The small group of children sat in front of their teacher, head sets in place waiting for the holograph to begin the lesson.  The white walls a sterile contrast to the soft pink hue seen from outside the domed city.

"Lesson 351" the soft computer voice spoke.  Trancelike they closed their eyes, the words becoming images of a terrible past.  The children reached out with their gloved hands in the VR world and touched the parched skin and giggled shamelessly as people fell writhing in agony, and as the ordeal ended for the projections the children lost interest and moved on to join with their teacher.

The propaganda throbbed into the ears of the most venerable teacher, Alta Moran and he led his charges through the void of cyberspace, growing physically weaker every second.

He clenched his teeth and behaved automatically as he had done for the past 154 years when he took this lesson only now his resolve had changed and he could see the lies for what they were.

Several hours later Alta Moran stood alone in the forbidden sector of the Terra, unafraid and at peace  he watched
the horizon of Terra, the field glasses resting easily on the end of his hook nose.

For nearly 160 years he had been an Emeritus Professor of history and  military adviser to the President. Patiently he waited on the rim for hours but the Messenger, a mysterious contact to the underground subversive movement, was no where in sight. He turned towards the magnificent dome of Terra Proper, his home for all of his life to gaze on her beauty for what he thought with some foreboding to be the last time.

Dust flew wildly and lifting his glasses he expected to see the hopper of his contact.  A curious mixture of relief and
disappointment washed over him when he  realised the dust was being stirred by one of the many maelstroms the
region was know for.  Instinctively he pulled his academic gown around his ample body and brushed away the long grey hair that whipped his eyes.

His time gauge sounded a preset tone reminding him of his last class. He sighed realising now he could never go back to his world.

Meeting with a subversive was mandatory death, even being outside of the city without the correct authority led to long hours of readjustment under the persuasive hand of an interrogator ,hours he knew he could never survive.
He kicked at the dust, for the first time in many months doubting his actions. A cliff face behind him slowly melded into a shadowy figure of a man appearing from the solid rock.  The figure gained shape and form and silently Alta Moran recognised the Messenger.
 

"Your late," Moran croaked his voice dry and harsh from the dust.

The Messenger eyed him casually searching his face.  Suddenly feeling old and vulnerable Moran reached into his gown and produced a flat box full of silver chips.

"As agreed," he offered them to the silent man,"the security codes of all the populated areas within the Terran system,
Draal operating systems and....." the Messenger moved his 6ft frame towards Moran, his sandy coversuit blending in perfectly with his surroundings, Moran held his ground and proffered the box again.

"You were monitored." the messenger stated plainly his strong voice purring and his long dark hair hiding his eyes.

"No." Moran's  face twisted with confusion.
 

"From the very first" the messenger pressed.

"It's not possible."

The messenger smiled, "I have no reason to lie to you."
 

"Then why? You nurtured me, made me become one of you.  Turned me into a traitor, for nothing!" Moran spat. Stumbling as his feet caught the hem of his gown the Messenger helped him to stand.
 

" Your knowledge of the truth made you the traitor not I. Nothing is done in vain."his voice soothing, calm," It is true you were monitored by security control from the very beginning."

"What purpose did you have to continue with the lie, if I were a  risk to your organisation?" Moran had always been governed by obvious facts and this confused him.

"The codes you have are useless Professor, they were changed  10 minutes after security notified command you had left the
city."

"They were running me." Moran laughed he stopped and looked directly into the gaze of the Messenger," and so were you." he whispered.

"You are a highly placed official, close to the President, member of the conclave.  Your defection, your disappearance
will have them running."

Moran shook his head seeing the obvious flaw,"You fool they will close ranks and you will never get close to one of us
again."

" You are mistaken Sir, the Conclave,all of them, are paranoid and they will look within before the look without besides,you know too little of us Professor.  We are stronger than even the President fears."  The messenger moved in close,

the wind of the Terra whipping around them, stinging exposed flesh, still Moran held those eyes.  The laser blade flared into life in the messengers hand, one step took him close enough to the Professor.

Clasping the old man on the back the blade dug home rending cloth and bone alike quickly finding the heart.
The professors eyes went wide and a ghostly smile flickered across his face as his mind edged down in the surreal dance of
death.  The stench of scorched cloth and burning flesh assailed his mind, his chest blossoming into the cruelest red rose and the last mortal words he heard before death took him was an apology.

The messenger lifted the broken form with care and carried it back to the hopper. Setting a small disrupter bomb
on the entrance of the craft he walked away, looking back he fired the prototype weapon stolen months earlier from the research station Caprica One and dropped it on the ground in clear sight of the inevitable search party.  The hopper shuddered and flared a brilliant green then was no more.

As if in protest the wind howled and blew up a terrifying storm, it would be days before anyone looked.  The messenger
disappeared into the desert, the way he came.