The lesser One...

The empty spaces were filling. The cacaphony of letters herded to words; words that challenged and clashed; some standing erect and some drooping low, mounted, a burden of their unfathomable correctness...
As the long fingers traced a rhythm on
a dented panel, clanging mild metal on a hardened polymer,
he stooped, bowing in anguish,
writhing in pain as numbness swept past his flexed knuckles.
Having saved his two final strokes; bridged from gasps of nuptial pleasure,
his palms stretched shielding all delusions of fornication.
Nearing the inevitable climax, "...what now?" he muttered;
the final strokes falling perfect, on and bracing together, Ctrl and F9...
He furrowed his forehead, gratified...
As the count of errors turned to nothingness,
the warmth of a code well written, traversed a million veins,
relieving his strained knuckles... "Habit!", said I...

Dedicated to Vinoth, the only Programmer I've met...

To Bill Adama... From a planet called Earth...

And when they jeered as the last cylon raider engulfed flames, from a battered and bleeding Galactica; the blue horizon left unscathed with all that remained of a race, to a populace otherwise non extant, William Adama is a hero. Thousands of Yahrens hence, victimized by the tyranny of time Adama exists; he commands, he searches, he plots courses, he jumps galaxies and he battles the ever present fear of being subdued; put down by the very creation of his own race, CYLONS...

To all that live, the mythical existence of a 13th colony of humans and possibly the last haven for Galactica, is the definitive hope. Breaking into New Caprica's atmosphere as it grudgingly enters, burning and falling on a starless day, unread pages of future's history were being written as it would begin and end; the valiant search and rescue of those trapped on the new planet.

Shimmering with hope on the small triumphs of their very survival, they search unnamed galaxies, reap unexpected star clusters, invade fictionally realistic territory... In a space where we believe decibels don't count, time varies with frames of reference and distances contorted by light; a silent deference unravels as the landing party awaits to set their space-sore foot on Earth... And we...

"This is earth! And we are standing on it...", as Capt. Kara Thrace surges forth in sympathetic agony, we do stand on it, we breathe and we await; we await the horns of dawn and we await to behold the sight of Galactica and we await to embrace our brothers, those that were and are...


- 'So dedicated to all' who love Battlestar Galactica, the best Television Serial ever realized.