Forensic abstracts. While hardly the most sought after task in the medical profession, it was nonetheless fascinating. At least to the physician.
Dr. Paye had to give Cassiopeia credit. It was only one brief sentence which cost her dearly, as her eyes welled with tears before turning to flee the Life Center. Still, it was all the information he needed to begin the most expedient tissue extraction to confirm the identity of the deceased pilot.
"We have an image of one of Lieutenant . . . Starbuck's neuro cells on record."
Paye vaguely recalled the instance where they had retrieved the neuro cell image to compare with a man who might have been related to the lieutenant. He didn't recall the outcome, at the time thinking it a waste of resources. However, rules were occasionally bent and the lieutenant had certainly come through for them when they had gone against Council orders, and returned five Humans to their ship en route to the planet Paradeen some sectons later.
He maneuvered the laser extractor through a fissure in the charred skull with a skilled and steady hand, removing a tiny specimen of brain cortex. The high molecular weight DNA of that particular tissue could be successfully extracted regardless of postmortem age, which was certainly a benefit considering the horrendous condition of the cadaver.
Flash fried in the cockpit. Like a spudon chip. What a way to go. At least it would have been quick.
A careful application of the specimen to the slide, followed by its insertion into the Deoxyribonucleic Acid Correlating Analyzer. Imagine, there had actually been a time when they would have gazed through a microscope and tediously compared gene sequences! Base pair after tedious base pair. Thanks to modern science, those days were long gone.
A few more centons and he could officially close the chart on Lieutenant Starbuck. Paye watched as the sequences came up. C-T-T-A-G-C-G-A-T-G-G...He unconsciously mouthed the letters, as the computer assembled the data. His eyes narrowed in concentration when it became apparent . . .
"That can't be right," he muttered, and popped the sample from the machine. He double-checked the numbers, then returned it to the analyzer. Again, the nucleotides lined up, and again, he saw that they didn't match. He once more checked his results, using his own DNA as a control, before turning to the comm.
"Bridge?"
"Bridge. Colonel Tigh here."
"Colonel, this is Doctor Paye. I need to speak with Commander Adama."
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Though a drink in the OC was a tradition to bid farewell to a friend and comrade, the mood was strained as Apollo had tried to parlay into a few sentences words worthy enough to convey the profound respect and affection he held for a man whom he had known since their Academy days. He could see in Boomer's eyes that it was just as difficult for the lieutenant. Ironically, it was Starbuck's banter that usually helped them through these situations, as he ensured the ale kept flowing while he said goodbye in his own way, through the telling of tales that somehow turned a difficult situation into a pleasant trip down memory lane.
Of course, the formal service would come later. After the body was officially identified.
Starbuck had once told Apollo that the funeral services were the worst part of death. He could almost come to terms with losing a friend when their death was honourable and had some kind of meaning. That of protecting humanity from their ancient enemy. But 'filling a room with grieving people' had always unsettled him in a way he couldn't explain. He would find himself shifting from foot to foot, just wanting it to be over. Not wanting to dwell on the loss, but to move on.
In contrast, Apollo had appreciated the timeless honour afforded each fallen Colonial Warrior. An institution whereby command and servicemen came together to commemorate the ultimate sacrifice—the selfless giving of life. It was a proper end to the Chapter of Life, and necessary for those that were left behind to fight another day.
In keeping with Boomer's words in the landing bay, Apollo had stayed in the Officer's Club for just one drink, and then returned to his quarters. He now had to tell Boxey that Starbuck wouldn't be coming back. The boy had already suffered the ultimate loss, that of his mother. In his heart Apollo knew that children had an amazing resilience, and that the young boy would soon bounce back from this loss as well. Even so, the initial shock . . . He sighed, knowing he had to retrieve his son from the woman who normally cared for him while the captain was on duty. She was a godsend, having a son in the same class as Boxey, and was more than willing to take on another child to help entertain her own for a few extra cubits in her pocket per secton.
As he stood to go, his entry chime signaled the arrival of company. His first thought was that Boxey had been delivered to him early, so it was with surprise that he opened the door to discover Ensign Lia and the Imperial Necromancer standing there.
"Explain yourself, Captain." Ama demanded, stepping past the warrior and entering his quarters. She looked around briefly before taking a seat, letting him know she wasn't going anywhere until he satisfied her enquiry.
"Excuse me?" Apollo murmured, looking to Lia. The young woman looked distraught. He shook his head as he realized she would have learned of Starbuck's death second hand. "Lia, I'm sorry. I should have told you myself. Should have found you . . ."
"No," Lia grasped his hand, stopping his apology. "You don't understand. Starbuck's not dead, Apollo."
Normally, Lia was the sensible one. It was Luana who would be more likely to fly off the handle and react emotionally. Lords, Luana. He should have made it a priority to track her down and let her know. Whether or not the betrothal was genuine, she cared deeply for Starbuck. He had let his emotional need sweep him away to the OC, however briefly, to commiserate with his friends about his own loss.
"Lia . . . " Apollo took hold of both her hands, squeezing them gently. He could feel Ama's eyes boring into the back of his skull. "I saw his ship . . . his body . . . he is dead."
"Don't be daft, Captain. He's no more dead than you are." Ama snapped. "I don't know whose ship you've found, but it's not my Starbuck's."
Apollo wasn't sure what he had expected, but it certainly wasn't the undisputable denial that these two were sharing with him. If it was only Lia, he could have had a rational conversation with her, and convinced her to accept the truth, but Ama . . . Lords, it was like trying to reason with a wild, hungry, injured felix . . . in labour . . . under water . . .
"Apollo, that's not all. Luana's missing. I think she's in danger. Ama told me that Oriana—the woman that Starbuck and Luana rescued on the triad court . . ." Lia watched Apollo's eyes narrow in concentration, and the faint nod that indicated he did indeed know who she was referring to. "Well, she was actually a freelance journalist, trying to get to the bottom of who was setting up Starbuck during his triad games, not to mention how. Lu decided to get involved. They both disappeared on the Malocchio this morning."
It was almost a relief. A distraction from Starbuck's untimely demise. Apollo could focus on finding Luana and Oriana, and get his teeth into solving the riddle that had ended with Starbuck being publicly accused of throwing games by Sire Dracus of the Council of Twelve. Perhaps they could at least clear Starbuck's reputation of that particular blemish. "Go on, Lia." He encouraged her, needing to hear all the details before he could take action accordingly.
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If it didn't hurt, it probably didn't belong to him.
It would be an understatement to say that things hadn't exactly gone to plan. But then, all the best plans had to leave room to deal with unforeseen circumstances.
Not in a million yahrens would Starbuck have thought he'd end up on a small work gang of four Humans, including himself, where no one spoke a word of Colonial Standard. What he wouldn't do for a languatron . . . not to mention a nice, tall tankard of Empyrean Ale. Of course, a pulse-blast rifle to use on his tormentors and an escape route out of here wouldn't be sneered at either.
If his mouth was any drier, sand fleas would take up residency in it. Every muscle in his body ached from spending long centars digging up and hacking with stone tools the prickly, brittle roots which apparently fed this colony. His hands were a bloody mess from handling the questionable food source, and his feet were killing him from walking barefoot through the shallow, fetid liquid where the roots were dominant, resulting in numerous cuts and abrasions.
At first he had been a reluctant participant. But Bex was correct in assuming the rest of the gang would teach the newest lackey the ropes before he dragged down their daily quota, and brought the wrath of the Obediator down upon them. They had muttered incomprehensibly at him, repeatedly demonstrating the routine and placing him none too gently in front of the appropriate plant parts until he too was engaging in the gathering of sustenance.
When they had finally ceased their efforts and started trudging back up into the tunnels from the work pit, indicating that he should follow, and smacking him on the back in recognition for his efforts, he was just about ready to keel over and collapse on the spot. Instead, he wearily picked his way, rising above the incessant dampness and numbing cold that had affected his body as he tried to memorize the route. Fatigue, pain, thirst and hunger all conspired against him, as he found his mind wandering and his eyes half closing while his body switched over to autopilot and he followed in their wake.
The other men all continually chewed and spat out bits of the sinewy root, as they had while working. It seemed to be a constant process. One of them handed a piece of the root to Starbuck, nudging him to get his attention.
"Koivee." He looked to be a good twenty or thirty yahrens older than the lieutenant with an identical uniform to his peers of tattered clothes, unkempt grey hair, and heavily callused hands. It was unsettling that Starbuck could no longer detect the foul body odour that had hung on all the men when he had first joined them. The man took a bite of his own peeled stalk and demonstrated with exaggerated motions how he chewed it thoroughly. He then noisily spat out the remaining plant fiber and rubbed his stomach as if he had just eaten an unsurpassed dish of Pisceran Squab in a heavenly sweet sauce.
Looking down at the moist, greenish root with what Starbuck was certain was mould clinging to the outside, it hardly seemed worth the effort. Especially as another new cut opened beneath his fingernail as he tried to peel the brittle outer coating from the yellow flesh within. "Frack." He sucked on his finger, the bitter taste of Koivee reminiscent to something the matrons from the orphanages used to clean the floors . . . or the sassy mouths of errant youngsters. He had never developed a taste for it, oddly enough.
The root was pulled back from his hand, and within microns was expertly peeled by his tutor with another stone implement. If Starbuck was going to pull his weight, he would have to learn their ways as soon as possible. The man thrust it back in his hand and encouraged him to take a bite.
With a reluctant sigh, Starbuck did so. "Dear Lord . . . "
With a constant acrid, pungent infusion of the likes of Koivee, no wonder such a vile and despicable people inhabited this asteroid. In fact, he could imagine the most venerable of men becoming serial killers after ingesting enough of the rot. Starbuck's eyes watered and tears poured down his cheeks as he spat the offensive substance from his mouth. It was like inhaling ammonium ions, and it took his breath away.
His new friend laughed at his antics, slapping him on the back. "Good." He grinned. "If hunger. Very hunger."
"You speak . . . Standard?" Starbuck sputtered, rubbing his throat to ensure it was still intact from the astringent that he had involuntarily swallowed . . . or inhaled. He wasn't sure which. The enamel had surely peeled off his teeth by now.
The man shrugged holding up his thumb and forefinger, indicating a small measure. "Little."
"And you didn't think to mention it earlier, when I asked?" Starbuck glowered at him.
"No understand," the man replied with an indifferent shrug. "Come." He slapped Starbuck on the back once again, and strode ahead towards what appeared to be a shelter of some kind.
It was primitive by any standards, looking much like a mud hut with a single door fashioned out of dried root fibers. No other openings were apparent as Starbuck followed the others to the entrance, watching them disappear inside.
"Come!" The now familiar voice rang out again, inviting him beyond the threshold. The air within was much warmer, and a slightly sweet aroma filled the area.
Starbuck pushed the door—actually, it was more like a stiff curtain—aside, pausing to take it all in. While the room wasn't particularly large, along the perimeter were a series of pits that were emitting the heat and the aroma. A faint glow from burning embers dimly lit the room. The men settled down on Service style cots, several more were empty and awaiting their usual occupants.
But it was the walls that really struck him. They were covered with diagrams, drawings and some unusual script. Once again the strange white ship with black trim that he had seen in the hangar tweaked his elusive memory, as he stared at its faded copy roughly drawn on the wall. The same standard, foreign, yet somehow familiar, on its fuselage. Even the star system . . . Where the frack did he know it all from? His heart seemed to skip a beat.
Proteus.
His cozy little cell on the penal colony. That was it. Not only had he seen the drawings of the solar system that Commander Adama had suspected represented Earth's system of planets, but that ship and that standard, had been among many other drawings covering the dour walls.
Lords, what did it mean? Could they be nearing Earth? He exhaled sharply. Yeah, he just might be off the hook for this whole debacle if he could not only reveal that the Pegasus was still out there, but that Earth was just a hop, skip and a jump away. He smiled. Hades, he might even get decorated! Of course, he might be jumping the gun a bit. After all, there was still his little problem with the space pirates.
"Earth?" Starbuck asked anyone who wasn't tearing into another repulsive piece of Koivee with gusto, as he pointed to the star system illustrated on the wall.
The men abruptly stopped their meal, staring at the Colonial Warrior, and then muttering excitably amongst themselves.
"Was it something I said?" he asked.
One of them laughed, but probably not in response to Starbuck's words, while another stooped down, grabbing a handful of dirt from the naturally surfaced "floor". He walked towards Starbuck, seizing his hand and letting the dirt filter between his fingers into the warrior's palm. "Earth," he smiled, nodding between the lieutenant and the third planet in the system on the wall. He then patted himself on the chest and motioned to the others. "Earth."