Chapter Four
Easy come, easy go, Starbuck, he told himself for the third time as he walked briskly back towards the Argus Building. He pulled the collar of his flight jacket up around his neck against the cold wind that had suddenly started blowing. It's not as if you can't get another date easily enough, Bucko. Hades, the women are practically standing in line to go out with you.
Unlike Imara. She had never shown the least bit of interest in him. He wasn't even sure why he had impulsively asked her out when he found himself next to her in the mess hall. However, he did, and to his utmost surprise, she had accepted.
Maybe that was what had really attracted him to her. She had seemed an unattainable goal. The daughter of the Executive Officer of the Academy. Intelligent, ambitious, humorous. The most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes upon. Yeah, the conquest of all conquests. He sighed.
Face it, Starbuck, that wasn't it at all. You liked her, you stupid, frackin' idiot. How did you think she was going to react when you told her you thought her father was selling Academy weapons to . . .? Whoever. He blew another breath out between his clenched teeth. Idiot! What the frack do you do now?
He felt oddly spent as he tried to put his thoughts in order. Talk about your ups and downs. He shook his head and tried to remember to keep things in perspective. They had dated for exactly twenty-four centars, after all. That was it. Hardly a relationship. Imara was more like a casual acquaintance.
Yeah? Then why did he feel so. . . ? He blinked furiously and bit his lip. Buck up, pal. You're turning into one of those lilium-white, candy-astrumed Mama's boys. C'mon, focus!
What if Imara was right? What if there was a logical, reasonable explanation for what he had heard? What if he had just blown this whole event out of proportion? After all, by all reports, Colonel Diallo had a brilliant military career and a spotless record . . . then why is he teaching a bunch of wanna-be's at the Academy? Hey, wait, that's not fair . . . but the question is, is it accurate? If he was such hot stuff as a Colonial Warrior, why isn't he on a Battlestar fighting the Cylons?
He blew out a slow breath and could see it condense into the familiar mist that reminded him fleetingly of his childhood. Hades, the fact of the matter was, he was used to relying on his instinct. From his most fleeting memories . . . flashbacks really . . . of running into the Thorn Forest as a young child, and even through the toughest times he had spent on the streets of Caprica City, his instinct had pulled him through time and time again. Sometimes, it was all he could depend on. His sixth sense of knowing what he should do next.
So, what do you do next? Hades, how did a mere cadet prove that the second-in-command of the Academy was smuggling arms? Maybe he should talk to Apollo. He dug his hands into his pockets as he walked. What would his flight leader think of it all?
After all, Apollo seemed to have a lot of respect for Colonel Diallo. He might not take Starbuck's accusations any more seriously than Imara did. Apollo and Imara were both flight leaders in the Academy. Their fathers were both well-known, well-respected, decorated Officers of the Colonies.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had to get something more concrete on Diallo before he could go hurling accusations at the man, even to Apollo. It could be the end of a career . . . most likely Starbuck's, if he didn't proceed with caution and restraint. He should his head ruefully. Frack! Caution and restraint; now he really was in trouble.
Then, there was still the possibility that he was wrong . . .
"Hold it!" A clipped voice called out in the night.
Starbuck grimaced as a beam of light covered him and two Security Officers ran his way. Lords, he had let his mind wander like a first yahren cadet as he strolled back towards the barracks, slightly preoccupied. He hesitated as he briefly thought about making a run for it, but a quick glance revealed two more Officers flanking him.
"Ah, Cadet Starbuck, you must love spending time in the brig." Officer Keane goaded him as he approached. "As it happens, we have your regular cell freshly aired and awaiting you." He flashed a triumphant grin.
"Yeah, but are the sheets turned down and the pillows fluffed?" Starbuck retorted as Keane gave him a shove towards the Academy Brig. A defiant grin briefly crossed his features until he heard Keane address one of his subordinates.
"Contact Sergeant Brand. Tell him Cadet Starbuck is in the brig . . . again."
FLASHBACK
The brig. How was it humanly possible that someone who had decided to dedicate his life . . . well, maybe life was too hasty a word . . . but, dedicate his career to defending the Colonies, had ended up spending so much time in the brig? Starbuck knew just about every centimetron of these same three walls. He knew every dent, every patch job, every mark, and had just about settled on the apparent fact that Battlestar grey had been the paint colour of choice for about as long as the brig had been there.
Admittedly, he had only been in the brig one other time this yahren. Unimpressively, it had been the previous day. As a third yahren cadet, if he got one more black mark on his record, they would ground him. He had laughed off his previous visit. This time he wasn't laughing as he waited for Sergeant Brand, drill instructor from Hades Hole, to make his appearance.
With an exasperated sigh, Starbuck flopped down on the bunk and tried to think of something else, other than how fun and exciting his next visit with the Sergeant would be. Lords, what he'd give for a fumarello right now . . . A slight grin etched its way across his face. Apollo hated the weed and couldn't understand how filling one's lungs with an obnoxious toxin could be relaxing. Ah, Apollo . . .
He still remembered when he had finally been able to drag Apollo out on the town the previous yahren after his friend had lost the bet regarding the pinging Starfighter. Apollo's final words as they had left the Academy with a group of their squadron mates were, "I just don't want to end up in the brig, Starbuck."
A fleeting smile crossed his features as he realized yet again, that someone with the prescience, intelligence and talent of the Commander's son, would go far.
At that point, though he had a lot of respect for Apollo, he truly thought the guy just didn't know how to let loose and have a good time. Truth be known, he didn't think the Commander's son was capable of it. He was about to learn a great deal about his friend . . .
"I can't believe you talked Apollo into coming out with us!" Dorado told Starbuck as they hung back behind the others while they walked down the street that was affectionately known as Debauchery Row.
"Didn't take a lot of talking. He knew he was overdue." Starbuck grinned as he stood still to light up the fumarello he had recently acquired from the nearest . . . and cheapest tobacconist.
"Frack, Bucko, how can you stand that thing?" Dorado turned up his nose in distaste and waved off the smoke.
"It grows on you." Starbuck replied, puffing away.
"Well, something will, if you go around smelling like that."
"Yeah? Maybe a buxom blonde or a long-legged red-head?" Starbuck suggested with a leer.
"Legs or breasts? Make up your mind." Dorado suggested.
Starbuck chuckled. "And decrease my odds at getting lucky tonight? Don't think so."
"What was that about odds?" Apollo asked as he walked back towards them. "Cards or women, Starbuck?"
"What is it with you guys, always trying to get me to make a choice." Starbuck asked, dramatically befuddled.
"You can't have it all, Bucko." Apollo replied.
"You can't?" Starbuck's eyes opened wide. "Who made that rule? I didn't see it posted anywhere."
"Where would you post such a rule?" Dorado asked.
"The Book of the Word." Suggested Apollo with a shrug.
"Oh. Did they ever make a holovid?" Starbuck asked with a grin and joined their laughter at his remark. "They used to read it aloud to us when we were kids in school. Do you remember that?"
"Oh, yeah. It was the only time we could get away with blowing spitballs. The teacher was so wrapped up in trying to impress the Word upon us, he didn't notice we were engaged in mucus warfare." Apollo reminisced.
"YOU blew spitballs?" Dorado asked.
Apollo laughed at his surprise. "Of course. Didn't you?"
"I don't know how much of this I can take, Apollo. First you agree to come out with us, and then I find out you used to exchange aerial mucus shots with your classmates." Dorado teased him as he moved forward to join Zoltan and the others.
"Maybe you're right, Starbuck. Maybe this is overdue." Apollo mused aloud.
"You think?"
Apollo settled into the club scene quickly as they made the rounds. First, a sports bar for a couple drinks and the tale end of a Triad Semi-Final. Next, an exotic dance club for a few drinks and some lively entertainment.
"C'mon, let's go." Zoltan remarked after finishing his ale.
"Yeah, it's like going to a buffet and being told you can't eat anything." Apollo added. "I know a great little club. Let's go check it out."
Before Starbuck knew it, Apollo was routinely making suggestions on where they should go next, as they moved from club to club. Evidently, the Commander's son knew Chicanery Row pretty well. Well, at least all the hot spots. Starbuck was astounded as Apollo transformed into their ringleader, especially after a few drinks.
"C'mon guys, let's move on." Apollo tipped his glass to his lips and nodded towards the door.
"Where next, Apollo?" Zoltan asked him.
"There's a new club that opened up called the Wormhole." Apollo suggested.
"That place will be packed. We'll never get in." Zoltan argued.
"There's a back entrance. I know one of the owners. He'll let us in, no problem." Apollo assured them. Nartana had gone to school with Apollo from the time they were children. Though the two had chosen different career paths, Apollo had certainly enjoyed helping his friend do some research as he went through the planning stages for opening his new club, the Wormhole.
"I've heard the music is great. It's kind of out of the way though, isn't it?" Dorado asked.
"A bit, but I wouldn't worry about it with a group like this." Apollo returned cheerfully. He was having a great time. He was relaxed, maybe a little too much so, but what the frack. He was among friends. And these were the friends he would remember for the rest of his life. Glancing around the table, he smiled warmly, and perhaps a little drunkenly, at his friends. He grinned as he imagined himself telling his grandchildren about his academy days as a cadet, and all the characters he had hung out with. "Someone pry Starbuck loose from that red-head, and let's get going."
Starbuck remembered being dragged out into the cold and along the damp streets between Apollo and Zoltan. Lords, he was really at the point in the night where he was ready to part company with the guys. "But I found my red-head." He moaned.
Zoltan laughed. "Starbuck, I'm flattered, but you're not my type."
Starbuck groaned, not amused, as they continued down the dark streets. They entered an alley way en masse and headed for the dimly lit entrance up ahead.
"Hold up for a centon, guys." Starbuck pulled back.
"C'mon, Bucko. We're not letting you go get yourself in trouble." Zoltan told him, as he reached back for the younger cadet's arm.
"No really . . . wait." Starbuck's voice was tense and serious.
"What is it?" Apollo asked. This was the Starbuck he was used to seeing in the cockpit. Alert, aware and dependable.
"I . . . uh . . . " It felt familiar. Eerily so. He looked around at the covered doorways, each of them dark and unwelcoming . . . unless you were . . .
"What?" Apollo asked again.
"It just seems so . . . familiar. . . " Starbuck mumbled, not sure what he was trying to say. He looked around, not particularly noticing any recognizable landmarks. But he knew this place. And it knew him . . . A shiver ran down his spine.
"Sagan's Sake, the alley outside the newest club in Caprica City feels familiar to Starbuck. What a surprise!" Dorado exclaimed.
The others joined in the laughter, but Starbuck barely heard the remark as his mind recalled another time . . . a separate life . . . when he had been there. . .
. . . Cold. Dark. Hungry. Alone. The wind whipped through his clothes and he knew he had to find shelter. His cheeks began to feel damp, and he cursed the God that had added rain to the rest of the line up for his mong-filled day. He pulled the coat around him that he had stolen from the community natatorium. It was much too large, but it was better than nothing. He hoped the old man had another one. Hades, from the style of the old guy's clothes and the quality of his boots, he probably had an entire closet full.
The alley seemed quiet as he treaded along cautiously. He knew there were a lot of doorways one could seek shelter in. The trick was finding an uninhabited one. Nothing worse than awakening to find an old drunk breathing on him, trying to roll him for whatever he had or worse . . .
"I think I'll pass, guys." Starbuck suddenly told them amidst their laughter. He didn't have a good reason for it, but he needed to get out of that place. Too many memories . . .
"Don't be a killjoy, Starbuck." Dorado started.
"I'm not." He refuted. "You guys go ahead. I'll just head back . . . " His eyes darted to the various doorways.
"To the red-head." Zoltan threw in. "Forget it, Bucko. I'm not letting you out of my sight. Good try, kid. We're going to stick together." Young cadets were notorious for getting into trouble in the city. Alcohol, women . . . temptation was all around them and there were no officers there to tell them 'no'.
"Yeah, Starbuck. Next thing we'll know, you'll be back in the brig for fighting again." Dorado added.
"Or disorderly conduct." Apollo joined in. "It wouldn't look good for Phoenix Squadron."
"I'm not a fracking child!" Starbuck exploded at them. "I'll do what I bloody well want to, and none of you are going to stop me!"
Jaws dropped as they all stared at him, stunned. Until . . .
"Hey, kid. Don't pull that felgercarb with us. We're your friends." Zoltan raised his voice.
"I'll make sure he gets back, Zoltan." Apollo interrupted. He put a restraining hand on the Phoenix leader's shoulder. He had seen the strange, unseeing look that crossed Starbuck's face as the others had laughed. The young cadet had looked fearful and lost . . . almost childlike, for a brief moment as his eyes anxiously flickered around the darkness.
"I don't need a fracking. . . " Starbuck snapped his mouth shut as he made eye contact with Apollo. The older cadet was offering him an 'out'. He wasn't patronizing him. Somehow, Apollo understood that he needed to escape from that place. Starbuck dropped his gaze almost as if he was afraid that Apollo could read his mind . . . see his memories.
Zoltan looked from one cadet to the other. "You're just heading back to the Academy?"
"Yeah." Apollo confirmed.
"Hey, how are we going to get in the Wormhole without you?" Dorado asked Apollo in sudden panic.
"I'll make sure Nartana let's you in before we go." Apollo told them. They were only twenty metrons from the door. "I'll be right back, Starbuck."
Starbuck nodded at Apollo as he watched them turn towards the club. He looked around as he heard the cadets pounding on the alleyway door. Sure enough, if you looked carefully enough, there were people there. Seeking shelter. Resting. Sleeping. Or trying to sleep. It was fracking cold, after all. And there were angry young men in the alley.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, feeling the cubits that were there; cubits that he had earned, for the most part, playing some cards with other cadets. He seemed to have a knack for it. He was actually considering hitting town on his next leave to get into a game with higher stakes. After all, a state funded Academy education didn't leave a guy with much of a budget. It left him broke actually. He knew a few other cadets that had picked up manual labour jobs in the city to earn some extra money. He might have to as well, if he couldn't start to make some decent money playing cards. That sure wasn't going to happen at the Academy.
A movement caught his eye. A small form was huddled beneath a broken crate. In the background he could hear Apollo's voice talking to someone. He moved towards the form. A child. Not much older than he had been. Mind you, street kids tended to run a bit on the scrawny side. Lords, kid, there must be some place . . . Wide eyes suddenly looked up at him in fear.
Apollo thanked Nartana once again, as he saw the others safely inside. The music boomed and he was sorely tempted to let Starbuck make his way back to the Academy on his own. If it hadn't been for that look on the young man's face . . . No, Starbuck was out of sorts. He needed a friend, or at the very least an escort, to be with him right now. He made his excuses as he kept half an eye on the cadet, who seemed to have disappeared for the moment in a doorway. Where the frack . . . ? "I'll be back soon, my friend. I promise."
Apollo turned just in time to see Starbuck re-enter the alley from where he had been. He was noticeably without his flight jacket. Apollo jogged over to join him, peering into the entranceway to see the slight form that was watching them wearily, covered with a recently acquired Colonial jacket. A cough from the opposite direction drew his attention and he noticed another person curled up in the only shelter available. Starbuck grabbed Apollo by the arm, propelling him forward forcibly, but silently.
Together they turned the corner and started down the street. "Do you want to talk about it?" Apollo asked.
"No." Starbuck replied. He shivered as he blew into his hands to warm them.
Apollo looked over at him again. He had never seen Starbuck so . . . subdued and reflective. There was definitely a story worth telling here. He wondered if he'd ever hear it.
They quickly made their way back to the transport station in relative quiet. The further away they drew from the Wormhole, the more Starbuck regained his usual form. He even tried to convince Apollo to return to one of the other clubs. Apollo had reminded Starbuck that they were supposed to be returning to the Academy. Starbuck tried again, half-heartedly before resigning himself to their destination. He resolutely ignored the topic of the alleyway, and was soon amusing his friend with recent tales of his superior card playing abilities as they sat waiting for their ride. Apollo had resigned himself to a relatively early night, when the Stamphalian cadets walked in.
Apollo nodded briefly at the cadets as they entered, but his tension mounted as he noticed the third man in the door was Ortega. Ortega's eyes swept over Apollo indifferently, but a scowl crossed his features as he noticed Starbuck on the other side.
"Well, well, look what the felix has dragged in." Starbuck muttered, slouched down with his head resting against the back of the seat and his feet crossed at the ankles.
"Easy." Apollo returned quietly, sitting up erect and alert. Frack! The last time he had ended up between these two, he had ended up with a cracked mandible.
"Starbuck, I didn't think Zoltan let you off the leash away from the Academy." Ortega sneered.
"As long as I don't bite anyone, Ortega." Starbuck replied with a faint smile.
Apollo gazed at Starbuck meaningfully. He did NOT want a repeat performance of their last close encounter with Ortega. Starbuck merely smiled back at him a little more broadly, as if he was amused at the glare he was receiving.
"We saw Rhea and Eryn out on the prowl." Ortega mentioned off-handedly in a thick, alcoholic voice. "I guess you guys are getting too lame for the Phoenix floozies."
Apollo bristled at the remark. He jumped to his feet in defense of the women. "Would you care to repeat that accusation?"
"Hey, what happened to 'easy'?" Starbuck asked from his reclining position.
"Which accusation?" Ortega asked with a smirk. "That they're floozies or that you're lame?"
"He's got a point." Starbuck added. "I'd hit him for either one though, Apollo. Mind you, I'd hit him for his bad breath and his colour-coded underwear first."
"What colour-coded underwear?" Apollo asked expectantly.
"Yellow in the front, brown in the back." Starbuck explained patiently, his grin spreading as he saw Ortega's face turn bright red.
Ortega lurched towards Starbuck, but was surprised to find himself suddenly lying face first on the floor with an arm twisted behind his back, Apollo's knee firmly inserted in his back.
"Hey, nice move! How come we have to wait for third yahren to learn that?" Starbuck declared climbing to his feet. "Did you guys see that?" he asked the Stamphalians. "Pure artistry."
"Get him . . . off!" Ortega shouted to his friends from the filthy floor of the transport station.
"You might want to listen to him. After all, there's three of us." Kardon mentioned as he advanced on Apollo, his squadron mate right behind him.
"Oh, well. Maybe you'll think to bring some back-up next time." Starbuck grinned, his adrenaline rushing through his veins, propelling the alcohol ahead of it. Yeehaw! He stepped forward and threw himself into Kardon, trying to imitate Apollo's move.
Apollo, distracted by the sudden action, felt Ortega twist violently below him. He grasped the inebriated man more securely, as he again turned to see what was happening. Starbuck and Kardon were thrashing about on the floor, each man trying to gain the advantage.
The third man, Orcus, crashed down on top of Apollo, knocking him off of Ortega. The three men ended up in a confused mass of limbs entangled beneath the seats as they each struggled to be the first on his feet.
A screeching whistle abruptly sounded and the five young men froze and looked up to see the Civil Security Officers entering the station. "Stay where you are!" they ordered as they trained their tasers on the cadets.
Starbuck looked over at Apollo with a rueful grin, knowing they were about to be reported to the Academy and then transported back under guard to spend a night in the brig. One of the several things he had learned about the commander's son that night was, he sure knew how to have a good time!
RETURN TO PRESENT
A latch at the end of the corridor clanked, breaking Starbuck's reverie. Then footfalls, the steady, brisk clap of military boots against the hard floor. Two pair, at least, Starbuck mused, as he swung his feet over the edge of the cot and sat facing the barred door to the cell. Unlike the previous times he'd been confined to the brig and lectured by a senior officer – a grand total of five occasions in the past three yahrens -- he felt his heart pounding against his chest in anticipation. And it wasn't because he stood a good chance of being grounded, given two black marks in as many days. No . . .
A snippet of conversation echoed in his memory: "If this works out as planned, gentlemen, we will have a new contract and will be assured a comfortable retirement." Okay, sure, there had to be a logical explanation as to why the top Academy brass were making an arms contract at such a ungodly centar in a locked hangar . . . and --
"Attention!" The security officer swung the cell door open and snapped ramrod-straight against it. A moment later, Sergeant Brand strolled to the threshold and stopped, glaring as Starbuck hastily scrambled to his feet.
For a long centon, the sergeant stared at the wayward cadet, as if daring him to move. Starbuck held himself at rigid attention, unblinking and barely breathing as he waited. In three yahrens, he had learned to bow to authority when he had no choice – and the alternative was worse. Putting up with the military felgercarb came with the territory when one toed the line, as he often did. Hades, it was the thrill of successfully sidestepping the pesky rules, such as the curfew, that made the mong worth it.
"Forget the time, did we, cadet?" Brand sneered. "Or are you just stupid enough to be strolling across the compound two centars past curfew for the Hades of it?" To a first-yahren cadet, the man was the epitome of the classic drill sergeant and could scare the crap out the faint of heart with a mere glance. Starbuck had long suspected that he deliberately cultivated his appearance, which seemed straight from a old early-era war holovid, with his close-cropped hair, steely blue-grey eyes, arched nose, and habit of barking his sentences, not unlike an angry Pit-Taurus.
"Or maybe you think you're above the regulations." The sergeant's eyes narrowed. Starbuck also suspected that the reason Brand had been at the Academy for so long – ten yahrens, he'd heard – was because this was the only place where he could legally abuse his subordinates, be it verbally, psychologically, or physically, within some less-than-clearly-defined limits. Within two sectars of his first yahren, Starbuck had learned the man thrived on confrontation and fear; thus, the best way to survive an "encounter with the sergeant" was to give total compliance and no reaction.
Brand took two long strides, until he was nose to nose with Starbuck. The sergeant's eyes pierced the cadet's, and the vein on the side of his neck pulsed as he clenched his teeth. Sucking in a breath, he roared, "This is two nights – two nights! – that you've been out of the barracks! And don't give me any of that mong about studying with the commander's son. Felgercarb! You were no more in that room studying last night than you were tonight. And I know it!"
Starbuck met the man's gaze and used every millitron of his resolve to resist taking a step back. A warning klaxon was ringing in the back of his mind as he noted, at such a close proximity, the tiny beads of sweat on the man's forehead and neck and the twitching of the muscle in his cheek. Usually, beneath even the loudest of rants, the sergeant's sadistic pleasure crept through, be it a slight twist to his lip or a gleam in his eyes. This time, Starbuck suddenly realized, something was different.
Brand inhaled slowly, then lowered his voice to a menacing growl. "All right. You wanna be out in the dark enjoying the fresh air, then I can arrange that. I want ten laps around the track!" He took a step forward, forcing Starbuck to retreat. The cadet's legs hit the cot, and he lost his footing. Before he could fall, however, the sergeant grabbed his arm and yanked him back up, then used the momentum to thrust him towards the cell door.
"Out!" Brand yelled, as Starbuck stumbled but managed to regain his balance – almost. Brand shoved once more, sending him sprawling across the threshold. The guard continued to stare straight ahead but stepped to the side as the cadet tumbled past him. Starbuck ignored the pain that shot through his elbow as he crashed into the floor; he didn't have time to do anything else, because Brand was advancing on him with a scowl, fists clenched, his body tense.
"Move!" The sergeant barked. Starbuck tried to scramble to his feet, but Brand kicked at his legs, sending him tumbling down again. "I said move!"
Starbuck snapped into full survival mode, rolling to the side and to his feet, just barely avoiding the vicious kick that had been aimed at his ribs. For the briefest of microns, as the cadet glanced at his superior before hurrying down the corridor, their eyes locked, and Starbuck, his instincts on full alert, knew what the difference was. The man was furious – that much was obvious – but something else was driving his rage this time, too.
"Get your goll-monging astrum out there and run!" Brand's voice bellowed at him as Starbuck shoved through the security office doors and out into the cold night. With the sergeant on his heels, he jogged towards the training track. "You've got twenty centons!"
Frak! The track was a half kilometron in length, but he knew Brand would be timing him. And if he was so much as a micron too slow . . . well . . . he didn't want to consider what the man might do right now. So he sucked in a breath and sprinted until he found the pace that he knew would get him around the compound within the required time constraint. He was fit; a four centon kilometron was doable. Except he didn't normally run laps in his military boots. Starbuck sighed inwardly and focused on his pace. As he past the starting point and his superior, Brand's scowl indicted that he was on the mark.
One lap down – nine to go. He hoped. Unless Brand decided to add more laps just out of spite.
Starbuck put his body on autopilot and let his mind consider his situation. Besides, his boots were already biting into his heels and ankles; he needed a distraction. So he replayed Brand's reaction in his head. Perhaps he had misread the sergeant, but the more he reflected on it, the more he was convinced that he was right, not just about Brand, but about everything -- the sergeant, the colonel, and dirty deal they were intending to pull off. He was certain, because in the instant that Starbuck had locked eyes with the man that last time, he had read one other emotion beneath the rage.
Fear.
He swallowed the large lump that had formed in his throat. He kind of knew how Brand felt. Hades, he had seen the sergeant intimidate cadets before, but not quite like that. Frack, he was sure the man was going to take him outside and beat the mong out of him. Probably why he had run so fast. He wanted to make it to the track alive.
"Move it, Cadet!" Brand barked.
Starbuck passed him by again. He wasn't sure if he had dropped his pace or if the man was just being his usual threatening self. Why hadn't he looked at his chronometer when he started the circuit? A little distracted, Bucko? He checked it now and decided to time his next lap. That would tell him how he was doing. Only four left. C'mon, you can do it.
He realized that Brand was alone on the track with him. Lords, the Academy was a desolate place at night. For the first time in his short military career, that was a problem. The mere thought of finishing his five kilometron run and having his final confrontation with the sergeant had him wanting to leave the track and run back to . . . Where Starbuck? Where would you go? Just what is left for you if you can't cut it as a viper pilot?
How many times had he asked himself the same questions? How many times had he been close to quitting or getting thrown out? Frack, too many times. Each time he had realized that if he didn't get his act together, he would end up as some two-bit gambler working the circuit from Caprica to Virgon.
He glanced down at his chrono. Three centons, eight microns. Hades, he was surpassing his personal best if this was an average. Something about an abusive, corrupt, angry drill sergeant to propel him onward and upward. How motivational!
"Stop dragging your astum, Cadet!" Brand yelled at him.
Dragging his astrum? Lords, he was in trouble. Just what did Brand have in store for him? He picked up his pace again, coughing briefly as the cold air irritated his lungs. Well, at least he wasn't carrying the usual loaded-down backpack from Hades Hole. Right, things could be worse. Yeah, sure they could.
Starbuck could see Brand staring him down as he headed past him for his last lap. Another man was approaching the track from the direction of the Security office. Starbuck didn't recognize him. Brand saw the man approach and beckoned for him to hurry.
The sergeant switched his attention back to the cadet. "Okay, pick it up, Cadet! I want this final lap to be in under three centons, or you'll be doing it all over again! Move it!" Brand hollered.
Starbuck picked up the pace again. His feet weren't going to forgive him for this. Why couldn't he have been wearing his old comfortable boots that would have been more forgiving when he took them out for a jog? Right, you wanted to look sharp for Imara. You're a slave to fashion, Bucko.
A slight grin crossed his face at that thought. Dress up or dress down. Not a lot of options as a third-yahren cadet. Oh, right, the dress cape. Yep, un-tuck the usual tunic and throw a cape over it. Now that was high-living!
He pushed himself yet again as he rounded the last quarter of the track. The man Brand had been talking to had already left. So much for the faint hope that there would be someone else present as a witness . . . Just remember, this was all for a girl, pal. He shook his head slightly. Women were trouble, pure and simple.
Brand was alternating between glaring at the cadet and peering at his chrono. He stood at the edge of the track and watched as Starbuck sprinted the last hundred metrons. His lip curled into a snarl as the cadet raced passed him, jogging to a gradual stop.
"You're out of shape, Cadet Starbuck! That was a disgusting performance! Over here now!" He bellowed at Starbuck.
Starbuck's heart raced as he circled back to the sergeant. He could feel the sweat trickling down his temples as he quickly wiped his brow and came to attention in front of Brand. There was no way in Hades that he took over three centons to run that lap! Frack!
"Now, why were you out of the barracks at this centar?" Brand yelled as he came nose to nose with the cadet.
Starbuck bit his bottom lip as he caught his breath. What had the unknown man said to the sergeant? Brand looked a little less sure of himself somehow. Almost as if he was still trying to ascertain whether or not the cadet had been the one in the hangar. Maybe someone else had been caught out of barracks? It wasn't as if he was the only one who moonlighted for a little romance. Lords, what if it was Imara they had caught?
"No?" Brand bellowed again. "Drop and give me fifty! NOW!"
Starbuck looked down at the ground beneath him. The frozen, mucky, wet ground. The track, which was relatively clean and dry, was just a half metron to his right and if he just moved a bit . . .
"Don't even think about it." Brand's voice was low and menacing as he leaned in towards the cadet's ear. "DROP!"
Starbuck jumped at the sudden shriek in his ear. He abruptly dropped to the ground and started doing push-ups. Was it a subtle change he detected in the sergeant or not? What was going through the man's head?
"Straighten your back! Astrum down! Frack, you'd think this is the first time you ever did a push-up!" Brand squatted down beside him. "I want to see your chest barely touch the ground, Cadet!" he growled.
Starbuck knew his form was impeccable. Hades, he had done so many push-ups, they were considering putting his picture beside the phrase in the Academy Librarium reference source. Thank the Lords, his vast amount of experience was paying off. Twenty-two, twenty three . . .
"C'mon, astrum-wipe, I said, chest on the ground! Afraid to get a little dirty, boy?" Brand stood beside the cadet, resting a boot on his back and applying pressure.
Frack! Starbuck tensed his muscles against the added weight. He was going to be face first in the mud if Brand didn't lay off. Doing push-ups was nothing if you had momentum working for you. However, going slow and tortuously was another matter all together. Thirty-five, thirty-six . . .
"You never did understand that we have rules for a reason, did you, boy? Don't you know the dangers of being in an un-secure area after dark? Haven't you heard of terrorism, cadet? A young, naïve, inexperienced kid like yourself could get hurt out here." Brand told him as he increased the pressure on the cadet's back. "Wouldn't want that to happen, would we?"
"No, sir!" Starbuck spat out, his face millimicrons from the mud. He could feel the hair on the back of his neck sticking up. Oh Lord, I'll do anything you ask tomorrow if you just get me through . . . Forty-eight, forty-nine . . .
Brand's foot pressed down on the cadet's back with all of the Pit-Taurus' considerable strength and weight. Starbuck slammed into the frozen ground, fleetingly thankful that the cold had altered the usual consistency of the muck and mire.
"Fifty." Brand said in a chilling voice, his combat boot still firmly entrenched between the cadet's shoulder blades. "You want to do that again or are you going to tell me where you were tonight?"
Starbuck briefly wondered if the sergeant was referring to being slammed into the ground or just doing push-ups, before he croaked, "I was . . . with a girl." He felt the pressure ease up a bit, allowing his lungs to expand once again.
"Where?"
Now that was strange. He would have thought that the sergeant would want to know 'who', not 'where'. "In the trees . . . " Starbuck replied. Well, they had ended up there.
"Were you with the Colonel's daughter again, Cadet?" Brand snapped.
Again, the pressure on Starbuck's shoulders increased. He wondered if his body would leave a permanent dent in the terrain next to the track, as his face dug into the frozen mud. Chances were they had caught Imara too. "Yes . . . " His breath was expelled forcefully as Brand ground his boot into the cadet's back. " . . . Sir . . . " he gasped. The pressure eased again, to be abruptly replaced by a knee.
"Listen to me, boy. Listen very carefully. I won't repeat it again." A fist grabbed his hair and twisted his face so piercing blue eyes could stare into his own. "Colonel Diallo is a personal friend of mine who doesn't appreciate a guttersnipe like you messing with his daughter. Do you understand?"
Starbuck winced as his neck was forced to arch painfully to meet the menacing gaze. He blinked as he considered the irony that Imara didn't want to see him anymore anyway.
"Do you understand?" Brand yelled at the cadet.
"Yes, Sir." Starbuck returned.
"If I catch wind of you even so much as sniffing around the Colonel's daughter again, I'll make what you've just been through seem like a walk in the park." He thundered into Starbuck's ear.
Abruptly, Brand lifted his bulk off the cadet and walked away. Starbuck took a few deep breaths as he lay on the frozen ground trying to figure out what exactly had just happened. Well, now that he was still alive, what was he supposed to do next?