Chapter One
"Command Centurion Moray has informed me, Adama, that as my pilots participate in more and more integrated patrols, they become increasingly curious about humans . . . humans other than myself, to be more precise," Baltar informed the Galactica's commander over the security of their private link. "It has occurred to them that perhaps human pilots are different from human Base Ship commanders."
Adama stroked his chin, restraining himself from mentioning that Baltar's words might be considered eligible for the understatement of the sectar. Possibly the yahren. "So they are realizing that different personalities and characteristics belong to different individuals."
"Yes." Baltar smiled. "I wonder if the same recognition of individuality has been noted by your crew about the Cylons?"
"Command Centurion Moray certainly comes to mind," Adama mentioned. "He has a self-awareness and independence that I don't characteristically attribute to the centurion class."
"Indeed. I wonder if the time has come to take a step beyond our integrated patrols in the interest of Cylon-Colonial relations?" Baltar mused.
Adama raised his eyebrows. What in Kobol was Baltar up to now? "What do you have in mind?"
"A sort of pilot project." Baltar smiled wryly. "Command Centurion Moray has made a request on behalf on the centurions, which is unusual unto itself."
"A request?" Adama echoed.
"Yes. Moray has requested that you send a Colonial Warrior as a sort of envoy to join one of my squadrons for a period of time as yet undetermined, allowing a chance for centurion and warrior to work side by side, face to faceplate, as it were."
Adama's first instinct was to deny the request, imagining a plethora of possible disasters that could result from such an exercise. But then it occurred to him . . .
"I recall an exercise in human relations from when I was boy," Adama began slowly, thinking back to details that hadn't entered his mind in countless yahren. "It took place on Cancera, where I'm sure you recall that there was once a definitive segregation between monotheists and polytheists. Their children worshipped in different temples, went to different schools, associated in different clubs that had their roots in one denomination or the other. Each group was accused of being sectarian, triumphalist and supremacist, and in fact, took turns celebrating their hatred of the others by participating in annual rituals, such as parading from their social halls to their temples. It went on for centi-yahrens."
"I do remember," Baltar replied. "The segregation of the groups perpetuated the hatred and distrust. If I remember correctly, for an experiment they took two orphan boys from Cancera City, one from each group, and transplanted them into smaller communities, having them live with families from the other creed."
"That's right. Upon being immersed into another community, both boys quickly demonstrated an amazing adaptability and resilience indicative of youth, settling into their respective environments, and participating in most facets of their new way of life. When the experiment had concluded, the boys had formed lifelong relationships with their foster families and new friends. They returned to Cancera City with a new understanding of tolerance, understanding and patience."
"But Colonial Warriors and Cylon Centurions are hardly impressionable young orphan boys, Adama," Baltar pointed out.
Adama raised his head at the words, an individual coming to mind. Just as quickly he discarded the idea as too risky. "Yet, I presume this request is being made from a desire to learn more about our kind. That's in itself encouraging."
"Yes, I'm optimistic as well, unless they receive the wrong kind of message, of course."
"You want me to select someone . . . enthusiastic about the Détente?" Adama asked sceptically.
"Actually, no. The last thing I want is the poster boy for the Détente showing up. That's hardly an accurate reflection of what the average Colonial Warrior thinks of our centurions, and I believe it would be perceived as deceitful. Instead, Adama, I want you to send me someone who is well-liked among the warrior-class; someone with the ability to casually win over strangers of all races and creeds; someone who inspires friendship and allegiance; and most of all someone who won't be intimidated by a thousand centurions."
"That's a tall order, Baltar," Adama replied, but he couldn't shake the image that had stubbornly reinserted itself into the forefront of his mind.
Baltar smiled unctuously. "Is it? I'm sure you can find someone that meets our criteria." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, appearing to think about it. "I recall . . . a certain brash young lieutenant that actually persuaded Lucifer to play pyramid with him while he was imprisoned aboard my Base Ship. That's the kind of man I'm talking about Adama."
"Are you talking about that kind of man or are you talking specifically about Starbuck?" Adama asked, getting an uneasy feeling about this.
"I'll leave that for you to decide, old friend," Baltar replied casually. He stabbed down and the screen went blank.
"I'll leave that for you to decide, old friend,"Adama mimicked, shaking his head. "Lord, grant me patience . . ."
xxxxx
In the privacy of Cassiopeia's new quarters, Starbuck could admit—at least to himself—that it was kind of strange to have a lover who suddenly outranked him, at least technically. Along with Cassiopeia's new designation of physician, she had also become an officer in the medical corps. Of course, there were some perks to that, and Starbuck could easily see past the good-natured ribbing his friends were giving him to the larger quarters, the private turbo wash and the pride his lady took in her well-earned accomplishment.
However, life being what it was, there was apparently a downside to showering off in Captain Cassiopeia's new digs at the start of the daily cycle. He shook his head silently, looking from the bottle of body wash in his left hand to the one in his right. Choices, choices. Did he want to smell like Sagittarian Tropical Ginger or Arian Lavender? One promised to "take him away" while the other offered "additional moisturizing benefits". How could women make something as basic as mere personal hygiene so complicated?
He sniffed one and then the other, wrinkling his nose, finding neither particularly appealing in a manly sense. Sometimes a guy just had to leap into the unknown, taking a chance that things would work out. He squeezed a handful of Tropical Ginger into his palm, opting to ignore the poufy puff ball that Cassie apparently used as a conveyance to get her body wash to her body. Accustomed to the regulation two centon cycle, he quickly lathered up and rinsed off, finding it almost strange that there was nobody there to hold a conversation with or snap a towel at him. Turbo washing in private, what a concept!
Master of the turbo-quick-wash, he was dressed a few centons later, finger combing his damp hair into place. He stepped through into her chambers, watching as Cassie stood in front of a mirror, putting the finishing touches on her hair. Her new uniform didn't look much different from her old one, the lighter beige and the lack of the crest on her shoulders indicating she had left the technical designation behind, rising beyond it to the officer class. She still looked damned fine, proudly wearing her medical corps pin just below her golden neckline, as always.
Starbuck joined her, his arms encircling her waist from behind, pulling her close against him. She smiled at him in the mirror, relaxing into his embrace. Lord's sake, it was good to be able to steal some time alone with her, to stoke the fires of passion that had always been an integral part of their relationship.
"Wanna play doctor?" he quipped playfully, nuzzling her neck, her hair smelling of . . . Arian Lavender, actually.
Her eyes sparkled at the suggestion and she turned in his embrace, putting her arms around his neck. "Wanna buy a Base Ship?" she returned.
He raised his eyebrows, and then grinned at her. "That promotion must be going to your head, sweet lady. Let's see . . . a nice double-saucer capital ship for two, light speed capability, with a hundred defensive turbo laser turrets and two long-range mega-pulsars. If I throw in the optional three-hundred Raiders with flight crews, I'm definitely gonna have to have to get an advance on my pay for this little diversion. I wonder if my good buddy, Boomer, will spot me . . ."
She laughed melodically, nodding towards her personal computron. "Seriously.
Somebody sent me a message, canvassing for bids on the Base Ship. You might want to mention it to Apollo; I can't see Commander Adama being very pleased."
He shook his head in bemusement, moving towards her computron, checking the message. Sure enough she'd received an anonymous offer to bid on the Base Ship. He chuckled, seeing the top offer at this point was a "slightly daggit-eared deck of cards". He plunked himself down on the chair.
"What are you doing?" Cassie asked dubiously, standing behind him, her hands resting on his shoulders.
Starbuck's fingers flitted across the keys as he entered his bid, grinning evilly. "Bidding on a Base Ship."
"Starbuck!" Cassie admonished him, the giggle in her voice betraying her amusement. "What are you thinking, that this is still RB-33 and we're surrounded by those Horks? Commander Adama will strip and module you!"
"Relax, Cass, it's anonymous. Obviously someone is just having some fun, and if that bid is any indication, it's probably my father. Sagan knows we could all use a bit of fun after all the craziness of late."
She leaned down wrapping her arms around him, resting her cheek against his, nodding. Then she wrinkled her nose, a spontaneous giggle burbling out of her.
"What?" he asked.
"Oh nothing," she replied mysteriously, glancing at her chrono and standing erect. "We'd better get going. I have to scrub in soon."
"Heavy day?"
"Debulking a muscle flap. Then I have flight physicals, immunization scans, a check-up on Athena's twins, and at least one ultrasound. Nothing heavy." She grinned. "What's on your duty list today?"
"More of the same," Starbuck replied, rising. He pulled her against him for a long, lingering kiss, before adding, "I have to check in at the Duty Office, just in case something new and exciting has come up."
"Like what?" she asked, crossing to the hatch.
"Murderous aliens, inexplicable space anomalies, or least likely of all, decent food in the commissary."
"Ah, the sacrifices you make for the Colonial Nation, Lieutenant," she quipped. "What you warriors go through!"
"I do it out of a sense of moral obligation really, Captain," he replied, stepping over the threshold behind her.
She whirled on him, lightly gripping his flight jacket in two hands. "You don't have to call me 'Captain', Starbuck."
"No?" he said sceptically, waiting for it.
"No." She smiled mischievously. "You can call me 'doctor'."
xxxxx
"This turbo-wash is shrinking," Athena complained, glancing at her husband in the mirror as she reached across him to grab a hair brush.
Only seven sectons away from the due date for their twins, she was almost as big as a Base Ship. However, blessed with a head for both diplomacy and survival, Boomer wasn't about to tell her that. After all, no one knew better than Athena with her considerable back-breaking girth. Hard-pressed to find a bridge uniform that could fit her, she'd had to have one specially made.
"Well, the Galactica is five hundred yahren old," Boomer replied, ritually running his fingers down his freshly shaven jaw, "a little shrinkage can be expected after five centi-yahrens."
Athena smirked, leaning forward to slip her arms around him from behind, her protruding belly pressing against his back. "And just how do you explain the shrinkage of solid metal?"
"The molecules constricting in the extreme cold of space," he adlibbed, seeing her eyes sparkle with amusement. "Add to that, of course, the variation in the space between metallic crystals brought on by quantum fluctuations from achieving light speed." He turned slightly, slipping an arm around her. "Another five hundred yahren, and I tell ya, we'll be launching Vipers every time we flush."
She laughed aloud. "I was wondering how you were going to get out of that one."
"The same way I get out of doing duty rosters, quick thinking," he replied, moving out of her way as she began to brush out her long luxuriant hair in front of the mirror.
Boomer hesitated at the doorway, just watching her for a moment. With the blossoming of pregnancy, she'd filled out to his liking, with a healthy glow that left him completely breathless. If it was possible, she was even more beautiful carrying his unborn children than she was when they'd first fallen in love. Looking back, their time together in the forest of Ki seemed so long ago. His chest tightened with emotion. There was an entirely different depth to the feelings he had for her now, yet it was difficult to define without sounding maudlin. The pregnancy hadn't been an easy one, and he could only humbly stand by in awe as she prepared to bring two new lives into the universe.
"I love you, Athena."
"As well you should," she teased him, stilling the hairbrush when she caught his eye in the mirror. Then she turned, her features suddenly serious. "I love you too, Boomer."
"As well you should," he replied with a wink, pulling on his flight jacket.
She turned to finish her grooming. "So . . . are you sure you can't let me in on this secret assignment?"
"I can't tell you what I don't know," he replied, amused that her curiosity was even greater than his own. As usual, when he'd arisen he'd checked his communications for the day. Included among them was a "classified" assignment from Colonel Tigh revealing only that he was supposed to report to Alpha Bay at 1600 centars. Nothing more.
"No idea what it's all about?" she asked.
"No idea," he replied, stepping behind her once more to kiss her on the cheek. "No doubt it's something befitting the special attention of the Red Squadron Leader."
"No doubt," she replied with a twinkle in her eye. "It must be time to inspect those shrinking rivets on the Galactica's hull again."
xxxxx
"Baltar specifically asked for Starbuck?" Tigh asked Adama, poised on the corner of the commander's desk. "By name?"
Adama hesitated, the events replaying in his mind as he leaned back in his chair. "Yes and no."
"Which means what?"
Adama threw up his hands in the air. "Well, he described Starbuck's character traits, saying that was the kind of man he was looking for, and then he mentioned Starbuck by name. Of course, when I asked him specifically if he actually wanted Starbuck, Baltar said it was up to me." He rolled his eyes upward, shaking his head. "But we both knew he was just being . . . Baltar."
Tigh smiled ever so slightly at the uncharacteristic display. "Do you think Starbuck is ready for something like this? After all he's been through?"
"I could answer that better if I knew what this was," Adama replied. Abruptly, he thought back to the RB-33 Space Station when Baltar and Ayesha had met the young warrior face to face. Starbuck had been the perfect officer and gentleman with Ayesha, but hadn't even acknowledged Baltar. Of course, in the interest of inter-Fleet relations, it had been preferable to shooting the now-pardoned traitor dead. "Why Starbuck? Does it have something to do with that display at the Space Station? Does Ayesha even know that Baltar's pushing for this?"
"It could be . . . something else," Tigh said enigmatically.
Adama looked up from his desk. "Such as?"
"Command Centurion Moray did mention a thing or two in passing after our patrol launched."
"Today? About Starbuck?"
"Yes."
Adama sighed. Lords of Kobol! "Go on . . ."
xxxxx
"What's a jury?" asked Boxey, hand raised from the back of the room. "Is that an Earth thing?"
"It's a part of our legal system back home on Earth," replied Kevin Byrne, formerly of the planet Earth, and now skipper of the newly-commissioned Colonial warship Constellation. "Several nations use them in one form or another."
"You mean you don't use Tribunals?" asked another boy, Kip.
"Not the way you do in Colonial jurisprudence," replied Byrne. "While military justice is structured differently, much like your own, in civilian trials the accused is allowed what we call trial by jury." He looked to Boxey, hand once again up. "Okay, Boxey; the word derives from an ancient word for 'law'. A jury is a body of people, usually twelve in number, who hear the evidence presented during a trial. It can be anything from petty crimes like burglary or theft, all the way up to the most serious kind, such as murder or treason."
"What's 'murder'?" asked Dillon, sitting next to Boxey.
"It's our word for what you call 'termination'. The wilful, intentional killing of another human being."
"Like Ortega," said one of the kids.
"Well, yes,| replied Byrne, who knew of the case only by second hand. "Intentionally causing the death of another person."
"Have you ever been inside one of these juries?" asked Boxey again.
Byrne had to hand it to him; the kid left no stone unturned. Considering that his mother had been an investigative journalist, it was no surprise.
"On one, yes, Boxey. In fact, right after I was eligible to vote, I was selected for jury duty." Byrne went on, to describe the case, a simple one involving a man accused of driving without a license. Then, it was voting, how the courts worked, and such. He had to admit, these kids were no slackers. The differences between two systems, both human yet disparate, really interested them.
"Jag?" asked Tanya, one row up from Boxey. "What's a jag?"
"Oh, sorry. It stands for 'Judge Advocate General'. It's is the Navy's legal branch where members of the Navy and Marine Corps are tried, if necessary. They try the accused in what is referred to as a Court Martial, and the crimes are investigated by the N.C.I.S., which stands . . ." He turned around and wrote it up on the board, which at once transferred the writing to each student's data pad. "It stands for 'Naval Criminal Investigative Service'. Similar to your Security Service, aboard the Galactica."
"Did you investigate crimes?" asked, of course, Boxey.
"Actually, yes, Boxey. For a while."
He related how, after his ship, the carrier U.S.S. Constellation had been decommissioned in 2003, the former CAG had found himself without a job. While waiting for a response after applying to NASA, a career move that would ultimately bring him to where he stood now, he'd been "asked" by the Navy's Judge Advocate General, Vice-Admiral Lohr, an old friend and sometime drinking buddy, to use the rest of his Navy time to fill a suddenly vacant post in JAG. Byrne had demurred, arguing a lack of legal experience. The Admiral had responded by reminding Byrne of the time when, as CAG, he had assisted N.C.I.S. in investigating and exposing a killer aboard the ship. When he again declined, Lohr reminded him of how slow official paperwork, especially discharges of former CAGs, could be. Now, if he would like, Lohr could...assist in the aforementioned documents moving somewhat faster, and...
Anyway, during his few months at JAG, Byrne had found that he had a flair for lawyering, and had distinguished himself in convicting and putting away various malefactors, from minor offences against regs, to drug smuggling and even sexual crimes. He had actually begun to consider making JAG his permanent billet, when the reply came back from NASA. That and an ugly, bitter divorce, pushed him away from Earth for a while, and he decided to head for space. Maybe, later, when he returned...
"So, Boxey, are you going to be a lawyer, uh, Protector, when you get old enough? You sure seem to have a lot of questions."
"Nope. I'm going to be a fighter pilot just like my dad. And a Strike Captain, too."
Byrne smiled. The kid's enthusiasm was infectious.
"I don't doubt it, Boxey. Not a bit." He turned back to the board.
Ding. Time to break for lunch.
"Okay class, this afternoon, a pop quiz. Basic electrodynamics, from theory to fluorescence. Text is on your pads. And remember, I will be merciless!"
xxxxx
"How was patrol?" Boomer asked Starbuck as the lieutenant entered the Duty Room.
"Uneventful," Starbuck replied. "Lots of stars intermingled with lots of space. Just like yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before . . ."
"That wasn't exactly the aspect I was referring to," Boomer replied, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands behind his head.
"You want to know if I kept it professional with the Cylons?" Starbuck asked innocently. "Absolutely. Followed guidelines to the letter . . ."
"Actually, I want to know if you really think that the most worthwhile of human virtues is 'our ability to have a good time'?" Boomer returned conversationally, recognizing that his friend's answering grin was a verification of the same. "Word has it that's what you told Patrol Leader Plectus yesterday, Bucko."
"Word? As in Book of the-?"
"Word from Colonel Tigh via Command Centurion Moray."
Starbuck grunted noncommittally, leaning across the other to grab a datapad. "I . . . uh, thought I was out of range."
"Of the Galactica, not the Base Ship," Boomer replied, wrinkling his nose at the other.
"The Base Ship," Starbuck repeated. "Ya know, that really sounds dull. 'Base Ship'" He shook his head. "It really needs a name, don't you think? How about the Spinning Top . . . then again, it also has a spinning bottom, doesn't it? Might have to rethink that . . ."
"I'm sensing a deflection strategy."
"How's Athena?" Starbuck asked, plunking himself into the chair next to Boomer's.
"You're changing the subject. Again."
"Wouldn't you if you were in my place?" Starbuck flashed him a grin.
Boomer chuckled, shaking his head at the other. "I'm not giving you felgercarb, Starbuck, I'm only wondering by what miracle you managed to get Plectus engaged in conversation yesterday. He's been all cybernetic business up till now. Hades Hole, they all are cybernetic business."
Yeah, trying to engage a Cylon in chit chat was like trying to get action from the Council of Twelve in less than six sessions: clearly impossible. Except he'd actually done it.
"I couldn't take one more long-range patrol with no chatter, Boomer. You know me, unless there's something constructive to do, I hit the turbos and engage my mouth."
"Yeah, I remember it well. Long-range philosophy: some of the most revealing and scariest times I've ever had with you. By the way, seems Plectus took you seriously about your offer to instruct them in "Human Pleasure 101: How Much Is Too Much Really?"
"Well, I am the expert."
"Just be careful to keep it respectful, Starbuck. We've come too far in the last four sectars to have it screwed up by a loose tongue." He leaned towards his friend. "Having said that, according to Apollo, Colonel Tigh seems to think you made an impression on them."
"A 'get ready to scrub out every turbo flush in the Fleet with your toothbrush' impression or a 'we're not sure how he does it, but isn't he great?' impression?" Starbuck asked casually.
"More like an 'I'm not sure why he does it, but look, he did it again' impression," Boomer replied with a pointed look. "Listen, buddy, I get the idea that something's up, but I'm not quite sure what." He wrinkled his nose again. "Is that you? What the frack is that smell?"
"Sagittarian Tropical Ginger."
"Turbo-washing at Cassiopeia's again?"
"Uh huh."
"How much did you use?"
"Too much, apparently."
"You think?"
xxxxx
"You know someone in line just offered to sell me a Base Ship?" Byrne said, slipping into a seat beside Apollo in the mess, setting down his tray.
"A Base Ship?" Sheba echoed, shaking her head. "Sell? In what sense?"
"You got me. Apparently, all I had to do was beat out a bid for one fumarello stub, well-chewed." Bryne returned with a shrug. "After that, someone behind the chow line started pushing the mystery meat, so I didn't stick around to find out more."
"Probably wise," Sheba said.
"So," asked Apollo, handing the condiments to Byrne, "how's he doing?"
"Boxey? Or the Base Ship salesman?" Byrne quipped, leaning back in his chair. "Good. I mean really excellent. He's so bright, so eager. It's kids like that that make teaching fun."
"He always has been," added Sheba. "And he reads voraciously."
"When he's not playing Starhounds or Compartment Billyarks in the Rejuvenation Centre," Apollo added ruefully.
"Hey, it's good for the reflexes! After all, he told me today he intended on becoming a pilot, like you, Captain Apollo. And that he would end up as Strike Leader."
"Oh he did, did he?" said Apollo, with an ill-concealed grin. "Well, I'd better watch my tail."
"Boxey can be very single-minded, Captain," said Sheba. She and Apollo told him stories, and the former CAG laughed.
"All the way down to a frozen planet? Man, I'd have loved to see that!"
"How's he doing in the rest of school?" asked Sheba. She reached over, as Byrne handed her his pad.
"As you can see, he's doing very well. Except for one low mark in PE . . .uh, what do you call it . . ."
"Gynasionics," said Sheba.
"Right. Except for that, he's exceeding expectations across the board." He shook his head faintly. "For a kid who wants to become a combat level warrior, though, he really needs to do better there eventually."
"I'm not worried about that . . .yet," Apollo said.
"Well, knowing Boxey, he'll be shaving any secton now," said Sheba. She looked at Apollo's growing jungle, suppressing a desire to reach out and run her hand through it.
"I hope not," replied Apollo, scratching his chin. "I'd like adolescence to take a little longer with him." He smiled at Sheba. "I remember how you couldn't wait to get rid of that big beard you had when we first found you. Was shaving standard, in your service?"
"Oh yes," replied Byrne, with a chuckle. "Every day." He leaned his head back a bit, and smiled: "The face shall be clean shaven unless a shaving waiver is authorized by the Commanding Officer for medical reasons. Moustaches are authorized but shall be kept neatly and closely trimmed. No portion of the moustache shall extend below the lip line of the upper lip. It shall not go beyond a horizontal line extending across the corners of the mouth and no more than 1/4 inch beyond a vertical line drawn from the corner of the mouth.
The length of an individual moustache hair fully extended shall not exceed approximately ½ inch refers. Handlebar moustaches, goatees, beards or eccentricities are not permitted. If a shaving waiver is authorized, no facial/neck hair shall be shaved, manicured, styled or outlined nor exceed 1/4 inch in length. Supervisors of individuals with shaving waivers shall actively monitor and ensure treatment regimen is followed."
"You memorized your service's regulations?" asked Sheba.
"Oh yes. Had to quote them to a junior officer or two, as well, on occasion. There was one exception we did allow, and that to was one specific branch of our service. The submariner division."
"Submariner?" Apollo asked. "You mean under water?"
"Yes, a fairly standard weapons system in our time. Didn't you have anything like that?"
"Well, we did have one or two manned crafts for infiltration operations that had to be done underwater. I'm not sure if we still have anything like that left though."
"That's interesting," Byrne folded his hands, "In my time, we had very big boats that could go underwater for long stretches at a time. Manned by crews of over a couple hundred. I guess you could say the submarine was like a smaller version of a battlestar but adapted to the water. A place where you could spend months . . . sorry, sectars on end locked up inside before your mission ended."
"Underwater for sectars at a time?" Sheba was amazed. "That must have felt so . . . confining!"
"Not a lot different from being stuck on a space ship, really. But at the time I was inclined to agree with you. Why do you think I went into Naval aviation instead?" The US Navy commander smiled.
"But getting back to beards," Apollo said. "Why the exception for them?"
"Simple. Fresh water supplies needed for shaving were sometimes limited in quantity, and electric devices could take up too much power. So that's why waivers could be granted exclusively to that class since it wouldn't make sense to enforce the regulations in a place where it could mean a waste in supplies."
"Sensible of them," Apollo noted. "You never resented it?"
"Nope. I didn't particularly like the bearded look. When I got marooned I kept following procedure up to the day my last razor ran out and I found I couldn't sharpen a knife good enough to get the job done right. So I ended up with that damn rat's nest that I couldn't wait to get rid of once we were rescued, although I think Jen sometimes doesn't recognize me." They all chuckled. "Plus, I have to admit, back in my day there were too many people wearing them who were often, shall we say, a tad unenlightened when it came to politics and their attitudes about the military."
"Oh?" Sheba was intrigued. "How so?"
"That'd be too complicated to explain, short of a full evening of exchanging tales of glory. But rest assured, Captain, your beard doesn't remind me of those people. It looks good on you."
"Thanks. I'm glad there are others who think so too." He put just enough of a sly edge in his voice so Sheba would understand. His wife this time suppressed the urge to give him a playful swat on the shoulder.
"I see the Zohrloch pilots wear them too, along with those ponytails."
"The what?" Sheba frowned.
"You know," he gestured his hand down the back of his neck. "The long hair, all wrapped up like-"
"Oh, the term we use is equitail for that," Apollo corrected. The mention of them made the Captain wonder not for the first time what it would be like if he adopted one of those for himself to complement his beard. The representations of ancient Kobollian warriors he'd seen over the yahrens had indicated that was how they wore their hair, and he had to admit it struck him as an impressive, formidable look.
"I see. Cultural reason behind that, I suppose?"
"Yes," said Apollo. "Once I saw that their situation wasn't interfering with their ability to be effective warriors, I went to Commander Adama and he agreed to a rescinding of the reg regarding beards for pilots."
"Good for him. I think a guy should be able to grow one, if he likes."
"So do I," his wife added. She once more looked admiringly at her husband. "I think the Commander will be pleased."
"I hope so. When he asked me to fill in for the usual teacher, I was surprised. After all, Earth is so far behind you people. But," he shrugged, "the history of early rocketry is much the same for both our cultures, and so is basic physics, once I'd figured out the different notation system. Gravity, thrust, orbital dynamics. Same all over the universe."
"How's flying?" asked Apollo. "Viper time?"
"Racking up as much as I can. Wow, that machine is a pilot's dream!"
"What did you fly on Earth?" asked Sheba.
"The F-15. But next to your stuff . . . it's like a box kite next to a space shuttle."
"When will you get to Earth history?" asked Apollo.
"Depends on what the Super puts into the curriculum, Captain. And of course how long they want me, and if I'm available." He smiled. "But I'm sure Boxey will eat it up."
"Sure will," said Sheba, and they all laughed.
xxxxx
"The latest bid on the Base Ship is a gamma transmitter," Jolly told the others in the mess. "Bloody relic! I can do better than that."
"Don't make it too obvious, Jolly," Giles cautioned him. "I still think that if Core Command gets wind of this, we're all going to be stripped and moduled."
"Actually, Core Command has been noticeably quiet about this," Bojay mentioned, sipping on his java. "They must know it's happening. Everybody's talking about it."
"Then why haven't they come down on us?" Greenbean asked, raising a hideously thick green beverage to his lips, and drinking deeply.
"Probably because they realize it's harmless, unlike that bilge water you're drinking," Dietra said, grimacing. She held up a hand as he slid it across to her in an invitation to try it. "I'd sooner chew Giles' boots."
"Hey!"
"You don't know what you're missing!" Greenbean told her. "It's loaded with vitamins and minerals. Not to mention antioxidants." He took another sip. "Ahhhhh!"
"So is nectar," Dietra returned. "I'll stick with that."
"Dietra is right," Bojay said, suddenly grinning. "About the nectar, as well as the fact that bidding on the Base Ship is just harmless fun. However, the first time we do something to change that, then Core Command will come down on us like a tylinium battering ram."
"Who started it, anyhow?" Brie asked.
"Starbuck!" three voices suggested in concert.
"He denied it when I asked him," Dietra replied, raising her eyebrows.
"I'd deny it too," Giles said.
"Nobody would ask you," Bojay replied with a sardonic grin.
"Why not?"
"To put it politely, Giles, orchestrating Fleetwide hijinks isn't exactly your forte," Dietra teased him, her warm, dark eyes sparkling with mischievousness.
"We'd associate you more with . . .oh, I don't know . . . maybe . . . turbo-flush hijinks," Jolly said, chuckling.
"I'm not sure about that, Jolly, a turbo-flush is a highly technical piece of equipment," Greenbean disputed. "Far beyond our boy. However, mushie hijinks . . ."
"Oh yeah?" Giles retorted. "I'll have you all know that I don't even know what 'hijinks' is!" he quipped, as the group broke into easy laughter.
"Well," Bojay said, standing up, "I hate to leave and miss you all discussing the finer points of mushie hijinks, but it seems that I've merited some extra duty this fine day."
"Really?" Dietra replied, also standing. "So have I."
"You too?" Jolly asked in surprise, also standing and tapping his chest.
One by one, the others also stood or nodded, appearing puzzled.
"Alpha Bay, 1600 centars?" Brie asked, watching five bobbing heads.
"What do you figure it's about?" Giles said, pulling at his collar.
"How about a show of hands for those who bid on the Base Ship?" Dietra said.
One by one, they raised their hands.
"Oh frack," Jolly muttered.
"We're doomed," Giles said darkly.
"There is one hope," Dietra said, pausing as they all looked to her hopefully. "That Commander Adama and Colonel Tigh are also practitioners of hijinks."
"Lord Sagan," replied Giles, "we're really doomed!"
xxxxx
It shouldn't be difficult, but it was. All Apollo had to do was give his unbiased and professional opinion of whether or not Starbuck could handle this assignment aboard Baltar's Base Ship. But how could any man give an unbiased opinion about his best friend, knowing what Starbuck had been through and how he had handled it . . . or more precisely, how he hadn't handled it.
Dr. Salik's medical reports had declared him fit for duty. But did "fit for duty" encompass thrusting a man onto a Cylon Base Ship, where a woman he had almost called "mother" now resided with the betrayer of mankind? Starbuck had twice been captured by Cylons and unlike most humans, had lived to tell the tale. That being so, how would he react to being billeted with them? Was it too much to ask of the lieutenant still recovering from Combat Stress Reaction? Was it too much to ask of any warrior in the relatively early days of the Détente?
Were they, albeit with the best of intentions, setting up another Mattoon?
Apollo sighed, climbing slowly to his feet and trudging out of the Duty Office. If he could use the Zykonian teleportation machine to insert himself into Starbuck's mind, then maybe he'd have a clearer picture of where exactly his friend was at psychologically . . . but he wasn't willing to make that trip without body armour, a laser turret, fifty kilons of solonite, and a "Get Out of Hades Hole Free" card. With Cassie busy becoming a doctor, and Chameleon occupied on numerous questionable business ventures, Apollo couldn't help but wonder where that left Starbuck these days. After all, his friend at loose ends could be a scary thing . . .
"Hey, buddy! Wait up!"
Apollo slowed down, turning to see the subject of his musings pacing down the corridor. At a glance, Starbuck looked like his old self. Relaxed, smiling, an unlit fumarello in his hand, he looked every bit the carefree Viper Pilot that he had once been. Still . . .
"So what's this assignment you've got us signed up for?" Starbuck asked, clamping his fumarello between his teeth.
"You mean the 'classified' one that you're not supposed to be talking about?" Apollo replied with a faint smile, falling in alongside the lieutenant.
"Hey, anything that arrives on my computron can't exactly be considered top secret, Apollo," Starbuck returned, as usual his rationale flawless. He pulled his smoke back out of his mouth, rolling it between two fingers. "What's up?"
"To be honest, Starbuck, I'm as much in the dark about it as you are."
"I thought they only kept us lowly lieutenants in the dark," Starbuck mused. "Exalted strike captains, on the other hand . . ."
"Actually, we only keep you in the dark," Apollo ribbed him. "After all, you once bragged that you did your best work there."
Starbuck grinned lecherously. "I was talking about space, of course."
"Of course. What else would you be talking about?" Apollo returned, grinning in kind. "How's your father, by the way?"
"Chameleon?" Starbuck asked, apparently caught off guard by the change of topic. "Why?"
Apollo shook his head, shrugging. "Just wondering. I haven't seen him lately or heard you talk about him. I just wondered how he's faring."
"Oh, is that all?" The lieutenant looked relieved. "He's fine. He's flogging that Zykonian Lagulin that we picked up on Brylon Five, making a small fortune in return."
"So you're finally going to pay off your Shad Zil marker?" Apollo asked, referring to the damage Starbuck had caused in the Zykonian capital when he'd stolen a hovermobile to pursue Korax after the Ziklagi shapeshifter had taken Sire Feo hostage. The Zykonians had demanded financial recompense, and while the Colonial Coffers had covered it, Starbuck was ultimately responsible for the debt, paying a regular stipend from his garnished wages, as a result of his reckless behaviour.
"Uh . . . well . . ."
It was classic Starbuck. Easy come, easy go. Cubits fell through his fingers like drops of water. Apollo rolled his eyes at his friend. "What are you spending it on this time?"
"I have a few ideas that need bankrolling . . ."
"Starbuck . . ."
"I know, I know," Starbuck muttered, throwing up his hands briefly. "But I think that investing in our youth is more important than worrying about a piece of paper that is essentially meaningless. We all know that the Service only expects me to pay back as much per pay period as my wage allows right up until I die, so why waste cubits on paying off my debt load when instead I could. . ."
Either the Battlestar had suddenly flipped over or Starbuck had completely knocked him off balance with this sudden revelation. Apollo grabbed Starbuck by the arm, pulling him to an abrupt stop, gripping him by both shoulders. "Slow down. What do you mean invest in our youth?"
"Kids get bored, Apollo, you ought to know that better than most being a father." He stabbed a finger at the strike captain to drive his point home. "Boredom can only be bad news when they're penned up on a ship, especially if they're anything like I was as a kid. I was talking to Pelias about starting up some new programs, not only on the Orphan Ship, but throughout the Fleet."
"You mean Sire Pelias?" Apollo asked, releasing him.
"Yeah well," the warrior shrugged nonchalantly, "to me he's still just a kid, only now he has contacts, influence and a new suit. Pelias knows a lot of people in the arts community working on what he calls 'cutting edge' stuff—that's mostly felgercarb to you and me, by the way, but the kids should love it. He also knows more than a few bleeding hearts that used to do charitable work willing to help with some of the details and organizing. Now, I met a couple guys through my father that were amateur gaming system designers in the Colonies. As a way of getting started again, they're keen to set up space for kids on various ships, not only letting them learn how to create their own stuff, but letting them try out games during development. They figure they know enough computron geeks in a similar situation willing to help, but of course, none of them have the equipment, or the cubits, to get started. Then I met this guy on the Senior Ship that's interested in . . ."
"Whoa!" Apollo stopped him. "Where did all this come from, Starbuck?"
Starbuck shrugged. "Just some of the ideas I had sectars ago when I did that two secton stint on the Orphan's Ship helping to initiate some new programs. Then recently when I played Pursuit with Boxey and his friends, it struck me that obviously not every ship has a Rejuvenation Centre. Suddenly I have both the time and the cubits to do something about that, that's all."
Apollo smiled at him, shaking his head in awe as he stroked his beard. Here he'd been worried about Starbuck getting up to no good or wasting his time feeling sorry for himself. Instead, his friend was spreading around his newly found dividends trying to organize entertainment for the youth of the Fleet, trying to keep them out of trouble while he simultaneously gave new life to enterprises that would have been considered superfluous and a waste of resources immediately following the Destruction. It was that lesser seen side of Starbuck that he didn't advertise and at this moment it was downright humbling to witness. His friend was well on his way to recovery from his troubles; but more than that, he was inspiring.
Starbuck screwed up his face in mock disgust, taking a step back and holding up his hands as if to ward off some terrible curse or even worse . . . a manly hug.
Apollo chuckled, reaching out and grabbing his friend by the flight jacket, preventing the retreat. He paused a moment for effect before blurting out, "What the frack is that smell, Starbuck? I want to bottle you and sell you as cockpit freshener!"
Starbuck's jaw dropped in surprise and he laughed aloud, clapping Apollo on the shoulder as they once again headed down the corridor, heading for the turbo-lift. "If you ever climb in the turbo-wash and find nothing there but Sheba's 'body wash', I'm going to warn you now, buddy, only use a bit. Hey, that reminds me . . . where is Sheba?"
"You say that like we're never apart," Apollo pointed out, selecting a level.
"She's not hiding in the beard, is she?" Starbuck teased him. "You know, if it gets any longer, we're going to have to get it licenced . . . maybe give it a name. Possibly even a Nature Eco-Reserve." He narrowed his eyes, as if peering into the aforementioned for any possible life.
Laughter burbled out of Apollo as he raised his hand to stroke his whiskers, while the levels passed by in a blur. "Lords, Starbuck, are these spontaneous or are you saving them up?"
"I lie awake at night, actually . . ."
"Sure you do," Apollo grinned, enjoying the exchange. He and Starbuck were like an old pair of combat boots; even slightly battered and bereft of their newbie shine, they were oh so comfortable. "You know, if there's anything Sheba and I can do to help out with your latest plans for the kids . . ."
"Well, since you mentioned it, I could use an advance on next yahren's pay," Starbuck quipped, before turning to nod gratefully at the captain. This time he was gracious and sincere. "Thanks, buddy. I could use all the help I can get. So . . . where did you stow Sheba? You never said."
"She's meeting us in Alpha Bay."
"She's on the secret mission too, huh? How about Boomer?"
"Yeah, Boomer too," Apollo conceded as the turbo-lift came to a stop.
"Like old times," Starbuck said cheerfully, stepping into the bay.
Apollo liked the sound of that. He stepped forward, draping an arm casually over Starbuck's shoulder. As he knew they would be, Boomer, Athena, Sheba, Cassiopeia, Jolly, Greenbean, Bojay, Giles, Dietra and Brie were standing alongside a shuttle, waiting for them. The group looked over at them expectantly, then like a well-rehearsed dance troop all raised their arms, turned over their wrists and looked at the chronometers, tapping them suggestively while trying out several indignant bordering on clownish expressions.
"I think they're trying to tell us something," Apollo murmured, realizing the brief conversation he'd had with Starbuck had delayed them a few centons too many. All the same, there was a relaxed and casual atmosphere that suggested this secret mission wasn't exactly about life or death.
"Good of you to show up, Captain, Lieutenant," Colonel Tigh suddenly said, stepping off the shuttle, glowering at them. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking them over derisively for a long moment before he cracked a smile. "Starbuck, you'll be late for your own funeral."
Starbuck grinned. "I have been a few times, Colonel. By the grace of the Lords of Kobol, I will be again and again."
"Alright everybody, listen up," Colonel Tigh said. "We're bound for the Agro Ship, Operation Hoopla will be commencing in thirty centons."
"Operation Hoopla, Colonel?" Apollo asked, unable to stop the smile from creeping over his features.
"Yes, Captain," Tigh replied, turning to board the shuttle. He paused, looking back over his shoulder. "By the way . . . anybody wanna buy a Base Ship?"