While the mouth of the manmade cavern was only large enough to fly a craft slightly larger than a standard shuttle through, the hangar itself was immense. Starbuck could see a slight flash, as his Viper passed through their atmospheric forcefield, following the other ships in. Ships of different classes and sizes littered the platforms to one side. Most of them appeared to be in various stages of being stripped bare, scavenged for parts.
One especially caught his eye. The white ship was large, trimmed in black, and the engines—its ribbed thruster bells extending from the stern—looked archaic, like the rocket engines of yore. He couldn't make anything of the symbols, the markings were utterly alien, but he was certain he had seen the illustrated standard somewhere before.
His ship bounced up and down as she hit the tarmac, interrupting his musings. He winced. He could have done better than that landing her with his teeth. He squeezed his hand, trying to tighten it into a fist, and sucked in a breath, as once again, his nerves protested. A hot bolt of pain shot up his arm. Frack!
His Viper rolled to a stop. He shook his head as a group of men carrying various prying tools approached him, some of them from the fighters that had just set down. Oh, great. They were going to treat his bird like a can of processed food, prying it open to retrieve the contents. Well, he and the ole girl had gone through too much for him to allow that to happen . . . besides, if he was ever going to get out of there, she was his ride.
Slowly and laboriously he reached for the release. Despite another shooting pain, he forced his shaking index finger to hit the switch. The familiar whine and hiss filled the air as the canopy began to rise jerkily. He really needed to speak to his ground crew about that.
In an instant, a gruff, dirty man with a full greyish beard, and long, thinning hair stuck his head in the cockpit. He pressed a blaster against Starbuck's temple. "Don't move," he said in rough Colonial Standard. He had an accent, but Starbuck couldn't place it.
"Not a problem," Starbuck replied. Like moving anywhere fast was likely in his current condition.
"He's got one of those Colonial uniforms on." the man shot back over his shoulder. "Are you from the Pegasus?" he asked, his blackened teeth and foul breath only centimetrons from the lieutenant as he turned back.
"Where else?" Starbuck shot back. By now another pirate was leaning in from the other side of his ship. Just as filthy and malodorous, but younger with greasy, long hair secured in a braid, he leaned into the cockpit checking out the console. "Don't mind me," Starbuck told him as he leaned back to avoid the accumulation of aromas surrounding him.
"Turn off the tracking signal." The man turned to face him. Grey eyes glared malevolently as he grabbed the warrior by the jacket.
"Tracking signal? I don't know what you mean." Oh, that little red flashing light which is my best chance of getting out of this cesspool. I don't think so, Pal.
"Your ship is transmitting a tracking signal." The pirate's grip tightened and he jerked Starbuck forward, lifting him off his seat. "I want it to stop. Now."
Starbuck hesitated, before feeling the blaster press into his temple again. "Oh, you mean the emergency beacon. Just a little misunderstanding." He smiled weakly. "Afraid I can't help you there. Once it's set, it can't be deactivated until the master sequencer enables it from the Pegasus." As bluffs went, it wasn't bad.
The pirate slammed him back into his seat, looking to his compatriot. "I say we kill him now, Torg. He'll just be trouble."
Torg paused, grabbing Starbuck roughly by the jaw and staring into his eyes. "I don't think you understand. I will kill the other Colonials if you don't deactivate the signal."
Starbuck snorted. "You think I really believe that they're still alive?"
"Let us just kill him now." the younger argued.
"Might as well." Starbuck replied, seemingly indifferently, still staring at Torg, refusing to break eye contact. "And if you blow up the ship, it will stop the signal for sure. Of course, then you can't use it. Not to mention it'll kind of mess up your pretty hangar . . ."
"Let me do it," demanded the other, snarling. "After all, we have not had fresh meat in some time."
"Hmm. And I can see it's been at least that long since you've flossed." Starbuck taunted, while a cold chill settled over him.
"You speak bravely for one who smells as a woman." Torg growled at him, lip curled in contempt.
"Well, where I come from, we've been known to bathe more frequently than once a Leap Yahren." the lieutenant retorted.
Starbuck watched the man's jaw tighten in anger. The blaster disappeared from view, and abruptly two meaty hands reached into his cockpit, grabbed him by the front of his tunic, and jerked him upwards and out of the ship, as if he was a mere child. The pirate then let go, dropping him to the tarmac in a heap.
A vicious kick caught him in the stomach and he doubled over winded, just as another kick struck the center of his back. His back arched reflexively as he gasped in pain.
Two sets of arms reached for him, dragging him to his feet, and holding him erect. He blinked, as sweat and blood ran into his eyes. The right side of his face and forehead stung where he had apparently kissed the tarmac, abrading the skin.
A blow to the gut had him doubling over once again. They dumped him on the tarmac where he collapsed to his knees trying to catch his breath. Note to self: No more wisecracks about personal hygiene.
"Get the Colonials. Perhaps we can encourage them to deactivate the emergency beacon." Torg ordered, standing before the lieutenant. "And bring the Obediator. I believe we're going to need it." He smiled menacingly. "I do enjoy a challenge."
----------
The retrieval of Apollo's Viper had gone smoothly. With precision and expertise, the team had loaded it into the shuttle's hold for conveyance back to the Galactica. Now he sat in the back of the transport awaiting the results of his medical scans, while the recon patrol left to find Starbuck.
It was not a position he was used to being in. No matter how Apollo rationalized that if it was any of his pilots in this situation, they would also be relegated—by him—to sit like a schlub on the sidelines, he still had an incredible urge to commandeer Ensign Lia's Viper and join the reconnaissance mission. Of course, Cassiopeia had other ideas about that.
"Your neurological scan still shows some residual effects of the radion blast, Apollo. Your strength and motor functions are returning to normal, but you're not a hundred percent as yet." She peered down at her medical analyzer as she spoke to him. "I'm concerned about your persistent vertigo and the tingling in your extremities. It's almost mimicking the symptoms of a Transient Ischemic Episode.
"Which means?" Apollo asked as he pulled his tunic back on.
"I'm not sure." Cassie met his intense gaze with her usual professionalism and honesty. "The truth is, we've never seen a radion blast of this magnitude that has resulted in your particular neuro deficits, not to mention how it effected your ship. I've detected a slight elevation in your inhibitory neurotransmitters, but at least there's no evidence of permanent cerebral damage,. Still, I think you need to be monitored longer, and then be assessed by a physician before you can be cleared for duty."
Apollo sighed. "Cassiopeia . . . "
She looked directly into his eyes, and held up her right index finger. "No. Don't ask me to compromise my professional integrity, Apollo." She touched his hand briefly before crossing her arms protectively across her chest. "I know you want to be out there looking for Starbuck, but if anything happened to you as a result of the blast, I would be the one responsible."
"I realize that, but . . . "
"Boomer will find him. And Bojay and Sheba. This has nothing to do with how I feel about Starbuck right now. I'm making an informed decision based on all the medical facts at my disposal." She defended herself as she felt tumultuous emotions rising to the surface. Damn! I thought I could do this! She took a deep breath, willing herself to maintain her self-control.
Apollo studied her for a moment. "Cassiopeia, I don't doubt your medical skill or opinion. But are you sure you should be out here right now?"
She smiled weakly. He had seen right through her tenuous facade. "I was on-call. Unfortunately, I can't pick and choose my assignments." She dropped her eyes, blinking furiously and swallowing the lump in her throat. She just couldn't deal with his support or compassion just now.
It had been a tough forty-eight centars since she had told Starbuck they needed to take a break. Of course, she had awakened the next morning to discover that their break had turned into a breakup, with the announcement of Starbuck and Luana's sudden betrothal.
While she had ascertained that he had been cheating on her through his guilty reaction in the Life Station to her bluff about his sperm count, she had really thought it was just a dalliance that he needed to get out of his system. She had even been prepared for him to do that, fully expecting that he would realize he had made the biggest mistake of his life and come running back. Instead, he had gone and got himself engaged.
It had shaken her.
After all, how could Luana have coaxed a real commitment out of Starbuck after so short a time, when Cassie had been unable to do so after a yahren long relationship? What was Cassiopeia lacking?
First Cain, and now Starbuck. Apparently, she was more of a transitional woman. Someone who helped men through the hard times, before they moved on. Once a socialator, always a socialator. Ah, well at least you're not bitter, Cass . . .
Besides, Cain hadn't exactly just moved on when he disappeared with the Fifth Fleet at Molecay. Or when he took on three Cylon Base Ships to put himself between Baltar's forces and the Fleet at Gamoray. He was a military man, who acted accordingly.
She reminded herself that Starbuck had said the betrothal was just a ruse. Still, he hadn't told her that he was wrong, or that he wanted her to forgive his transgressions, and pick up where they had left off. He had simply not wanted her to be hurt because of an apparent act of betrayal that he had little to do with . . . or so he would have her believe.
The enigma that was Starbuck. She really had thought that she had him all figured out by now. There wasn't supposed to be any more surprises. What a joke that little theory had turned out to be.
His life was led in constant reaction mode. He never seemed to plan ahead . . . beyond the next scramble, or the next card game, or the next sexual encounter. . . and, for the most part, went with his gut instinct with each brief interval at the crossroads of life. She could imagine him—in his Viper—zipping through the symbolic space corridor of life, firing and dodging laser blasts with equal enthusiasm, as the fates conspired to keep him moving, since he was the most entertaining thing on two legs in the universe.
Lords, she had known a lot of men, but none had captured her heart like Starbuck or Cain. Perhaps it was that underlying vulnerability that they tried so hard to hide behind the façade of forced bravado. Or their mutual tenacity and love of life. How they reveled in the ongoing struggle.
"Cassiopeia?" Apollo put his hands on her shoulders. "Are you all right?"
She drew a deep breath, before straightening her shoulders and meeting his eyes. "No. But I will be." She saw the uncertainty so plainly written on his features. "In time."
----------
A sudden stop in forward momentum intimated that Luana had obviously reached her destination . . . wherever that was. Her limbs were screaming in agony from being positioned like a tautline hitch knot in this one metron tall Samsonator, with the light-weight, hard shell casing, telescoping handles, exterior pockets, in-line wheels, ten-yahren limited warranty and the fifty cubit manufacturer's transmit-in rebate.
Hey, it helped pass the time.
The case opened, and she was dumped onto the cold, hard floor. She clenched her teeth against the pain, as her blood flowed to her previously contracted extremities. She blinked, and turned her head away as a bright light shone in her face. She muttered against her gag, twisting in the opposite direction, trying to reorient herself.
"Don't frackin' move."
She could make out the shadow of the walking landram, as she briefly looked in the direction of the chilling voice. It was Borka. She tested her bonds, once again trying to loosen them, as she had several times on her journey there. The sensation had returned to her fingers, which indicated she had made some progress.
In the background, she could hear the rumbling of the Malocchio's engines. Usually, she was barely aware of the white noise that she had finally become accustomed to after a lifetime of living on the planet Empyrean. She realized she had to be far below the passenger decks for the noise to be so resonant. Far from any chance of rescue.
She had known fear before. The taste was familiar as that of Empyrean Ale. It resided deep within her soul, and slowly and subtly sought to permeate her existence, rising from somewhere near her guts and seeping outward until it immured her entire body within its oppressive walls . . . but only if she allowed it.
Luana tried to swallow, her throat dry and hoarse. She would not let fear paralyze her. She reached for the thick piece of tape which secured her gag, and ripped it off, spitting out the foul piece of cloth . . . which Borka and Kaden must have procured from the bottom of Myrddin's soiled clothing.
Strong arms immediately grabbed her by the upper arms, pulling her upright. "What part of 'don't' move' don't you understand?" Borka shook her, sneering at the slight woman before him.
Luana licked her lips and cleared her throat. "Don't," she retorted, before attempting to hit him with a palm heel strike to the nose, as she had his partner.
He thrust her away from him, and she crashed to the floor on her back, gasping as the breath was knocked out of her. Now, the light was on him and she was able to take in the scene.
The trunk that she had been transported in had Myrddin's shingle on the side. Myrddin The Magnificent. Under different circumstances, she might have taken the time to make a disparaging comment at so plainly ripping off that other great Archimagus from ancient Empyrean history . . .
But Borka, the only other person in the small, grimy storage room, was ominously closing in on her. He held her knife before him, as he steadily approached her.
"I didn't want it to come to this." Borka muttered, shaking his head. "Why couldn't you just keep your nose out of our business?"
"You make it sound like it's all my fault." She croaked, scooting away from him on her buttocks. The fear had returned, rising up to grip her by the throat.
"If you hadn't told her to run . . . if you hadn't pulled the blaster . . . thrown the knife." His face was almost haunted, as he tightened his grip on the blade.
"Don't do this. Kaden killed Oriana, not you." Luana reasoned as she tried to regain her feet. While usually agile as a felix, suddenly her limbs responded woodenly in reaction to her rising terror.
"Orders." Borka replied, his features settling in resolve.
"From Fausto?"
He paused for an instant, and then reached down for her. Suddenly she was flipped over on her knees, one meaty forearm around her neck, and the other wielding the glinting blade before her. "How did you find out about Fausto?" His grip on her tightened. "Who else knows?"
"Wouldn't you like to find out?" she snapped.
"Your betrothed?"
Luana sniffed, refusing to answer.
"I know he was poking around into our files. I didn't think he'd be the type to leave a mere woman to do a man's job though." He pressed the apex of the blade to one side of her neck.
"You'll go to Hades Hole for this." Luana whispered, unable to stop the rising tide of tears.
"I know . . . " He replied before taking a rasping breath and, with an anguished cry, drew the weapon sharply across her throat.