Starbuck looked very much like a man who was trying very hard to control himself, without a lot of success. He had grabbed Dayton's tunic when he had hoisted him off the floor as if he was a mere child, and had not let go since then. Now they stood in the elevator on their way to the Bridge, seconds passing by as if they were hours, and stared at each other as if they were combatants in an ancient duel, each one measuring the another up. The warrior clearly had things to say to him, and was just as clearly not going to say them in the presence of Colonial Security, which was probably a good thing. Still, Dayton refused to flinch as the younger man's eyes bored into him, suspicion clearly written upon his features, as well as in the tension of his body.
Dayton grabbed the warrior's fist where it clutched his clothing. "Look, this is an elevator, not some bloody dark alley! I'm not going anywhere." He muttered, his eyes glancing meaningfully around the enclosed space.
"Count on it," Starbuck nodded, his voice low and menacing, not letting up his grip.
It was if he was daring Dayton to try and do something about his hold, and the NASA Commander was immediately reminded of similar instances of himself on the edge over the last thirty years. It wasn't the first time the young man had induced such déjà vu. No wonder that they always seemed to be at each other's throats. But there was no bloody way that he was going to cede ground to a pissy little mama's boy, even if his mama was some witch from another solar system . . .
He opened his mouth, intending to say as much while Starbuck's eyes narrowed, like Clint Eastwood's, poised to tell him to "make my day". The hiss of the opening doors interrupted the stand off.
"C'mon," Starbuck muttered, and Dayton was tempted to slam him as he felt himself once again dragged along, this time by the arm, and towards the Command Center of the Galactica. However, there simply wasn't time for such shenanigans, and despite his anger at his treatment by the Security Officers and then by Starbuck, he realized that despite his youth, the lieutenant was an extremely good judge of character—or at least his character. Alarmingly so.
Still he couldn't resist, "Wouldn't miss it for the world, Mocha Man."
----------
The low hum of the asteroid base's Control Center was almost mesmerizing. There was something about white noise that was comforting to a man who had lived the better part of his adult life on a Battlestar. That constant drone of the mighty engines that never went away, yet simultaneously disappeared into the background, except for when he sat and purposely listened for it, always impressed at how quickly his mind flipped that inner switch to make him notice it once again.
The subtle shift from awareness to obliviousness of one's environment; it often happened without notable discernment. One moment, acutely aware and listening for any shift in frequency, and the next only hearing the extraneous sounds around it. Apollo grinned. It happened consistently in parenthood as well.
However, after a couple of sleepless days, the background hum was almost of a lulling quality, which was almost ridiculous in the situation. He became dimly aware that his eyes were growing heavy and his head actually bobbed forward onto his chest, which had happened before at one of Starbuck's all night card games after a couple glasses of ambrosa, but never on duty. And certainly not so quickly.
Apollo snapped back up and ran his hands through his hair, roughly rubbing his scalp as though he could resultantly increase the blood flow to his brain. He shook his head and drew a deep breath, checking his chrono and realizing he only had another six centons until zero centar.
That damned red button almost seemed to wink at him, enticing him to reach forwards prematurely. What would be the harm? Just get it over with, Captain. After all, you might find out a few centons earlier that the damn thing isn't going to work . . . or you might find yourself joining your family in the hereafter.
Apollo sniffed in amusement. It was a bit like the white noise. Two little voices talking to him, giving him opposing views, and him barely cognizant of the fact. He squirmed, then leaned back into the seat cushion. Lords, you must be tired!
Then again, in life there was always more than one possible solution, and more than one viewpoint on virtually any topic. He constantly faced crucial choices he had to make that would effect others, especially as a Strike Captain and father. Usually, he just did so on autopilot, confident in his moral fiber, but for some reason this time he was aware of the pros and cons, was arguing before and against, even when they already had a plan in place. But you're the Strike Captain. You can change the plan.
The thought brought him back to the gambling chancery on the Rising Star when he and Starbuck had first met Chameleon and the lieutenant had introduced his friend—somewhat comedically—as "my conscience, Apollo". He, on the other hand, had often imagined Starbuck as the little demon with a pitchfork on a shoulder, leading him into temptation. Albeit it was more common in the old days, and most notably while they were still at the Academy. But he could almost imagine Starbuck hovering over his shoulder now, telling him he was just too hung up on rules and regs and to just push the fracking button so we just call it a day and get back to the OC before the last round.
His finger hovered over the button, as his face quirked in an insouciant grin. Yeah, do it for old times sake. Starbuck will love it. Just imagine his face when you tell him about it!
Don't be daft! If you even breathe hard on that button, I'll turn you into a porcine so quickly you'll be breakfast protein on a grill on the morrow!
Apollo jolted, jerking back as if an electrical bolt had passed through him. He jumped to his feet. He was reasonably sure that hadn't been his conscience talking.
----------
Boomer sprinted the last hundred metrons or so to his ship, his inexplicable compulsion about making every milli-centon count pervading him as he raced back to his fighter. His heart was pounding and he was out of breath by the time he leapt into the cockpit, as though his Viper was the latest model of sports hovermobile just off the assembly line.
He grabbed his helmet, settled into the seat, and then checked his chrono, nodding in satisfaction that he had covered the distance in mere centons and that he had plenty of time before he had to launch. Plenty of time to catch his breath and . . . Do what exactly?
Launch your astrum out of here, Boom-Boom. Just like the captain said.
He shook his head at the thought. Never once as he ran back to the hangar had he even contemplated that he would jump into his ship and launch. It had seemed so clear in his mind then that now the abrupt thought was just plain strange.
Remember the plan, Lieutenant? You launch. Apollo blows the Dynamos.
Yeah, he remembered. But he also was certain he had to wait . . . for something. Yeah, wait. Wait, but . . . But for what? And for how long?
He shook his head in frustration wondering for a micron where this particular set of circumstances was in the fracking manual. Apollo would know . . . but he couldn't exactly jog back and ask him.
Starbuck wouldn't be hesitating. No, he'd . . .what?
----------
They burst onto the Bridge from the short corridor in a momentous display of unruly misconduct. But hey, if anyone knew how to make an entrance, it was Starbuck. Every head turned their way as Starbuck pulled Dayton alongside him, followed closely by Officers Koradon and Timeus.
Starbuck recognized the all too rare exhibit of anger on Adama's features, as the older man took the stairs of the Command Level two at a time, descending to meet them, robe behind him wafting like some ancient king's. But it was Tigh's voice that rang out across the Bridge before the warrior had a chance to even open his mouth.
"Lieutenant Starbuck, what is the meaning of this?" Tigh asked, his voice clear and crisp as he cut off their approach.
"Sir, I can explain . . ." Starbuck began, aware of Dayton suddenly jerking out of his grasp. He twisted towards the Earthman, determined not to let him out of his sight or influence, especially since he was personally responsible for the NASA Commander being there, and likely to take the heat for it.
"Stand alert!" Tigh hollered, further outraged when Starbuck glanced at him in surprise at the sudden demand for military correctness, before reluctantly pulling himself erect.
"Colonel, we have to . . ." Starbuck started, attempting once again to relay his information, his hands tightening into fists, and his body almost trembling in his tension.
"Lieutenant!" Tigh barked at the further break in discipline, his shoulders rising ever slightly with a deep, steadying breath as he studied the warrior with a mixture of derision and contemplation. He didn't fail to notice the lieutenant's obvious agitation, bordering on desperation, and realized Starbuck was about to step out of line yet again . . . and there had to be a damn good reason, knowing as the lieutenant did the likely results of his unacceptable behavior. "Explain yourself now."
Starbuck blew out a short, exasperated breath, again turning to check on Dayton's whereabouts before replying. "We have to abort, Sir. If we over-energize those Dynamos all at once, the resulting blast will destroy the Galactica."
Dayton stepped forward, falling in beside the lieutenant, old habits dying hard. "It's true, Colonel. Commander. I made a . . . a miscalculation. One of those Dynamos exploding at full power was enough to open a wormhole between two solar systems. The rest of them being blown simultaneously would tear apart the asteroid field half way across this system, and this ship."
"A miscalculation?" Tigh asked incredulously. "How in God's. . .?"
Adama's eyebrows rose for a micron before he turned towards the Command Level. "Omega, raise Lieutenant Boomer on the commline."
"Yes, Sir."
Adama stood before Dayton, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied the Earthman. "How . . . did you miscalculate something of this magnitude, Commander Dayton?"
"Without the benefit of my tried and true Texas Instruments Calculator." The Earthman returned solemnly, well aware it would translate as pure gibberish even with the most recently modulated languatronic thingy that they were using. Hell's Bells, the thing still couldn't handle colloquial chit-chat without it sounding like Jive on a bender. No way was it going to breeze its way though the higher mathematics of electrodynamics, collapsar fields, and string theory.
"What the frack are you talking about, Dayton?" Starbuck snapped at him, breaking posture. "Tell him . . ."
"Starbuck." Adama said. It was all the warning necessary to snap the young warrior back to military correctness after close to a deca-yahren of service, but Adama saw the wince cross his features, not at being reprimanded—far be it for Starbuck to be affected by a simple comeuppance—but at being effectively gagged for another moment. He nodded briefly, "Go ahead, Starbuck."
Starbuck's relief was evident. "Commander, the Ship of Lights Beings. They've intervened again. They got Dayton to . . ." he paused, suddenly strangely reluctant to relay his own suspicions of the other's culpability. ". . . realize he was wrong. It was John. The same guy that involved us in the war between the Eastern Alliance and the Terrans. And Dayton said that he's seen John before. On Earth!"
"Earth?" Adama repeated, startled by the information.
"Commander, Lieutenant Boomer standing by on the commline," interrupted Omega.
"Put him through," Adama instructed, eyes still fixed on Dayton.
"Lieutenant Boomer here, Sir. Standing by in the hangar." With my finger on the thrusters and ready to launch . . . for the last five centons, he didn't bother to add.
"Boomer, abort the mission. Repeat, abort the mission." Adama ordered.
"Sir?"
"If we blow the Dynamos, we'll destroy everything, including the Galactica!" Adama briefly explained.
"On my way, Sir!"
"Colonel, bring us around, Delta 2-8. And then get us out of here. Commander Dayton, do you have a . . 'Texas Calculation'of the approximate blast radius?"
"Not in anything I could convert to your Colonial Standard, Commander. That would take hours." He watched as the asteroids disappeared from the main viewport, the ship coming around as ordered. "Just get the hell out of Dodge, Commander, and do it now."