Adama looked around rather helplessly at the state of disarray in his new quarters aboard the Columbia. Yahrens spent in the largely planet-bound post of Commander of the Fleet had deprived him of a spacer’s skill for organization and traveling light. Was all of the baggage scattered on the deck and furnishings really necessary? He supposed that the boxes of books were, those he hadn’t had time to have transcribed onto crystals. Rather delicately, he began lifting ancient volumes, bound in unidentifiable animal hide cracked and eroded by age, out of a box and placing them reverently one by one on the shelves behind the desk.
The room was very similar to his old quarters aboard the Galactica, though somewhat larger and more decorated, the metal bulkheads camouflaged in the Sagitaran manner by paint and wallhangings. For a brief centon he again regretted that he’d taken ship aboard the Columbia. He would have preferred to travel aboard his cherished old Galactica again, but, as he’d explained to Apollo, he didn’t much care for Apollo’s executive officer, a Scorpian named Xaviar. It was a case of not being able to quite explain, even to himself, what he found disturbing about the man, but Apollo had replied understandingly that he realized his exec was basically unlikable—he was cold and ambitious—but he was also all that had been available when Apollo had been promoted. In any case, Apollo had added, it was probably more seemly that Adama, even on civilian status, should travel aboard the flagship. That was likely true, Adama thought.
He glanced up from his books as the door snapped open and his granddaughter entered, burdened by yet another load of luggage.
“I think this is it, Grandfather,” Amala said.
"I hope it is. Set it down anywhere, I’ll sort it all out later.” She set her final load on the deck and straightened, a tall, slender young woman with dark brown hair, intense green eyes, and a definite resemblance to her aunt Athena. Amala had clearly taken after Apollo, not Miriam, as much as Miriam’s other daughter, the short, pugnacious Rhiannon, resembled her and not her father, Prince Aleksandros. Like Adama, Amala was wearing civilian garb, but while he was merely temporarily off duty, she had never been a warrior. Amala was a history scholar, still completing her studies but already the author of a well-received work, Bellerophon: Death or Glory, which compared and contrasted the careers of her late uncle Commander Hector of the battlestar Bellerophon, lost at Molecay, and her aunt, Commander Dirce, of the post-holocaust battlecruiser of the same name. For this mission Adama had selected his granddaughter to accompany him as his assistant. There were others with more training and experience, but none he trusted so implicitly. She struck everyone who knew her as being purely Caprican, but she had the Sagitaran sense of honor.
“What can I help you with, Grandfather?”
“I suppose we can begin by trying to get all the books and crystals into some sort of order.”
After several centons spent in companionable silence sitting together on the deck pulling books out of boxes and checking titles, Amala said, “I haven’t had the chance yet to thank you for bringing me along on this mission. It’s a unique opportunity, though it isn’t my specialty.”
“It will be good experience for you, even if it isn’t military history.”
Setting a final book aside, Amala studied him momentarily, then asked, “Grandfather, what do you think we’ll find on Kobol?”
“Answers. And more questions, no doubt.”
“Do you think...well, it’s obvious the entire population wasn’t evacuated during the Exodus. The Book of the Word says as much. Is it possible there are still people on Kobol?”
Adama shook his head. “I don’t think so. The scientists of Kobol projected that the planet would become unable to support human life.”
“Maybe they were wrong.”
“Doubtful. And we’d have known long since had that been the case.”
“What about the Thirteenth Tribe?”
Brightening, Adama said, “Now that is something I’ve always been interested in. They were the last to leave Kobol, and they went elsewhere.”
“To a planet called earth.”
“Yes. There may be another human culture elsewhere in the galaxy, if we can find it.”
“I’ll have to read up on it. If we discover enough information on Kobol, perhaps we could send expeditions to search for Earth, especially now that the Thousand Yahren War is over.”
Adama nodded. “That is one of my dreams.”
Neatening a stack of books, Amala said, “I’m not sure Father is entirely pleased you’ve decided to come aboard the Columbia. He acted like it, of course.”
“I know he isn’t. This will prove less distracting.”
“And farther away from that Colonel Xaviar. He’s pretty creepy, Grandfather.”
“He has a good record,” Adama said neutrally.
“Aunt Dirce threw him off the Bellerophon when he was her third officer.”
“I heard that as a Scorpian he objected to her preferences.”
“She told me he was an astrum,” Amala said straightforwardly. “Aunt Dirce can be something else, but she doesn’t take any felgercarb off anyone. She said he was competent enough, but he hated everyone, not just her.”
“Be that as it may....”
“In any case,” Amala concluded, “I think the real reason Father’s upset is because he got stuck carting along the expedition reporter.”
“Who is?”
“Some female person named Serina.”

“An interview with you would give me some background for my reporting on the expedition,” Serina explained to Apollo as she pursued him down a corridor of the Galactica. “Not only as commander of the Galactica, but as the son of the Commander of the Fleet, who is also a specialist in our ancient history.”
Apollo was forced to stop and wait for a lift, and he turned to face the persistent reporter. “I’ll be glad to do that, as soon as I can. I just don’t have the time right now,” he explained.
“You’re sure you’re not avoiding me?”
“No, no, not at all, it’s just...it’s always insane at a time like this, and all the civilians coming on board make it five times worse.” That was absolutely true. No fewer than two hundred people, archaeologists, historians, technical specialists of various sorts, right down to Serina and her cameraman and sound person had flooded onto the Galactica in the past few days. The hangar bays were still piled high with their gear, not yet sorted out and stowed, and more shuttle-loads were coming aboard in a steady stream. The people themselves had to be shown their quarters and then instructed as to which areas were off-limits, what not to touch, and what to do in the event of a red alert or other emergency. Apollo had detailed nearly a hundred of his crew to assist them, yet still one botanist had nearly managed to depressurize an entire section of the ship when he’d mistaken an airlock for a storage chamber. Apollo felt he’d rather be back fighting the Cylons than dealing with a shipload of passengers. Warships just weren’t intended to transport civilians. And he didn’t want to avoid Serina, not entirely. Her views and his on the Cylon War didn’t appear to coincide much judging from what he’d seen of her reporting, but she seemed fair and efficient. She was also undeniably attractive, not that he ever had a great deal of time for that sort of thing. “As soon as we clear orbit, I promise,” he said as the lift arrived and the doors hissed open.
“I’m going to hold you to that, Commander,” Serina replied with a smile.
“I always live up to my promises,” Apollo said, returning it.