The pain was relentless. At first Starbuck had thought he could struggle through it, but as each centon passed, he became less aware of his surroundings, and more aware of the agony intent on ripping his gut apart.

It became the very core of his existence. Everything else occurred on the periphery, which was just as well. Every extraneous sound, jeer, movement, question, order, demand, or blow, he just ignored. Nothing could penetrate the all consuming, immuring pain.

Time was meaningless. He lost the power of all senses, but that of sensation. He was far removed from anything that didn't grip him by the guts, and squeeze him until every fiber of his being was engulfed in endless, burning torment. Part of him wondered if he had indeed died, and this was, despite all his cynical disregard, his eternal reward...

Then suddenly it stopped.

He felt strangely bereft. Almost like some amazing shield of invincibility had left him, thrusting him back into the fray to a different, possibly even darker reality. He wasn't sure he was quite ready to change thrusters just yet.

"Now, let's try it again. Why did the Pegasus come back and what's her position?" someone barked at him.

Starbuck's eyes were closed. Either that or they had gouged them out while he was curled up in the fetal position in the searing depths of Hades Hole. He blinked twice, slowly registering the gradual clearing of his vision, and then ran a hand across his face, wiping away his sweat soaked hair.

His gaze was drawn to his crimson covered flesh. Blood. His blood. He stared in wonderment at his hand, just centimetrons from his face.

"I told you that you bloody well set the frequency too friggin' high," an angry voice accused. But Starbuck vaguely realized the anger, and the allegation weren't directed at him.

"Hey!" said a sharp voice, just a foul breath away. A sharp jab to his shoulder followed.

Starbuck blinked again, closing his hand into a fist as he glanced up at his tormentors.

"Can you hear me? I asked you a question?" Torg snarled at him, grabbing him by the neck of his tunic as he kneeled beside the beaten warrior. Glazed blue eyes stared back at him indifferently, and then drooped close in exhaustion. "You want me to turn the Obediator back on?" he threatened.

"No . . . " The voice was thick and raspy. He barely recognized it as his own. Slowly, he opened his eyes again.

"Why did your Commander come back?" Torg demanded.

Not a single quip came to mind. Only Dorado's voice echoed through his memory, Just tell them what they want to know, Bucko. "Didn't . . . say."

"What were your orders?"

"Find . . . unidentified energy source." He tried to wet his cracked lips, but to no avail.

"Well, you did that, didn't you?" Torg chuckled.

"Why were you alone?" Bex asked suspiciously.

A glimmer of a smile briefly touched Starbuck's lips, as he rolled slightly onto his back finding Bex right in his path, leaning over him. "Wasn't."

"I knew it! Dynamo sixty-six was destroyed. You bloody did it, didn't you? Where's the other ship? The one that it energized?"

"Safe." Starbuck looked Bex in the eye. He liked the anger that was simmering there. It soothed his pain.

"Bastard." Bex spat. "Those ships have some kind of line for pulling things. We haven't figured it out yet." He told Torg, before looking back at the Colonial Warrior. "Now the next thing you're going to do is tell me the coordinates that your friend is sitting at."

"Never." Starbuck whispered, subtly issuing a challenge. Apollo would be safely on the Galactica by then. A set of coordinates, far from the fleet, filtered through his mind again and again like a mantra. When he couldn't take the pain anymore, he would blurt them out, making the pirates think they had torn the information reluctantly from him. They would launch in search of his wing leader, while the Galactica advanced on their base. Hopefully. If the timing was right, it could be perfect. He mentally prepared himself for the next wave of the battle.

"That's what you think." Torg leered, before pulling a small control from his impressive new flight jacket, courtesy of his newest prisoner. Too bad the boots didn't fit. He cranked the dial over hard as he watch the man convulse in pain. Another step closer to breaking him. He would make a suitable worker in the tunnels.

If he survived.

----------

Finding Luana was proving to be more difficult than Lia had first thought. No one in the billet had seen her, since she had briefly appeared for a turbo-wash and a change of uniform that morning. In a manner totally unlike the vibrant, vivacious young woman, Luana had been curiously quiet and unforthcoming with her plans for the day.

"She said something about going to see a man about a daggit." Brie had told Lia.

"Wonderful."

The daggit was as elusive as the sister. Lia scoured the Battlestar to no avail. Finally, she checked in at the transport station, realizing Lu must have gone elsewhere.

"Yes, Ensign?" The young man smiled pleasantly as he looked up from his work station.

"I'm trying to locate a warrior who I suspect has taken a transport. I know it isn't exactly protocol, but she's my sister, and I really need to find her. Family emergency." Lia explained, somewhat creatively.

"I see." The clerk replied. "I could just cross reference your ID numbers to verify that, if you have hers as well, Ensign . . . ?"

"Lia." She smiled warmly. "Thanks, I appreciate you taking the time."

"I'm here to help." He shrugged it off. "What's your number?"

"544 987 454." Lia replied. If it wasn't for the inexplicable urgency she was feeling about locating Lu, she might have noticed how he kept glancing up at her as he waited for his computer to access her information.

"And your sister's?"

"544 987 455."

"Of course." He nodded, noting the chronological order. Obviously, Lia was the elder sister. He watched the computer verify their relationship, and hoping that the attractive young women would remember his kindness when she had dealt with her family emergency, he checked the transportation records.

"Here she is. She took the 0800 shuttle to the Malocchio this morning. There's no record of her return, or any other flip she might have jumped."

"Flip?"

"Trip. Transport." He smiled. He glanced down at his screen again. "The next shuttle bound for the Malocchio leaves in forty-five centons from Beta Bay. It's a puddle jumper though. It stops on six other ships before it reaches the Empyrean Freighter."

"A pud . . ." She stopped, confused.

"Sorry. Slang from my home province in the Colonies. It doesn't go directly there, but makes numerous stops along the way."

"I see. I guess I need to work on the colloquialisms among the warriors. "Thanks again for your help." Lia told him.

"Tivon."

"Sorry?"

"Tivon. That's my name, Ensign Lia." He grinned at her, as a slight blush crept over her lovely features. .

"Oh, right. Well, thanks again."

"Any time."

----------

Apollo stood stoically by, as the three Vipers landed in Alpha Bay. Bojay had released the wrecked Viper on his approach, and the crew had done the rest. The grapple arm slowly and methodically maneuvered the remains of the once powerful fighter, almost cradling it in its safe delivery to the landing bay. It was crumpled from underneath, with the nose caved in, the left engine torn away, and the canopy blown outwards by the final explosion. It was so bad, he couldn't even see any of the ship or squadron markings on her. Lords, I hope it was quick.

Now, he stood by letting the appropriate medical and technical crews get to work to verify what they already knew. Starbuck was . . . dead.

It just didn't seem possible. How could someone who was so full of life . . . ? He shook his head and watched as the medical crew moved in on the blackened and sooty wreckage. In what remained of the cockpit, he could see a blackened, twisted form. The last remains . . .

"Apollo."

A soft voice, and a gentle hand on his arm. He turned from where he watched the proceedings.

"I'm so sorry, Apollo. We were too late." Sheba told him. She had held it together fairly well until she saw the anguish in his expressive green eyes. Her eyes immediately filled with tears, and she watched him blink back his own, as his arms embraced her, pulling her to him.

"It's not your fault," Apollo whispered, his lips lightly brushing her hair. He had already replayed the mission over in his head a hundred times, trying to figure out where they had gone wrong. What mistake they had made. Why Starbuck? Why did you have to go back without backup?

Because you have people who need you, he could almost hear his friend's reply. The Commander needs his son. Boxey needs his dad. Athena needs her brother. Sheba needs her man. It's that simple, buddy.

"It's not anybody's fault." Boomer squeezed the captain's shoulder. "And Starbuck wouldn't want us to be standing here trying to ascribe blame."

"No, he'd want us lifting a tankard in the Officer's Club, regaling each other with stories of his exploits." Bojay joined them.

"Real and imagined." Apollo added with a faint smile.

Sheba straightened her shoulders, and wiped her eyes. "You're right. That's exactly what he'd want."

Boomer nodded his approval. "One drink." He could do it for Starbuck. Grieving could be done in private later.

----------

"It seems wrong somehow." Tigh murmured aside to Adama. "An indignity to Starbuck's memory."

"I know how you feel, old friend." Adama nodded, as he looked away from the charred remains of the celebrated warrior on the examination table in the Life Station. The corpse was more or less complete, but the explosion and brief fire had done their work. The uniform was almost entirely gone, and what remained of the skin and soft tissues was charred a deep black. Ribs protruded from the chest, and the empty eye sockets seemed to stare up at them mournfully. The jaw was open, as if still crying out in the final moment of agony. Doctors Salik and Paye were preparing to conduct an exhaustive post-mortem. "Still, Starbuck was always pragmatic. I think he'd understand our need to find out what happened. Anything that helps us more thoroughly understand the effect of the spheroid on the Human body, will be an asset if we come in contact with any more of them." Along the same line of thought, Dr. Wilker and his staff would be dissecting what was left of the Viper, trying to get more information on the nature of the mechanical failure following the blast, and comparing it to the data from Apollo's affected fighter.

"If?" Asked the Colonel. "What about Bojay's report? Sheba relayed the most recent coordinates for the base."

"Tigh, you know as well as I that the only rationale for attacking their base at this point is revenge. I'm not prepared to potentially lose more pilots to avenge Starbuck's memory. Not when it could potentially endanger the entire Fleet. We don't know the extent of their forces."

Tigh nodded, his gaze morbidly drawn to the table. Once again, they were forced to make a decision based on the harsh reality of their situation. Their priority was the safe conduct of over two hundred ships, carrying what was left of Humanity in their Star System. Gone were the days when they could match an enemy blow for blow. "I understand, Commander."

"As do I." Adama squeezed his shoulder. "It's a bitter pill to swallow."

"Yes, Adama. It certainly is."