It was supposed to have been a routine mission. Commander Mark Dayton had a fairly good idea how the Skipper and Gilligan must have felt when their three-hour tour turned into a life time adventure on a desert island in the Pacific Ocean. Only this hadn't been a comedy, and he'd run more than three seasons.

July 1st, 2010. The Space Shuttle Endeavour was scheduled to fly its last mission before it was due to be decommissioned. The assignment—rendezvous for resupply and astronaut exchange with the International Space Station.

The crew: Spacecraft Commander Mark Dayton, Colonel, USAF; Lieutenant Colonel Robert "Bob" Baker, USAF; Mission Specialist James "Jimmy" Porter; Captain Richard "Dick" Dickins, USN; Mission Specialist Patrick "Paddy" Ryan, CSA; Payload Specialist Colonel Benjamin Zuskin, IAF; Mission Specialist Lynn Bond, PhD.

Suddenly, the launch time was delayed. The reason—the Islamic World Front had threatened to blow up the ISS. Their stated reason? The ISS's orbit had taken the station over Mecca. Outraged at this intrusion by "infidels", the IWF had demanded the orbit be changed. None of them seemed to grasp that changing the orbit of something as massive as the space station was not like changing lanes in your car. Official explanation released to the media—the weather, as usual.Dayton still remembered thinking how farfetched the threat had seemed at the time. The amount of education, experience, training and intensive background screening that each astronaut had to go through, in his mind ruled out that any International Terrorist Organization could penetrate the Space Program. Still, a houlder-launched missile, as any chopper pilot who had served in Iraq would tell you, could ruin your whole day. He couldn't help the twinge of fear that hit him in the gut, and, of course, NASA had to act on the information.

The timing couldn't have been worse. Not only was NASA forced to double check the histories of every astronaut already on the ISS with the FBI, but they were also re-checking the current roster for the planned launch. Which team had been potentially infiltrated? The existing one, or the newest one scheduled to replace them? Or was it all an elaborate hoax?

The two hours before launch were always the worst part of any mission. Butterflies fluttered around the stomach of the most experienced astronaut, and with this added threat hanging over them . . . Good Lord, he was staring at the rest of his crew, looking at them in a new light, that of potential terrorists!

NASA came up empty. Not a blemish on the record of any man or woman either on the Space Station, or scheduled to land there. Finally, NASA Director Larson decided the threat was simply a terrorist ploy to make them think that the illustrious Space Program could be infiltrated. After all, the true aim of terrorism was to instill fear in the hearts of citizens. They would not cancel the launch!

In retrospect, none of it mattered. It was already too late.

The launch had gone according to Hoyle. The flight had been routine. The venerable old ship, about to be replaced by a new generation of transport craft, had performed superlatively. They were finally on their approach and Dayton was at last beginning to relax when it happened. What just a second before had been the sight of the celebrated International Space Station coming into range, abruptly exploded in a deadly burst of destruction.

He threw his arms up to shield himself from the intense flash of light, his rational mind predicting that they too would be consumed by the explosion that had incinerated the Space Station.. The control panel went crazy, and the Endeavour trembled, as though the concussion of the blast would tear her apart. The alarm sounded as her gyros failed. Inexplicably, she seemed to accelerate, as though being drawn into some vortex that he couldn't begin to understand. He could hear the screams of his crew, while the ship shuddered and the stressed metal groaned, as if in its final death throes. His body felt as though it was trying to turn inside out, and his screams of agony and terror joined that of his crew. Only long hours of intensive training prompted him to reflexively slam his helmet shut just before the encroaching greyness faded to black.

He awoke to Baker shaking him, asking if he was alright. He had looked around blearily realizing he was no longer on the Endeavour. Instead, they seemed to be in some kind of cavern. At a glance, his crew seemed to be all accounted for and were in various states of consciousness, but seemingly in one piece. "Where . . . are we?" he had asked, his body reacting woodenly.

"I don't know. But it sure as hell ain't Kansas, Dorothy."

----------

Klaxons were going off in Reece's mind. The sanitation tech, Oriana, had gone missing and her quarters had been thoroughly turned over. Ensign Luana was missing as well. Willem was glancing at Reece with that what-did-we-miss look on his face, as they briskly paced to the scene of the crime.

Apollo and Boomer were already there with that Empyrean Quack and a cute little Ensign he didn't know. Well, at least Starbuck wasn't there to contribute to his grief . . . which was almost weird, when Reece thought about it.

"Perhaps you'll take my missing persons report seriously now." Ama was in Reece's face before he could take two steps inside the quarters.

"Back off, Lady." He muttered as his eyes swept the room. "Have you touched anything?" He asked Apollo. The computer had obviously hit the wall at some point, yet was suspiciously in an upright position on the floor. Apollo seemed to squirm for a moment before responding.

"Just the computer."

Reece looked at him hard for a moment before sighing. "You do know that you're not supposed to touch anything in a crime scene, Captain. Right?"

Apollo met the man's baleful glance. Reece must be feeling some satisfaction about now. A little revenge for yahrens worth of deprecating remarks and treatment from the Colonial Warriors. "I know. I used one of the power cells from my gun belt to tip it back upright, and hit the buttons." He held up the item in question. "No prints were compromised, if there were any. I suspect that if they weren't wearing gloves when they hurled the computer against the wall, there might be at least one other imprint in the room you can lift. Two women are missing here, Reece. Their lives could be at stake. I was willing to take the risk of disturbing the scene, just as I'm willing to take the responsibility. We need to find them now."

"Never mind the fracking politics, you two. Did you get anything from it?" Willem ended the sparring, pulling on a pair of latex gloves and squatting down in front of the terminal.

"No." Boomer replied, joining Willem. He liked the Security Officer. Willem was all business. He loved his job. Took pride in it. He even seemed to be teaching Reece a few things since joining the force. "She's as dead as . . . " he trailed off, as unwelcome thoughts of Starbuck penetrated his thoughts. "There's no power, Will. We called Corporal Komma. He's going to come take a look at her, and see what he can find lurking in the hard drive."

"Komma, huh. Not a bad choice. Wilker would probably want to dismantle it first."

"Will, what say we haul Borka and Kaden back in?" Reece asked, thinking of his discussion with Starbuck in the Security Office. Obviously, those two had something to do with all this.

"Stellar idea." Willem replied with a smile. Now this was the partner he was used to. Using his head instead of his emotions. Yep, Reece was coming along nicely. "We can hold them for twenty-four centars. Separate interrogation rooms and mess with their minds a little, playing them off against one another." An evil smile lit his features. "Hopefully, by then Komma will have retrieved something useful from the data banks." Twelve yahrens in Caprica City's Civil Security Force had stood him well. He knew how to get what he was looking for out of his detainees.

"Borka and Kaden?" Apollo asked. "Obviously you know more than what was in the report you forwarded to me."

"We can't officially record conjecture, Captain." Willem shrugged. "Reece and Starbuck had a little chat. Your friend thought Oriana was up to something. Just what, he claimed to not know. I suspect the lieutenant might be able to shed some light on this if you bring him into the picture."

"Uh . . . that isn't possible. Starbuck's missing in action." Apollo informed them.

"Oh." Silence hung in the room for a moment. "Sorry to hear that." Will offered.

"So am I, Apollo. Boomer." Reece added with a frown. He drew a deep breath. "In the meantime, let's compare notes so we can organize a search. I get the idea a lot has happened since I last spoke to Starbuck."

Captains Apollo and Bojay, report to the bridge. Captains Apollo and Bojay, report to the bridge. The comm crackled to life.

"Boomer . . . " Apollo started.

"I know." Boomer nodded. "Don't worry, I'll help handle this end of it."

"Thanks, buddy." Apollo replied, briefly turning to Lia and squeezing her arm. "You're in good hands, Lia. We'll find them."

She nodded, believing him. Her only concern was, in what condition would they find them. "Let me know if it's not Starbuck, Apollo. I need to know."

Apollo could feel Boomer's eyes on him, making a similar silent plea. "Of course, I will. One way or the other, I let you all know. " He promised before turning to go.

"Captain!" Ama hollered after him. "Bring back our boy!"

Apollo paused, not quite knowing what to say. Oh, to have Ama's undeniable and unshakeable faith that Starbuck was still alive. The initial results of the autopsy and Viper diagnostic would be back. It was likely because of those results he was being summoned to the bridge. But
. . . so was Bojay, the wing leader of the recon patrol that found the lost viper, and the pirate's base. If Starbuck was truly dead, the Commander would notify him, but not necessarily Bojay. However, if Starbuck wasn't the deceased pilot . . . He could feel a quickening of his pulse as he met her eye. "I will, Ama. I will."

----------

The much maligned theory of the space-time continuum—'the wormhole'. Scientists had insisted that it wasn't possible. The physics didn't exist to logically explain it. At times Dayton thought he was starring in some cheesy science fiction novel, as he ran it through his mind repeatedly. How on Earth had it happened? Or rather, not on Earth.

Well, if you fill a prison hovel with seven astronauts with enough collective education and degrees to roast Koivee until it ferments, you eventually formulate a theory—though sometimes he thought the theory might have been more affected by the intake of their pungent 'homebrew' than the laws of physics.

Scientists going back to Einstein had agreed worldwide that spacetime could be warped and distorted by gravity, but it was believed that a wormhole, even if actually possible, would take an immense amount of matter or energy to create the effect. Not only that, but that energy had to occur in space at the entry and exit portals of the wormhole simultaneously. Now, as an effective or reliable mode of transportation for the future, it was implausible, especially since something passing through the wormhole would immediately cause it to collapse. However, as a freak of nature . . . or science, depending on one's point of view, the astronauts had agreed that just possibly the explosion of the International Space Station could create the kind of energy necessary to open the wormhole.

Lord knows what the terrorist . . . or terrorists . . . had used to blow the Station, but from the look of the explosion and their subsequent trip down the Yellow Brick Road, it had to have packed quite a punch. Since then, they had become aware of the amount of energy created by the blast of Torg's favourite toys, the Dynamos, which in turn could have opened the portal on the other side. Of course, as the Endeavour was sucked into the wormhole, taking them to God only knows where or when, the passage behind them closed, cutting off their link to home for good.

Or at least that's what he had thought until he met Lieutenant Starbuck.

Dayton had cohabitated with several other 'Standard' speaking Humans through his imprisonment, which was how he had eventually learned their language, but Starbuck was the first to look at the drawings that Benjamin Zuskin had sketched before his daring escape almost twenty-eight years ago, and actually identify them as Earth's solar system. The NASA Commander almost couldn't believe it. He had given up hope long ago that anyone in this star system even knew about Earth. His Earth.

Dorado had mentioned Earth briefly, but he seemed confused as to whether the planet they sought might actually be in a system they had previously passed through, and was now actually known as Terra. Even his CO, Commander Cain, had seemed perplexed why their people had continued on some inexplicable path when it was as plain as the nose on his face that Terra . . . or Earth, lay behind them.

Dayton had asked Dorado about Terra extensively, and while the modus operandi certainly sounded familiar, he had never heard of the opposing players. Still, if the year wasn't 2040, it was plausible that in the future two opposing factions could conceivably try to blow their planet to Smithereens. How many times had Hollywood brought Armageddon to life on the big screen? Dorado cinched it though when Dayton asked him to describe the star system in which Terra belonged, and it wasn't the least bit similar to his Earth's.

So even as he casually gripped Starbuck's hand, and teased him about his least favourite place to get a cup of coffee in the USA, he could feel his heart rate elevate and his body and mind perk up with a tiny glimmer of hope. Goddamn, he had been stuck in this cesspool for a longtime.

How many times had he tried to escape over his thirty-year confinement? Hell, it must have been at least once a year after their first attempt. Twice that in the early days before the Obediator. The only time they got close was the first time.

Ten prisoners had made it to the hangar that day after killing one guard, armed only with the tools they had been given to harvest the Koivee. Despite the fact that they had the element of surprise on their side, only two had made it to a ship that was functional enough to get them out of there. Ben Zuskin was lucky enough to be one of them. That crazy smuggler, Phineas, was the other.

Dayton, Porter, Dickins and Baker had picked the wrong ship . . . twice. That had been his fault, really. He had pulled rank, insisting on trying to fire up the Endeavour, but after a few precious minutes, it became obvious that the ship was never going anywhere again. Instruments were missing from the cockpit, and parts stripped from just about everywhere. They had reluctantly abandoned the Endeavour, and headed for a ship more serviceable, their chances deteriorating with each passing second. Though their second choice looked fast, they hadn't realized the extent of the pirate's scavenging from the outside. She wouldn't even fire up for them. They were surrounded in minutes, not given a third chance. And they were the lucky ones.

Ryan and Bond had both been shot with some sort of energy weapons trying to make it to a ship. Something else out of a bad sci-fi flick. They hadn't been the only ones. Two other prisoners were shot to death trying to escape. Bond had managed to hang on for a few days, but with inadequate medical intervention, and her already weakened condition from her diet of 'rotten root', as she called it, she perished. The way the pirates had been ogling her, it probably wasn't the worst thing that could have happened to her. Unbelievably, Ryan pulled through. He said if he could survive the Canadian Women's Hockey Team surpassing the medal standing over the Canadian Men's for two consecutive Winter Olympics, he could survive anything.

How many nights had Dayton laid awake, wondering what had become of Zuskin? Of course, the initial plan was to go home and get help, and then return to rescue anyone that didn't get out. That had been naïve. Hell, they didn't even know where home was. And to top it all off, the Wizard was clearly out of red ruby slippers. More than likely, the two escapees would have smuggled their way all the way to the Frodo System, to a small settlement called Croton from which Phineas hailed.

And that was assuming they even made it.

Though, rumour had it that Zuskin picked the fastest ship on the asteroid, and Phineas was one slick pilot with his smuggling experience. They must have made it. The truth was that Torg would have come bragging if his scumbags had managed to catch or kill the pair.

Geez . . . twenty-eight years ago. Likely, Zuskin would have finally learned how to get by in Standard. He had had a hard time picking up the most basic of words, which was strange, since he already spoke three languages fluently. Wherever you are, Zuskin, I hope you did all right. Hell, anything would be better than this. Anything at all.

----------

Luana had checked every centimetron of the container she seemed to be trapped in. She had found every wall, including the one above her when she tried to stand up, which is no easy task when you're bound hand and foot.

Several centars must have passed. It had to be early evening by now. She would have liked to have told herself that her keen assessment of the passing of time was instinctual, but it really had more to do with the growing pressure in her bladder, as it screamed at her to do the decent thing . . . the natural thing . . .

How fracking elegant.

She'd seen a bit of the IFB here and there, followed some of the hit programs. Never had she seen any heroine held captive, whose primary focus was the growing need to relieve herself. No, it just didn't make primetime.

What the frack was Borka going to do? Hold her here until she died from her bladder exploding?

Granted, she held her breath every time she heard a noise that could indicate one of her captors had returned. Again, she wasn't sure why she was still alive, and she had a damn good idea that the next time the hooligans made an appearance, they'd be doing their best to rectify the situation.

Her wrists stung where she had rubbed them raw as she worked at the restraints. She wasn't even able to find a jagged piece of anything to help tear into the tight bonds, which were made from some kind of strange fiber that seemed to get tighter as she tugged at it.

Her mouth was so dry that the disgusting rag in it was now stuck to the roof of her mouth. Just the mere thought of where it had come from, managed to nauseate her once again.

She had never been so miserable in her entire life. Where the frack are you, Starbuck?