The family name is Scurridae. the Real Warriors call me Scurry. Yeah that's me, Cartographical Archival Subassistant Scurridae, Colonial Interna lRegistrations and Collections Department. That is a long way of saying I go get slides,  files, and maps whenever someone else tells me to.

   The ship shakes from another direct hit. There is a power surge and the video-screen blows up.

   Well at least one thing has gone my way...

   Other than that, there's been nothing else to do between feeding times except watch the countless luminaries give endless speeches about the armistence and peace in our own time. The President, Sire Uri, and an endless procession of luminaries give their speeches. Each speech is more inciteful and grandiose than the last.

   I've been stuck in this what passes for a cel for quite sometime, awaiting reassignment I was told.

   Some reassignment. They keep me in the dark about everything and feed me this gruel-ration. Except for the gruel-ration shoved under the door, there's not much else to do. If i do leave my cel, I soon find myself lost. And then some burly guy looks me up and escorts me back to my cel.

   The ship shakes from another direct hit. I hear a voice on the intercom to evacuate an entire section. It woulod just be my luck that this section will take a direct hit and the Real Warriors will evacuate, but they'll completely forget all about Scurry.

   The ship shakes from another direct hit. I've heard the Real Warriors call the ship, the Big G. I sure hope it can survive the punishment.

   Who's mad at us anyways? There is presently a cease-fire with our ancient enemies. And this area of space is too remote for another star-faring power to reach. Outlaw pirates and smugglers could hardlymuster enough power to tackle a battlestar under perfect conditions. Many Pirates were wiped out in the rescue.

   Yeah, I heard the warning-sirens go ogg, calling people to their posts. I felt the vibrations of what I take as the Viper-starcraft launching. I hear the power surges as the self-defense lasers open fire.

Prologue:   Here I am. On the BattleStar Galactica. Hiding under this so called be. With a bowl full of gruel-ration spilled all over me. The ship shakes from another ditrect hit. Through the slats in the cel-door, I can hear claxons going off, and catch glimpses of people hustling and hurrying about their emergencies.