don’t just stand there, mister," he snapped brightly. "We have work to do!"

"Yes, sir!"

They resealed the door as they left, a business requiring Boomer’s skill in electronics and the use of Komma’s ever-present toolkit, since the warrior had damaged the lock when he had opened it earlier. The advantage of it was, Boomer had pointed out as he wrestled with the circuitry, that no-one else would be able to open the door on a casual basis, even if they wanted to. It would require either a knowledge of the coded lock he was applying or a stubborn-headed warrior with a laser to get through it. Komma had watched thoughtfully, one skilled technician admiring the work of another. It was not until he was nearly finished that Boomer realised that the computertech could probably have made a much neater job of it than he had, and apologised. Komma had laughed, an acknowledgement of his new friend’s nature; it was inevitable that he should think of doing it himself, a consequence of spending too much time in the company of Viper pilots whose skills were many but rarely included the technical wizardry needed for the job at hand. Besides, as Komma had pointed out in his self-effacing way, Boomer was probably much quicker at throwing together a makeshift job than he was. His tools were those of a craftsman, and he’d have probably spent far too much time concentrating on the intricacies of the device. Boomer had eyed him narrowly for a micron, trying to decide whether he was being sarcastic or not. It hadn’t sounded like it. Then he’d laughed, and coded in the new combination of the lock. They had stood there for a while, looking at the finality of the closed door and at each other, knowing that with the sealing of the door they had taken an irrevocable step. Then they had turned away, back to the humdrum matters of the task in hand. Neither of them spoke again of what they had experienced, but they worked with companionable ease, joking over trivial things and reinforcing an undemanding friendship.

They finished the manifest check almost without noticing the passage of time; when they reported to the Bridge it was to find that they had been absent for several centars. Tigh received the report with a frown, noting that the manifest was, in the main, as accurate as Support Services claimed it to be. He had been on duty too long, and was feeling it. Adama wandered over to find if the matter had been resolved, noted thoughtfully that the two warriors were looking a little tired, and wandered away again, absorbed in some other problem that had arisen in the meantime. Boomer threw an amused glance in Komma’s direction, only to find him wide-eyed and overwhelmed by his surroundings. To the quiet technician, who rarely came to the Bridge anyway, the impact of the GALACTICA’s control centre on his newly gifted senses was such as to swamp him. He had been privileged enough to see this place from the net, to touch, however briefly, its glory. He had not expected to find it there again, brilliant, swarming with life, even though cloaked in flesh and substance. He had been overwhelmed as he entered, unprepared for the reality of it, and had scarcely been able to steel himself for Adama’s presence, an encounter that left him almost breathless and shaking. It was clear that the gift he had been given was no easy option, no shortcut to comprehension. He was like a blind man suddenly given sight and confronted by a crowded street. He could catch shapes, colours, if he concentrated, barely picking individual auras from the riot of impressions laid before him, but this was a skill he would have to mater, comprehend, not one that came full-blown and without cost.

"Corporal. Corporal!" Tigh’s voice cut into his confusion and drew his attention firmly to the figure in front of him.

"Sir?"

"Do I take it that you are tired, Corporal?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

"M’m. Well, I’m not surprised. This is a good job, gentlemen. My thanks for your thoroughness, and my apologies for subjecting you to such labours. Now …" He looked at the two of them thoughtfully. "I seem to recall I made some mention of a furlon … Lieutenant?"

"Yes, Colonel?"

"Do you think Blue Squadron can manage without you for a secton?"

"Yes, sir! Ah - that is, I think so, sir."

"Good. Don’t look so worried, Corporal. I’ll clear matters with Captain Psion. As of …" he glanced at the Bridge chrono, "now, you are both officially on furlon." He turned away, turned back as they waited for their dismissal. "Go on," he growled in mock annoyance, "disappear!"

They went, Boomer grabbing hold of Komma’s arm and half-dragging him until he realised they were going. In the corridor the pilot collapsed against the wall and heaved a sigh of relief.

"I thought he was going to ask what took us so long! Are you okay?"

Komma nodded absently, still trying to comprehend the myriad overwhelming impressions that had assaulted him.

"Well …" Boomer wasn’t quite convinced by the assurance. "I don’t know about you, but I’m shattered. And as I’m on furlon, I’m going to go back to my quarters and collapse. I suggest you do the same."

"I will." Komma started to walk towards the turbolift, a preoccupied figure. Boomer levered himself away from the wall and caught up with him.

"Komma," he said thoughtfully, "it did happen, didn’t it? I mean, ever since we left the lower levels I’ve had this - this fear that maybe I just had a wild dream."

Komma drew to a halt, turning to study the warrior - the warrior and the colours that surrounded him, purple and blue.

"It happened. Believe me, it happened. But I know what you mean." He smiled, a tired smile, and impulsively Boomer reached out and hugged him.

"Take care of yourself, you hear?" The warrior’s tone was affectionate. "I’ll see you around. And Komma - thanks. For everything."

He was tired, but it was a comfortable tiredness. Boomer sauntered back to his off-duty quarters with a light step, at peace with himself and the world around him. The prospect of a whole secton’s furlon was cheering, even if he didn’t know what he was going to do with it. From bad beginnings, the day had turned out rather well, he thought. In fact, he thought as he stripped off his uniform and rolled into his bunk, he had to consider it as being one of the best days he had spent recently.

Sleep took him almost before he realised it. He drifted into pleasurable memories, and dreamed of Sensation.

Komma was never quite sure how he made it back to his quarters. He hadn’t been aware of his surroundings other than as a blur of sound and colour that finally resolved itself into his familiar living level. It could have been anywhere; even the familiar seemed strange, distant. He was tired, he realised, too tired, drained both physically and mentally, his sensed numbed by overload.

He keyed the door, stepped through, and let himself sink into the gravity gradient that welcomed him. His planet of origin, a small, high-gravity, mining colony, gave him justification for the privilege of private quarters where others of his rank were forced to share. He worked in the standard Colonial environment, but he slept in twice the gravity, a medical necessity to prevent highly-toned muscles degenerating into flab. He had never been more grateful for the exclusiveness of his cramped living space than he was now. With the closing of the door he excluded the rest of the ship, shut out the hammering impressions of humanity.

He slid to the corner of floor and wall and, lowering his head into his hands, he shook, a reaction to his exhaustion. He had experienced to the limit in the space of a few short centons, touched an ecstasy and an honesty that he had never imagined. Since that moment everything had seemed to spiral slowly away from him, until now he felt as though he had reached the bottom of a vast pit, isolated and alone.

With an effort he picked himself up and slumped towards his bunk, head aching and muscles protesting at the extra effort required. Within the net nothing had been an effort; he had returned to a body that ached from physical exercise. The thought of Boomer’s face as he realised the full implications of what he had done brought a smile to the technician’s lips. The memory of the pleasures of his body added a shiver of anxiety. What had been right and comfortable now seemed strange and incomprehensible; it was all just too much to cope with. He kicked off his boots, climbed onto the bunk and huddled into the corner of the wall. He knew he needed to sleep. He also knew that he would not be able to, that mental exhaustion had taken him beyond the ability to relax. The world of the net and the brilliant presence of its inhabitants seemed a lifetime away; unreachable, forever denied him.

It was the giggle that alerted him: a distant chime of orchestral bells, far away and yet very close. He looked up, stared at the centre of the room. Nothing. Then a hand, a soft, gentle hand, caressed his cheek - just an impression, a moment’s ghostly touch. Colour swirled in the corner of his vision, gold, silver, green, warm brown, brilliant red. The sense of their presence filled him, an embracing warmth in an empty room. He was not alone. He would never be alone, not while he moved within the confines of the ship, shared their world as they shared his.

Savour’s words came back to him, and with them some of the understanding. He had been given a glimpse of the world as it should be, had touched some of his own potential, been gifted by a clearer perception, a greater sensibility. He could let it overwhelm him, or he could accept it, learn from it.

They were there and not there, ghosts at the corners of perception, sounds half-heard, touches barely felt. Their love filled him, surrounded him, the most tangible thing about them.

Slowly he relaxed, gave in to his exhaustion. Eventually he slept, to dream of the net, of life and love, and the ghosts in the machine …