"So Honour has never actually lived here on the Arian Freighter?" Apollo confirmed with Ondine. "She only paid you to say she did at the space dock on Aries?"
"Yes, Captain. I registered her for census myself," Ondine said, rubbing her crossed arms self-consciously. "She was never here."
"You impersonated her?"
"Yes."
Now that she mentioned it, he could see some definite similarities in their appearances. They were the same height, had the same eye and hair color, the same build, all the physical data that would be integrated into Fleet Records.
Apollo inclined his head, waiting for her to fill the silence that had fallen between them.
"Well, you see I . . . I just put a kerchief on my head and took the neighbour's youngest along," she said quietly, her story gathering momentum along with her confidence. "Made sure I had a different agent than I did when I registered as myself. Honour told me how to go about it. Her cubits got us extra rations for over two sectars. I don't regret it. Not for a single micron." Then she frowned, slowly putting a clenched fist to her mouth. "Or at least I didn't until he showed up here looking for her . . . I thought I was a goner, Captain. He was a raving lunatic! I can't believe it was Jephte in the flesh!"
Jephte in the flesh. Obviously, she'd heard Boomer use the name when they arrived. Apollo groaned internally at the thought of that rumour flying around the Fleet. Hopefully, they would find the serial killer in short order, putting an end to any potential hysteria that hadn't taken root yet.
"What ship did Honour register on, Ondine? Where was she living if not here?" Apollo asked.
"I don't know. I never saw her again, Captain."
"But you continued to lie for her. After spending about two centars with her on Aries, she not only talked you into making a fraudulent declaration once you arrived, but she convinced you to keep misleading officials," Apollo said incredulously, paraphrasing what she'd told him earlier. "Why?"
"You won't like it," she warned him.
"Tell me anyway."
"While we were waiting to see if we'd even get off Aries, we talked some, me and Honour. People do when they think they might die, you know. Anyhow, Honour told me her husband was abusive. She'd been trying to avoid him since before the Destruction. The mere idea of joining the Fleet, knowing he would probably be there too, scared her to death. I know he's a friend of yours, but . . ."
"Abusive?" Apollo almost choked, feeling like he'd been blindsided by a landram. "Starbuck?"
"She never told me his name. Just said she was afraid he'd hurt the child when he got tired of hurting her. Said she'd die before she let that happen," she said indignantly. "I'm a mother; I understood. Like she said, we single mothers need to stick together. If we don't watch out for each other, nobody else will. That's the truth. Imagine having an abusive husband as well as a serial killer after you! That poor woman! She needs every friend she has!"
"Are you trying to tell me that you think that the decorated Colonial Warrior who just saved you, a complete stranger, from a 'raving lunatic' would actually abuse his wife and infant daughter?" Apollo challenged her misconceptions, while trying to keep a lid on his anger. "Do you really believe that?"
"I suppose when you put it that way it does kind of seem out of character," she replied uncertainly.
"This other man . . ." Apollo pressed.
"Jephte," she supplied.
"We're not entirely sure of his identity, Ondine," Apollo corrected her.
"I heard your lieutenant call him Jephte," she pointed out.
"That's just a remote possibility," Apollo lied. "Did you get any indication of why he was looking for Honour or what his relationship to her might have been?"
"Executioner?" she replied, looking at him as though he was a bit slow. "You know, Honour, one of the original twelve daughters of Jephte. Right?"
He took a slow, deep breath. "Yes, I . . ."
"Apollo!" Boomer interrupted, poking his head back in from the corridor where he'd been using the nearest comm unit. "The chute comes out in a sealed compartment on Deck Twenty-Five, Psi Section, close to the old service turbo lift. The last five metrons of that chute was taken for scrap a while back. It's a straight drop to the bottom! Captain Kamda said he has a team on the way already!"
"What? Boomer, they were supposed to wait for us!" Apollo replied.
"These guys are frothing at the mouth at the idea of getting Jephte, Apollo. I think we have a seventy-fourth century lynch mob on our hands!"
"Frack! And Starbuck's right in the middle of it. Let's go!"
xxxxx
"No luck, Chief Proctor, they must be out of range. Either that or they're in the ladderwell, already on their way down to Deck Twenty-Five," Captain Kamda reported from the bridge of the Arian Freighter. "Regardless, there's nothing I can do."
"Captain Kamda, if you don't find some way of communicating with Captain Apollo and your crew, I don't like to think about what might happen when a group of vengeful men tear open that access hatch, expecting to find Jephte, but instead find two men in the wrong place at the wrong time!" Proctor berated him, getting the sense that the Arian Freighter captain didn't want to cooperate. "If you're obstructing justice, Kamda . . ."
"Hardly! You told me we were after that shard-born microphallus, Jephte!"
"Uh . . . our conclusions may have been erroneous," Proctor admitted, looking up Kamda in the Fleet Records, inputting his access code. "I need to talk to Captain Apollo!"
"That's unfortunate, Proctor. Listen up, this is a corroded old bucket rescued from the scrapyard, not a battlestar. What you need to understand is that outside of the bridge, reliable communications are largely achieved by tapping the next guy on his shoulder. I believe we're due for our communications upgrade sometime next deca-yahren. This particular Colonial demographic is low on the Council's priority list."
"This isn't funny, Captain!" Proctor exclaimed, as data finally rolled across his screen.
"No, but you have to keep things in perspective, Proctor. After losing billions back home, I suppose one more poor soul doesn't make that much difference. I wouldn't worry about the warrior, Proctor. Even with their rampant amentia, my jobbernowls can still recognize a uniform. They'll know which man is which." The levity in his tone was inappropriate to his station. "You know, you could probably salvage the situation by just reporting that the man they lynch is Jephte, whether he is or not. Not only would it make my passengers feel like I'm looking out for them, but it would make Colonial Security look good . . . for a change."
"I don't operate that way, Kamda," Proctor said, looking over the man's professional history.
"That's because you're just another cog in the wheel, Proctor. I'm sure Sire Anton and his fellow Council members would see my logic. They're always looking for a way to turn bitter-root into nectar for the IFB."
"Dear Lord, can you hear yourself, man! Have you lost your sanity?" Proctor accused him, starting to look through his personal history.
"I've found it. Do you know how many of my men volunteered for this based on the belief that they were finally ferreting out that fimicolous beast, Jephte? I sent revenge, retribution and hatred down there, blood on their minds!"
"You had no right . . .!" Proctor exclaimed, the words dying a death on his lips as he read Captain Kamda's deceased daughter's name. Charity . . . Jephte's eighth victim. He closed his eyes in despair.
"I had every right!" Kamda exploded. "This is my ship, Proctor! My realm! I am its lord and master; its people are under my charge! They swear fealty to me; I swear to protect them! In the name of God and in the memory of my daughter, I will not let justice go undone one more day!"
xxxxx
"There's no way out!" Bruiser yelled, his rising panic getting the better of him, as he stumbled around blindly in the dark, desperately searching for egress. "Hades Hole! I have to get out of here!"
Sitting mutely on the deck, Starbuck's head was still reeling from what Bruiser had revealed. It was so . . . completely bizarre that it could only be yet one more chapter to be added to his colourful life's story. In reflection, it wouldn't be a bad follow-up to kissing three beautiful clones or ultimately forging allegiances with Borays that had been trying to skewer him only centars before. Yeah, the way things were going, next he'd be riding unicorns . . .
"We're trapped!" Bruiser hollered, his fists pummelling solid metal. "Oh man, this is it!"
"Shut up!" Starbuck snapped, trying to think.
They'd both heard the loud clapping of footfalls coming down the corridor just before they'd inadvertently fallen down the old cargo chute, losing Starbuck's weapon somewhere along the way down. As he'd lain there on the deck forced to listen, Bruiser's story had made an inordinate kind of sense, and the incredible relief the warrior had felt at its conclusion had only been diminished by his rising anxiety when he'd realized where that now left him.
Single. Unattached. Free.
And at the bottom of a lightless shaft, with unknown aggressors bearing down on him.
Currently, the big man's behaviour was screaming that Bruiser really thought that at any moment a group of misled vigilantes would be bursting through the sealed hatch, murder in their eyes, lasers blazing. Instinctively, Starbuck knew the man was telling the truth. The lieutenant tried to get past his astonishment and forced himself to think rationally.
"Okay, we've got four walls, two ways out, one too high to reach, the other locked from the outside," Starbuck said aloud. "Anything else?"
"Plus it's pitch black, we can't see in front of our faces, and you lost your weapon!" Bruiser added from a few metrons away. "There's nothing here! Not even scrap to use as a weapon!"
"I suppose throwing barge rats at them when they come in the hatch is out of the question?" Starbuck said, instilling a little levity.
"Is that supposed to be funny?" Bruiser replied flatly.
"Well, in case you haven't noticed, we don't have a lot of options, Bruiser," Starbuck replied. "You got any bright ideas?"
"Horace."
"Huh?"
"My name is Horace. If we're going to die here, you might as well know that."
"I'll keep that in mind if I'm still around to write your epithet," said Starbuck.
"Don't count on that. If she can take out two of us at once, then . . ."
"We're not going to die," Starbuck exclaimed, his voice raised angrily. His destiny was to die in a Viper defending the Colonial Nation, not as a result of a misunderstanding. They needed to do something unconventional. Unexpected. But what?
"Well, maybe you're not, but I am. I suppose even boneheads can tell a Colonial Warrior from a scapegoat . . . I can't believe she outsmarted me! Even knowing it was coming . . ."
That was it . . .
"Hmm, Horace . . . I think I have an idea, but you're probably not going to like it." Yeah, it was crazier than negotiating with Nogow to become the Marshall of Serenity. Still, it might just work. It certainly had the element of surprise going for it . . .
"Try me."
xxxxx
"Commander, we have a situation evolving on the Arian Freighter," Colonel Tigh reported, Proctor still on the comm. Quickly, the colonel briefed Adama on the unfolding events that had started with a background check on Honour and had somehow escalated into a rage driven manhunt for a serial killer that likely no longer existed, Apollo, Starbuck and Boomer right in the middle of it.
"Starbuck," Adama murmured quietly. "How does he manage to . . .?" he curtailed his remarks, turning to the comm unit, an image of Chief Proctor displayed there. "How far is Colonial Security from the scene, Proctor?"
"There's a shuttle landing on the Freighter now, Commander, but as I said to Colonel Tigh, I had been depending on Captain Kamda's cooperation, not his defiance and obstruction of justice according to Colonial Law. We'll need back up, because evidently Kamda thinks he's above our laws. Logistically, we have two situations: the immediate one that Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer are walking into, and then later when we take Kamda into custody. I doubt he'll come easily after listening to his earlier ravings. This could blow up into a full scale standoff, us against Kamda's crew."
"Let's hope you're wrong about that," Adama said, trying to find the empathy to understand how a father would feel after suffering the loss of his child to a killer. It was an eye for an eye. Would revenge ease Kamda's paternal guilt over not being there to protect his daughter from Jephte? Would feeling he had avenged his daughter's death be enough to bring him back to some semblance of sanity before the situation escalated further? Could one man's hatred sustain his crew into prolonged chaos or would they come to their senses before termination entered into the equation? He prayed that Apollo and Boomer could somehow intervene before it came to that. "Tigh, assign Red Squadron . . ."
"Yes, sir!"
xxxxx
"Isn't there something in the manual about not chasing angry mobs?" Boomer hollered down the ladderwell to Apollo, hearing the increasingly raucous and angry sounds of Kamda's men below them.
They had tried reasoning with the crewmen briefly, at least the ones who had bothered to wait for them. However, the Arians seemed to have lost all perspective on the fact that they were there to enact Colonial justice, if indeed they ever had any to begin with. Arming themselves with makeshift bludgeons, they were consumed with rage, acting like barbarians, Hades-bent on bringing back the death penalty . . . without tribunal. Was it some kind of deranged attempt to exert control over a situation where they could command the outcome, unlike the Destruction? Was it some kind of psychological displacement? Was the man identified as Jephte about to pay for Baltar's crimes and the mistakes of a foolish Quorum of Twelve?
Apollo and Boomer had to stop that from happening!
"Technically, I don't think a dozen men qualify as a mob, Boomer!" Apollo shouted back up, taking the rungs two at a time.
"Have I ever told you how much I hate technicalities?"
"Then you might want to seriously consider leaving the Colonial Service!" Apollo rejoined.
"I'm seriously considering it now!"
"Tell that to Starbuck!"
"Fine!" Boomer yelled back after a micron. "We save Starbuck first, then I'll quit the Service!"
xxxxx
Saryn pressed the entry chime on Honour's temporary quarters a final time, finally keying in the override code. The door slid open and she paused there at the threshold, listening. It was silent.
"Hello? Anybody here?" she called out, slowly stepping inside.
It took her a moment to recover from the opulence, a stark contrast to the rest of the Battlestar. It was like walking into another universe, and it seemed somehow vulgar that this kind of luxury was commonplace for the highborn. It took her a moment to get over her indignation and start looking around with her professional mask in place. What struck her most was that not a thing was out of place. It looked as if no one had been there, most certainly not a one yahren old tot and her mother.
It took her only a few centons to verify what she had suspected. She did one final sweep before crossing to the telecom.
"Sir? This is Saryn. Honour's gone."
xxxxx
"Don't open that hatch!" Apollo hollered on the run, the sound of his heartbeat thudding in his ears, as his boots pounded the deck as fast as his feet could carry him. "That's an order!"
"Hold it!" Boomer also yelled, hitting the deck from the ladderwell just a micron behind the captain.
At a glance, there had to be approximately fifteen people amassing about fifty metrons away. The mob looked ugly, frenzied by their own hatred and fear, finding courage in numbers and ignorance as they presumably struggled to open the huge, grungy old cargo hatch. At this distance, Apollo could only hope that the archaic portal on this damp lower deck would be rusted shut, barring them from Starbuck and "Jephte", and preventing impending disaster. However, that still left his good buddy sealed in a compartment with a potential serial killer. Neither scenario looked especially good for Starbuck.
A loud clunk and drawn out squeak signalled an opening hatch. There was a flickering of the overhead illuminators, and then bright light streamed out from within the compartment, along with a tide of barge rats. The crewmen weren't daunted.
"Halt!" Apollo demanded, pulling his weapon and redoubling his efforts. Thigh muscles burning, he poured on the speed, hearing a guttural cry of despair from Boomer behind him. Using stun, they would open fire on adult civilians only as a last resort. "Cease and desist! That's an order!"
Instead, the cacophony momentarily peaked as the riotous pack surged forward towards the access. Then the clamour abruptly died down, and a few began backing off, uncertainly lowering makeshift weapons they had acquired as they first hesitated and then retreated.
"What in Hades Hole . . .?" someone exclaimed.
"Oh frack! Now wait a centon! I thought that . . ."
"We all did!"
There was confusion. Unease. It didn't bode well. Overall, Apollo had the distinct idea that whatever had deterred them had far more to do with what they'd found inside, rather than the warriors bearing down on them, weapons drawn.
An icy chill swept over him.
"Drop your weapons!" Apollo choked out as he arrived at the scene, dreading what he would find within.
The crewmen looked at him and Boomer as though they were happy for the distraction. They dropped the bludgeons they carried, raising their hands innocuously and backing away obediently, leaving room for their equally bewildered compatriots to exit the cargo compartment.
"Break it up!" Boomer ordered them, disbanding the crowd before they could regroup. He glanced wearily at the open hatch.
"I didn't sign on for this," a crewman muttered, escaping the compartment, "whatever it is."
"Apollo . . ." Boomer murmured in anxiety.
"Back me up," Apollo ordered.
"Right."
Apollo took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the worst. Armed, he brushed past the dispelling men, squinting against the brightness of the industrial lighting coming from within the compartment.
He blinked as his sight adjusted, then his eyebrows shot upward in abject shock. "Starbuck?" He let out a breath of relief as he cried over his shoulder. "He's okay, Boomer!"
"Apollo!" a relieved sounding Starbuck cried out. "Thought you'd never get here, buddy! That was a little too close for comfort. You just might be losing your touch, Captain. "
Apollo slowly lowered his weapon, smiling in disbelief. "And you're losing you mind, Lieutenant . . . not to mention. . ."
"I don't believe it," Boomer interjected over Apollo's shoulder as he beheld the sight before him.
"What?" Starbuck asked innocently.
His face smudged with grime, the brash lieutenant grinned at them, standing akimbo exuding his usual self-assurance and nonchalance . . . despite the fact that both he and "Jephte" were clad in nothing but their briefs. The mob had apparently been dumbfounded upon finding two very vulnerable and near-naked men, instead of a frothing, crazed killer and a Colonial Warrior doing battle. It had stopped them in their tracks, effectively throwing cold water on fiery emotions. Malignant intent and rage had impotently dissolved into confusion and embarrassment, just long enough for Apollo and Boomer to arrive and intervene.
"You're out of uniform, Lieutenant," Apollo couldn't help but rib him, loosely holding his weapon at his side. There wasn't the least amount of avarice directed at "Jephte" from Starbuck. It gave him the distinct impression that he was missing something.
"Well, this is hardly the Officers' Ball," Starbuck returned with a shrug.
"Which raises the question," Apollo returned, "what is it exactly?"