And forth marched the Old Guard...

The oracle echoed thundering vows, as salvo after salvo whizzed and flashed. They lit the aurora skies, as did some million candles set ablaze by a despondent heathen tide.
Molten metal ricocheting against steel, clinging onto mud and cleaving through flesh spewed all along the field, tiny personal graves for men and animal alike. To the dismay of the Britons that stood ground, on marched the old guard. Thrown into disarray with rest of the army having lost all quarter, on marched the imperial guard.
They had known no defeat; none of them fell defeated. Cause after cause the Little Corporal had them bent upon. Writhed and anguished beyond all human tolerance, as canisters thundered, with shrapnel wounds bleeding white with arson, on marched the invincible guard.
None had excruciated so great a pain on a troop so small. Distant history reflected the sundering horn calls of Hannibal's army as he crossed the Alps to face a mighty Roman foe, twice a thrice outnumbered. With smoke from collapsed shells disfiguring the slope and with bayonets locked and ribbons pinned, on marched Napoleon's guard.
Lined up as they took the first volley against a foe that spread thin along a single file, they fired on unison with no call to direct the fire. This was an army that bathed in the blood of not ordinary soldiers, but generals. As the first line reeled and fell, they marched ahead, save some who glimpsed Wellington stand up on his stirrup. On the cliff that perilously sloped downward, British heads popped up. Deceivingly Wellington had ordered a core to lie hidden behind the slope, spinning his final trap on the ever victorious guard.
Shot after shot ripped open a uniform, blurred vision, burnt a ribbon and pierced a heart that chivalrously held high France's true fighting spirit. All that was Napoleon, all that was left of the grand corporal, was now taking fire undaunted from a foe too numerous to counter. As the Prussians charged down, the surviving Guard turned back and on they marched towards Napoleon and to France.

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.