Part 37

Apollo had been told countless times by men that he admired—his father, Academy instructors, and various mentors that had shaped and influenced the way he thought over the yahrens—that to at times he'd have make difficult choices in his career, choices that wouldn't be popular among his men, but would ultimately serve to protect or advance the interests of the Colonial Nation. Looking back, he realized he'd developed a certain amount of confidence that if such a situation arose, that he would find himself able to handle it with an aplomb that he'd either cultivated or inherited. Now, as he sat there with just such a choice flung in his face, he felt sick with guilt and uncertainty, instead of prepared and confident that he would do the right thing. This was different than he'd ever imagined. This was . . . Starbuck!

"He's my best friend . . ." Apollo told Saraesa, his emotional pain and turmoil even more evident than the anguish currently residing in his right leg, as it throbbed more insistently after his slide down the mountainside. Thankfully, after riding Starbuck like a mud sled most of the way down, he'd managed to grab hold of a small tree, stopping his descent after they had separated, instead of carrying on to the bottom like his friend had.

"You'd put Starbuck's interests before that of an entire nation of people?" Saraesa asked, her voice growing even sharper.

Apollo glanced down at Starbuck as her words hit home. His friend's blue eyes flickered open, staring up at him intently as he grimaced against his pain. Then his gaze flickered briefly over Saraesa, but his expression was guarded. Unreadable.

"Go . . ." Starbuck choked out, his arm rising shakily as he gripped Apollo's jacket. If it was possible, he paled even more with that slight movement. But the death grip on Apollo's fatigues was worth noting. "She's right. Get the frack out of here . . ."

Maybe if Starbuck had begged him to take him along, it would have been different. Maybe not. But seeing his friend's bravery in the face of virtually certain death seemed to be the deciding factor that clicked a confusing jumble of contradicting and vacillating thoughts into place. That, and Apollo felt the grim determination in Starbuck's grip. Will and determination like that was what would save the warrior, if Apollo could only refocus that energy . . . "I'm not leaving you, Starbuck," he replied stiffly as Starbuck looked at him in a kind of surprise that was as disconcerting as it was gut wrenching. He was willing to bet those were words the former orphan hadn't heard often in his lifetime. "Come on, buddy. We need to get you moving. We have to get out of here. All of us."

Apollo leaned forward, putting his arms around Starbuck's shoulders, and pulling him upward to a sitting position. Immediately, Starbuck started heaving, his entire upper body shaking with the effort, and Apollo waited for the tortured retching to finally cease before he tilted his friend's chin up and stared into his eyes.

"All right now?" he asked.

"Are you . . . kidding?" Starbuck gasped, wiping feebly with a muddy hand at his watering eyes and nose, his sweaty face a mask of pain.

"You know, you could work with me on this . . ." Apollo grumbled pointedly. Saraesa sighed impatiently and loudly above them.

Starbuck groaned, as his body convulsed, once again trying to evacuate a stomach that was obviously empty. He spat out the resultant saliva, and wiped at his mouth, managing to smear even more mud on his face. Either Starbuck had a concussion, or the head injury was even more severe than Apollo had first imagined.

"Do you want me to end this?" Apollo asked quietly. How many times had Starbuck suggested that they do the same because of Apollo's leg injury? Truthfully, neither of them wanted to be the one to concede failure because of weakness.

"Don't you frackin' well dare!" Starbuck exploded vehemently, his face contorting as he raised a trembling hand to the back of his head.

"Then get up!" Apollo returned, tylinium in his tone.

Starbuck nodded ever so slightly, his breathing rapid. "Up . . . right . . . let's go."

Saraesa squatted down then, meeting Apollo's gaze across his friend, as she positioned herself under Starbuck's left shoulder. She shrugged as they both looked at her in surprise.

"Well, if you're determined to bring him along, then you're going to need my help. All together now," she said pragmatically. "On three. One, two, three!"

Together, they pulled Starbuck to his feet, supporting him as the warrior weaved, and his knees buckled, while he gasped and retched again.

"You know . . . this might be a good time for drugs," Starbuck rasped, as he managed to straighten his knees, while clutching tightly to Apollo and Saraesa.

"Not with a head injury, buddy," Apollo returned regrettably, feeling a building pressure in his injured leg. He couldn't give in to the comfort of narcotics this time. He'd have to tough it out. It was now up to Apollo to lead them back to the shuttle, and get them out of here. His and Starbuck's roles had abruptly reversed. He secured his grip on his friend, trying to get his bearings as he pulled his scanner off his belt and checked their position in relation to the Colonial shuttle they had seen. If they hurried, they just might make it before four squadrons of Vipers turned this Base into a raging cauldron of broiling cataclysm.