"What in Hades Hole did they do to her . . . ?" Starbuck muttered in horror as he gazed out at his Viper from the air duct.

"What?" Dayton asked from behind. It had taken longer than he had anticipated to get there; longer than he perhaps remembered from the first break out so many years ago.

Apparently, Starbuck's little plan to disable his fighter had gone awry, when the pirates decided they would try and diagnose the mechanical difficulty and repair her themselves. "She's in pieces. The bastards took her apart! She's in frackin' pieces! The boray-licking snitrads, if I could get my hands on the guy who . . . " For a split micron, his stomach leapt into his throat and his hope died . . . then he gave himself a mental shake and started to take a good look around.

"How many pieces?" Dayton asked, as he both sought to stop Starbuck's tirade, and tried to squeeze into the space over the Colonial to get a look.

"Too many." Starbuck returned with his teeth clenched angrily. He stretched out full length and pressed himself to the surface as he felt Dayton trying to share the small space above him. "There's another ship though." One of the first fighters he had seen when he had followed the other pirate ships to their base. It was no doubt slower than a Viper, having only two comparatively small engines, but would be sufficient to get him out of there.

He hoped.

"Ah, a Rover. Do you think you can fly it?" Dayton asked, leaning over Starbuck's shoulder, but trying to keep out of sight.

"I have yet to meet the ship that I can't fly." Starbuck returned matter-of-factly. "No matter who built her."

"You're a cocky son-of-a-gun, you know." Dayton observed, a faint smile hovering on his lips. There was a time when he would have made the same claim.

Starbuck shrugged. "A Rover, huh? Where'd she come from?"

"Rover is just the name of the squadron. It's pretty damn rare to see birds of a feather around here since most of the ships have been scavenged." He glanced down at the mystified countenance on the lieutenant's face. "Similar ships. That one," he nodded towards the Rover, "belonged to a smuggler named Phineas. He said he was from the Frodo System, but where that is I have no idea."

"I do." Starbuck told him. "Did Phineas happen to escape?"

"How would you know that?" Dayton asked in surprise.

"I've seen illustrations of your ship and your star system before."

Now Starbuck had talked about the Colonials' search for Earth, and he had assumed that was how Starbuck had recognized their system, but . . . "The Endeavour? Where?"

"On a penal colony called Proteus."

"Penal colony? You mean prison?" Dayton's heart sunk as he tried to come to terms with Zuskin's possible fate.

He nodded. "A prisoner that they referred to as the Silent One drew them." He looked up watching the array of emotions cross the face above him. It didn't altogether make sense. Why would Phineas know Earth's star system so well? Why would he draw things that seemed to be exclusively related to Earth? Especially if he was from the Frodo System.

"Did you meet him?" It felt like Dayton's heart paused mid beat as he awaited the answer.

"No. I think he died yahrens ago." Starbuck paused as he watched a brief flicker of pain cross the Commander's features. "Phineas?"

"I don't think so. I think it was our payload specialist Colonel Benjamin Zuskin, Israeli Air Force."

"Remind me to ask you what an Israeli Air force is, when we have more time to talk about it." Starbuck murmured. And what kind of name is Benjaminzuskin, anyway? It was just as bad as the rest of them. Long winded bunch, those Earth men. "What about those other ships? The Wraiths, I think they were called. Four of them."

"The Wraiths, now that's interesting technology. I honestly don't know much about them, never having seen them in flight. You could probably tell me more about them."

"Well, they're clearly designed for reconnaissance. They're small, lightweight, maneuverable, and surprisingly fast . . . probably because they don't seem to carry any weapons. At least none that I could see. They send out some kind of wide-spectrum jamming signal that completely scrambled my sensors until I got ahead of them. That's obviously their main defensive system. They seem to be the retrieval team."

Dayton nodded. "I don't know where they came from, but I heard that the beings that manned them expired as soon as they were exposed to our atmospheric conditions. Apparently, Torg was furious."

"Beings? Not human?"

"I don't know for sure. I wasn't privy to the information being in the tunnels. But we sure as hell got it from Torg."

"Punishment?"

"Yeah. Them dying seemed to really piss him off but good. None of us were ever sure exactly why, but he took it out on several of us. Beatings. The Obediator." Dayton fell silent a moment. "Yeah, he really got his jollies that day."

Starbuck nodded slowly, completely understanding what a beating from Torg meant. It had taken all his will not to break down and blurt out the truth. Lords, after several yahrens of that . . . He sighed, shaking his head and swinging his attention to the hangar crew. "Where's our distraction?"

As if on cue, a ruckus broke out at the opposite end of the hangar, just inside the tunnel entrance. Starbuck could hear men yelling and cursing, but was unable to see who was involved. The hangar crew dropped what they were doing, and sprinted towards the melee.

"Let's go." Starbuck whispered urgently, but Dayton was already climbing over him, and lowering himself to the tarmac. The lieutenant followed, as quickly as his aching gut would permit, dropping down beside him. They raced together towards the fighter.

"Are you sure you can operate her?" Dayton shouted up to him as the warrior climbed aboard the small ship.

He quickly looked over the control panel, as he climbed in the fighter. As he usually found when he was in a cockpit, whether it was up-to-date Cylon or Proteus relic stock, the instrumentation varied, but, if designed for the basic Humanoid form, was essentially consistent with every other ship he had ever flown. "No sweat," he grabbed the helmet he found tossed carelessly on the floor by the pedals.

"I'm going to help our guys then. Good luck, Lieutenant!" Dayton shouted, turning to sprint towards the action.

"You too, Commander!" he replied. He bent to study the instruments a few moments, then pulled on the helmet and hit the switch that would hopefully close the canopy. It hissed as it smoothly lowered into place, like a billowing blanket on a sandy beach. "Figures," he muttered thinking of his own jerky canopy on his Viper. He reached for a bank of switches, and the control panel flickered to life. He fired up the engines and heard the beginning rev of the dual thrusters . . . then they choked and died.

Once again he went through the motions, starting up the engines. Once more they died. "Frack!" he cursed when he was suddenly distracted by a loud tapping on the canopy. He peered back over his right shoulder to see Torg perched on the side of the fuselage, a malignant smile pasted on his face, and a familiar-looking Colonial blaster pointing at Starbuck's skull.

"Get out!"

----------

Dickins had been merciless as he lead the small group of prisoners towards the hangar and their ultimate freedom . . . or death. Free, either way. They had proceeded silently and anyone who had the misfortune to stumble on their path simply died. Quickly and efficiently.

All the men seemed astonished at the efficacy with which Dickins could kill with his bare hands. As for the former US Navy Captain, he seemed almost possessed as he choked or snapped the necks of his victims . . . and those were the fortunate ones.

One man he had beaten to death with the heavy pipe he carried. Dorado had stepped forward to stop him when the pirate was clearly dead, and still the bludgeon found its target again and again, blood splattering over Dickins' face, as well as tattered clothes. Ryan had grabbed Dorado's arm, pulling him back, simply explaining that "Parr had it coming".

Following that incident, it had been eerily silent until they were almost upon the hangar. A group of pirates was lying in wait for them, almost as if they were expecting them. Dickins screamed a battle cry worthy of the warriors of yore, and charged them like a madman.

At first they seemed struck dumb, as the clamorous lone man bore down on them, his friends following a moment later. The former sailor hurled the pipe from his hand, the rusty weapon sailing towards the enemy in a blur. It hit one of the pirates in the knees, and he went down with a scream. Then Cargan raised his blaster, taking aim and firing. Though Dickins stumbled, he didn't falter, hurling his body through the air until he connected with the marksman.

"You missed," Dickins snarled in English as his fist connected with the pirate's jaw. "Payback's a bitch, huh?"

Blind fury surrounded him like a heavy mist, as it had since they had left the Zone. This was his chance to get even. He didn't even care if he made it out of there. He really had little interest in joining these Colonials, and doubted he would ever see the USA or his loved ones ever again. Oh, he had every intention of killing as many of these bastards as he could, in retribution for years of diseased degradation and torture. Only through the spilling of their blood could his pain be eased . . . his tormented soul be freed . . .

----------

The third time's the charm, Bucko. Though he wasn't much of a praying man, Starbuck could always whip up a real good one for the Goddess Fortuna at his most desperate moments. Not long or wordy, but always with just the right amount of "I'll promise to do anything you want if you just . . . "

He held Torg's gaze for a long moment, before turning back to the control panel and trying to fire up the engines one more time. Freedom was a strong motivator, and death, but a welcome alternative to a lifetime of slavery. Then there was the fact that the astrum-wipe was wearing his favourite flight jacket, broken in after yahrens of fastidiously resting his elbows on the bar of the Officer's Club. The thrusters coughed, whirred, and finally roared to life. Grinning, he adjusted the throttle, rewarded by the small fighter shaking with power. He looked down at the weapon's switches . . .

Torg's hunch had been right when he sent the other Wraiths ahead without him to check out the triggered Dynamo. He had known in his gut that there was something going on when two Dynamos in opposite quadrants alarmed. He also strongly suspected that this new guy would somehow be behind it all. As much as he was tempted to just blow the canopy apart, and the man too, Starbuck would make a far better example to the others if he was still alive. He would flay the skin from every inch of the Colonial in a poignant demonstration to the others of exactly what happened when you crossed Torg! Then he'd draw and quarter him for good measure.

Torg's grin widened, as it occurred to him that Bex would probably try to flay him alive if he shot the hell out of the man's canopy. "Cut the engines, or I'll fire!" he hollered.

Starbuck heard the blaster tap the canopy once again. His hand gripped the control stick and he could feel an icy determination settle over him. Suddenly, Dayton's actions which had seemed so inhuman at the time, made complete sense. He smiled back at Torg, pointing behind the pirate, and yelled, "Me first!"

He saw Torg's eyes go wide with realization and then sudden fear, as the detestable man turned his head to look directly into the sights of the Rover's starboard gunnery. That was the last thing he saw as the warrior activated his weapons.

This side of Hades Hole, anyway.

Blood splattered the canopy, and the partially incinerated corpse fell off to the side, but Starbuck barely noticed. He was already shuttling down the runway, once again familiarizing himself with the fighter's systems, as he gained speed and hurled through the small opening into the asteroid field . . .

And almost directly into a head-on collision with a Viper! Instinctively, he banked sharply to the starboard, thanking his lucky stars that the other pilot pulled up. He punched up his scanners, reading the array of fighters before him. "Yeeeeeehawwwww!"

"Enemy fighter, this is Captain Apollo of the Battlestar Galactica. You are ordered to power down your ship at once. Surrender now, we have you locked on target." Apollo could see Boomer positioning himself behind the small fighter, Jolly on his wing. The marauder's ship strangely started waggling from side to side. "Uh . . . Boomer . . . "

"Holy frack! Is that you, Bucko?" Boomer asked, a grin stretching from ear to ear.

Starbuck sniffed, adjusting his channel slightly to clear the interference. "In the flesh." He swallowed the suddenly large lump that unexpectedly rose in his throat. "Nice timing."

"Are you okay, Starbuck?" Apollo asked the uncharacteristically quiet man.

"Never been better." He sucked in a deep breath and let it out. "Dorado's in there, Apollo, with his wingman, and about five guys from Earth. They're battling it out with the hangar crew. The hangar's virtually abandoned right now. We have to go back in and get them out."

"Earth?" cried the Strike Captain. For a moment, he was stunned. "Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure!" Starbuck retorted testily. "Don't you think it would have come up in the conversation in the last sixteen centars?"

"Uh . . ." Now that was more like Starbuck.

"Skipper!"

"Go ahead, Jolly."

"I have that same Viper that left with the first squadron on my scanner heading back this way."

"Just the Viper?"

"Affirmative. No other ships on that vector." Jolly replied.

"I can take him, Apollo." Bojay's voice piped up. "He's closer to our position."

"Frack that," Starbuck interjected, instinctively knowing who manned the ship, "he's mine."

"Starbuck, you're flying a fossil." Bojay informed him. "Push it too hard, and the rubber bands might break!" And they all knew he'd push it. He always did.

"Even so, I can still outfly that vermin-infested, boot-licking, mong-sniffing, waste-of-air pirate! Can you hear me, Bex?" He sneered as he located the incoming ship on his scanner. He changed course, heading for the interception.

"Aye, I hear ya, Starbuck," came a crackling reply. Even amidst the distortion, the man's cruelty came through the speaker. "And I'll be having a rare time of it proving you otherwise, when I blast your Colonial ass to Kingdom Come." He laughed. "I'll carve you up piece by piece, before I return to base and personally do the same to your friends."

"Starbuck, Commander's orders are to avoid . . . " Apollo started.

"Screw the orders! Either shoot me down now, or let me take him on. Your choice, Captain." He could almost taste his fury at the thought that Bex would simply be left on the base with the other pirates. No, like Torg, this man had to pay for what he had done to Starbuck, and to the others. They, and this whole base, had to be destroyed. Blown to slag. No longer would they prey on any other unsuspecting victims. He took a deep breath. "There are men on that base that need help now, Apollo. Even if you bust me all the way back to ensign later, you can't stop me from doing what I'm going to do."

The comm was silent for the longest micron in the history of their friendship.

"Stay with him, Boomer. Okay Blue and Silver Spar Squadrons, let's move in."

----------

One-way valves didn't need to be welded shut. Ever. That defeated the purpose. Who would waste the filler metal? Who would waste the time? Or the energy?

Maybe someone learning how to weld. But on a waste pipe? If methane gas remained inside, it was a great way to get your head blown off. Surely a Welding Ticket paid for a better experience than that, even in the Fleet.

And why in Hades had they been waiting all day to get on with the job? Halls knew Colonial Security had something to do with it. His supervisor had cursed them well into next secton as his face grew redder. Halls was waiting for the famous Thurman hairpiece to fly up into the hair and hover above the bald head, as he well and truly blew his top. He grinned at the image as he watched the first massive pipe enter the shredder. Soon, it would be scrap. And this one would follow. This weirdly welded one.

He jumped down from his control booth to take another look. This time he checked the opposite end. His weird hunch was right! That valve was welded too. It didn't make any sense, closing it up like some tin can. Why in God's name seal up a useless, corroded length of . . . unless . . .

An uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach had him reaching for his commercial blow torch and safety goggles. He could vaguely hear Thurman screaming in the background. It sounded as though Colonial Security had at last arrived, and were none too happy. Halls ignored them all and blasted the seams, heating them to well over three thousand degrees within microns. He cut the power and raised his foot, kicking in the valve with his work boot.

The stench of urine almost overpowered him. He held his breath and peered inside. "Oh, my God . . . "

A small, insensate form lay inside. A hood covered the head, and bonds secured the feet, and undoubtedly the hands too, since they were behind the back. He leaned inside, reluctant to touch the poor bugger, but an overwhelming need drew him closer, like the about-to-be-executed-victim in a cheesy, horror holovid.

He lay a hand on the chest, and it somewhat startled him to realize it was a she. But in that same moment of understanding, he also noted the chest was not moving, and the heart was not beating. She was dead. "Oh, my dear God . . . " He grabbed hold of her, and began to pull her out of the pipe.

"THURMAN! SOMEBODY! GET A MEDIC OVER HERE!"