Starbuck sighed, as he rechecked his messages on his datapad for the second time that morning. As anticipated, he had a request—more closely resembling a demand actually—to meet with Sire Dracus in his quarters on the Rising Star to 'discuss the presentation of Commander Mark Dayton and his crew before a scheduled assembly of the Council of Twelve'. Yesterday had seemed unending, and this one was shaping up the same way. He leaned his head back against the bulkhead of the shuttle, mentally calculating how long it would take to get through a conversation with Dracus. Bureauticians were notoriously longwinded, the Sire extremely so, but with just the proper amount of righteous indignation for Dracus' wrongful accusations, balanced with some thinly veiled disrespect and a healthy dose of his trademark mordant wit . . . Hades, Dracus will fire you out of there quicker than . . . He smirked. Yeah, quicker than Technician Hummer could hurl a triad ball at the Strike Captain.
A lazy grin spread across his face and he chuckled quietly, drawing a few curious glances from those around him. Well, it wasn't the first time people had stared at him questioningly. Lords, to have seen the look on Apollo's face!
Then again, his time spent with Luana in the Life Station had been well worth missing the incident in Wilker's lab. In fact, by the time he had arrived back there to grab an analyzer for detecting transceivers that could potentially be planted in the Earthmen's quarters on the Rising Star, Apollo, Boomer, Hummer, Baker and even the Commander were all gathered around a tiny vid screen, trying to watch one of the Earth vid disks, muttering in frustration because the superannuated electronic felgercarb that they had tried to raise from the dead had just packed it in again.
Truth be known, he would have loved to have seen the images of Earth that Apollo and Boomer had enthusiastically described to him, images that bore no small resemblance to the ruins on Kobol, but he knew that if he didn't drag his weary bones back to the billet and collapse on his bunk, he was going to drop dead from exhaustion. Apollo's words came back to him as he had rubbed at gritty eyes feeling more like a little kid than a decorated Colonial Officer, "You're supposed to be on light duty, buddy. Instead, you're trying to bring down a crime boss while you're shuffling your roles as Liaison Officer and concerned fiancée. You can't do it all, Starbuck." And last night his body was agreeing with the captain. When Adama caught him stifling a yawn while leaning over the Earth vid screen and stared at him pointedly, those familiar eyebrows raised and that brow furrowed in a frown of disapproval, he was afraid the Commander was going to send him to the billet. Yeah, I can just see it. "Lieutenant. It's well past your rest period. Off to bed with you."
In any case, he had known that he had to get some desperately needed rest so he could be in top form this morning to meet with Chameleon on the RisingStar. He had something to prove to the elderly conman, and it would take all of his skill-admittedly somewhat outdated, but recently refreshed—to do it. Baker had also given him a small box containing some personal documents and belongings of his fellow Earthmen that had been recovered from under a pile of debris inside the Endeavour, and had asked that Starbuck make sure he got it to Dayton. Ever curious as to these men and their customs, he had looked inside to see several flat, pocket-sized folding cases, seemingly made of some kind of animal hide, which contained several laminated cards that he was unable to make any sense of—other than to recognize several very outdated holoptics of the Earthmen. Obviously, they were a form of identification. Several fragile pieces of paper, printed in a variety of colours and with some sort of portrait on one side, were also within, and he was careful to avoid touching them as they looked like they would disintegrate at the slightest touch.
The really interesting artifact, at least from his perspective, was a deck of Earth playing cards. Fifty in all—though Baker had mentioned a couple were missing—the rectangular shaped cards would be the templates for the Earth decks developed for the Rising Star likely moving up the date of the Journey to Earth soiree by a couple days. The images upon them were a mixture of the obvious and the obscure. Some were obviously numbers, while others bore images that made no sense to him. He couldn't resist slowly sifting the cards through his fingers, enjoying the feel of the well-worn surfaces. He checked his chrono, and continued to casually finger the Earth deck as Zed from the IFB interviewed some guy who primarily collected ducats for a living on a transport shuttle.
We interrupt this edition of the 'Unsung Heroes of the Centar' for the latest on the accusations that Lieutenant Starbuck—one half of the Championship winning Gold Team—accepted bribes to throw his triad games. This reporter was just informed by Colonial Security that a man has been found dead on the Malocchio Freighter of an apparent heart attack. Myrddin, a forty-eight yahren old electronics shop keeper and a member of the esteemed Archimage Society, was discovered yesterday accidentally by the Imperial Empyrean Necromancer, Ama, on a social call. A careful search of his quarters and adjoining electronics shop by Colonial Security consequently revealed several electronically altered triad balls with handheld remote units that when activated, subtly change the trajectory of a triad ball once in play. In conjunction with this compelling evidence, Security Officer Reece reports that betting records prove that Myrddin wagered heavily against the Gold Team, raking in a substantial profit, the precise amount not yet revealed by our sources. Oddly, the shopkeeper did not even bother to attend games that Lieutenant Starbuck was not participating in. Possibly, Myrddin was acting out a grudge against the infamous Lieutenant Starbuck. After all, the decorated Lieutenant is known in some Empyrean circles as the man who single-handedly brought to an end generations of proud tradition in Empyrean Society when he first kissed Lady Aurelia of the House of Albus, abruptly ending her betrothal to Rogane of the House of Regus, and then again when he—a commoner—became betrothed to Princess Luana, second in succession to the Empyrean throne. Or was Myrddin merely testing his invention on an athlete that he selected randomly, and Lieutenant Starbuck was in the wrong place at the wrong time?
The shuttle went strangely silent while before there had been the usual murmur of people talking quietly. Starbuck looked up from the cards to see every eye on him. Necks craned as people turned to peer at him around seats and over seat tops. Some looked away as he met their gaze, some smiled shyly, others nodded abruptly and then broke eye contact. Then one man rose from his seat a few centimetrons, as if to bring attention to himself, and said, "Good lad, I didn't think you'd pull a flimflam on us, Starbuck." He casually saluted the warrior.
Starbuck smiled weakly, feeling entirely uncomfortable with this attention. Days ago he couldn't believe his people could condemn him so readily, whether it be openly on the IFB as Zed asked passersby on the Comm-Tel Ship for their personal opinions, or in the accusing or curious stares he had received since then. While he had steeled himself against each gaze of disgust or disappointment, telling himself that as long as he knew the truth it didn't matter, it had been almost easier to bear than this unexpected and encouraging show of support. A smattering of people began to clap their hands and he raised his own, at first to still them, and finally—when the transport cohesively broke into a round of applause—to just . . . wave and dredge up his trademark grin.
----------
Aquila certainly ran a smooth operation, Dayton reflected as he watched the chancery's creative team of four as they scurried about the large office that was now concerned with Poker, Blackjack, and any other related Earth themes. He had made it down the corridor several times, ostensibly to check out the space in the chancery designated for the Journey to Earth section, and had each time carefully taken note of the presence of security measures that weren't on the schematic that Starbuck had shown him. Unfortunately, each time he had wandered past Fausto's office, the door had been shut, the man invisible . . . or at least unavailable.
Now, he was getting ready to make another run, this time more to stretch his cramped legs and rest his weary brain. As much as he hated to admit it, he found the sedentary work tiring. Trying to remember every rule, pertinent word or phrase, and the strategy involved in Texas Hold 'Em, as he simultaneously tried to describe what an Earth deck of cards looked like and attempted to come up with something that might be representative of Texas for their sign . . . Hell's Bells, he was beginning to wish he'd picked Blackjack!
"I need a break," Dayton stood abruptly.
"Go ahead, Commander Dayton," Vicare told him, as he pounded the keys of his computer, inputting the information the Earthman had given him. "Take ten. I'll have plenty to keep me busy here for a while."
"Thanks a helluva lot," Dayton replied sardonically as he stretched his back muscles and escaped into the corridor once again. Bloody hell, he hadn't been able to walk this far in a straight line without having his guts explode in so many years. It was still a lot to take in.
As usual, he could see Aquila sitting at his desk, busy on the commline. He strolled down the corridor, surprised to see Fausto's door open a crack this time. A quick glance up and down the corridor revealed he was alone and he crept to the doorway and listened.
". . . our esteemed Quorum member is most perturbed about the whelp's condition." The voice was low and gravelly. "I can't say I disagree. Eh? Alas, I can't be held responsible for things that are beyond my control."
The ensuing silence made Dayton realize this particular commline was more like a telephone back home, since he could only hear one side of the conversation.
The voice became unctuous. "Yes, I heard. An interesting turn of events. A shame really. At least it was profitable while it lasted." Again a silence followed by an almost depraved laughter. "Isn't that just . . . perfect."
Dayton whipped his head around at a sound from the corridor. A man was stepping into the hallway, his back currently turned to Dayton. If he didn't do something somewhat intelligent soon, he'd be discovered, and he had a feeling that wouldn't be healthy for him. But thirty years of staying alive in Torg's pit of Hell had taught him to think fast. In an instant, he raised his fist and knocked sharply on Fausto's door.
The immediate cessation of laughter inside the office filled him with an unease that he hadn't experienced since his early days on the pirate base. The door jerked open, and a man of average height, just slightly shorter than Dayton, with short silver hair was instantly before him, his narrowed black eyes assessing this intruder, wondering what he wanted . . . what he had heard.
"Hello. I'm Commander Mark Dayton of the Earth Shuttle Endeavour . . ." Dayton began, holding out a hand, and smiling a smile worthy of an Oscar.
Fausto looked down at the proffered hand, then back up at Dayton, ignoring it completely. "I watch the IFB from time to time. I know who you are, Commander Dayton."
"Oh, I see. I understand you handle the sports side of this operation?" he adlibbed, withdrawing his hand.
Fausto nodded slowly. "Yes, sports betting and general management of the Triad League. What of it?" His tone was curious, but polite.
"Well, as you know, Aquila's idea that your people would find Earth card games. . . uh, and other games of chance interesting is why we're here . . . I was wondering if you thought that would extend at all to Earth sports?" Dayton asked.
"Earth sports?" Fausto's eyebrows arched for a moment as he considered the question. "Do you have any Earth sports that could be played in a small arena suitable for the Rising Star . . . assuming you have seen our facilities?"
Dayton nodded as he wracked his brain. "Chameleon showed us the courts before we came here. And, yes, there are a few games that could be played in a smaller venue, such as those. I certainly realize you aren't equipped to supply a football field or a baseball diamond." He shook his head at Fausto's confusion. "Never mind. Ah, sports requiring a great deal of land."
Fausto nodded, then sniffed loudly. "Come in, Commander Dayton." He fanned his hand before him in welcome. "Please sit down."
"I only have ten of your . . . ah, centons to spare, then Vicare is expecting me back." Dayton explained, walking into the lion's den and preparing himself to watch every move that the man made from here on in.
"I believe Vicare will make allowances once he realizes who you're with, Commander." Fausto waved a hand in the air as if it was inconsequential.
"I like to keep my appointments." Dayton told him, realizing the ten minute . . . centon limit would be an advantage while he held his head in the mouth of the lion and tickled his tonsils.
"Business before pleasure." Fausto smiled as Dayton open his mouth to clarify who Vicare was. "Business before all else, Commander Dayton." He sniffed, then smiled unpleasantly.
----------
Sire Dracus' antechamber was more reminiscent of the home of an accomplished warrior than that of a statesman, sporting various long swords of different ages and cultures that hung decoratively on the walls. Starbuck couldn't resist reaching up to touch one, feeling the thickness of the blade and marveling at the tight fittings of the pommel and hilt, and the superb quality of the workmanship.
"Are you a . . . connoisseur of fine weapons, Lieutenant?"
Starbuck whirled around, surprised that the bureautician could creep up on him. Dracus, as usual, was dressed impeccably in the latest robes of the highest dignitaries. Always a fashion statement to be sure.
"Sire Dracus . . ." Starbuck nodded at the man. "You wanted to see me."
"Yesterday, Lieutenant," Dracus told him briskly.
"Better late than never," Starbuck shrugged, keeping his features carefully indifferent as the man glared at him.
"I believe I . . . owe you an apology, Lieutenant. According to the IFB, you're innocent of taking bribes in the recent triad scandal." The man looked as though he was passing a kidney stone, and trying to enjoy it.
"Now . . . was that really so painful?" Starbuck asked with a rueful smile.
"Probably more than you'll ever know," Dracus replied, his face impassive.
Starbuck let out a short sniff of appreciation as he turned back to the swords. "This is incredible, Sire Dracus. I've never seen a collection like it, even in a museum. How did you manage to save them from the Destruction?"
"They were on exhibit right here on the Rising Star when the Cylons attacked the Colonies. I had one of the finest collections in the Colonies. This is all that is left of it. A mere fraction of what there was. You might say I was simply reunited with my . . . obsession when I managed to get passage here after I was elected to the Council." He stepped forward joining the warrior in his admiration of the blade. "It's over four hundred yahrens old."
"Lords . . ." Starbuck murmured. "And I thought the military was slow to upgrade."
Dracus stared at him indignantly . . . before noticing the slight curve to Starbuck's lips as the younger man once again reached out, fingering the basket hilt above the blade. The bureautician smiled ever so slightly. "A warrior and a sense of humour. I didn't realize they existed concurrently."
"Life is full of surprises," Starbuck replied, his gaze following the edge of the blade. It still looked as if it could slice through flesh with little effort.
"Have you ever seen a Claymore before, Lieutenant?" asked the Sire.
"Once, in a museum. I didn't know swords had names though."
"Oh, yes. This," he indicated the weapon before them, "is called a Claymore. It comes from a term in an ancient dialect on my home Colony, claidheamh mòr, which just means 'big sword'."
"That it is," said the Viper pilot, fingering the tassels hanging from the hilt. "Sure looks deadly."
"Yes, but beautiful even so. Not like the standard stamped-out blades the Cylon Centurions wear. Inferior quality."
Starbuck nodded, moving to the next long sword. He had seen those Cylon blades up close on more than one occasion, once on Baltar's Base Ship, and again when he had been captured on Attila. Both times, the 'inferior' blades seemed more than capable of separating head from shoulders should the need arise. He shook off the memories. "And this one?"
"Also called a Claymore, Lieutenant, though with a totally different sort of hilt, as you can see." This one was long, nearly as long as Starbuck was tall, and shone brightly in the light. The hilt was a sort of inverted 'V', the pommel a small green-coloured stone clamped tight in what looked like gold. "It's sometimes referred to as a claidheamh da lamh, which means 'two-handed sword'. She's over two-thousand yahren old."
Starbuck just whistled, shaking his head. "So . . . uh, when do you want the Earthmen to formally meet with the Council?" he asked.
"About ninety centons ago when we were fully convened and awaiting them in the Rising Star's boardroom. Perhaps you didn't read my message?" Dracus asked.
Starbuck glanced at him casually. "I thought it was a . . . suggestion. You know, requiring confirmation." He shrugged dramatically. Dracus really had no way of knowing that he hadn't even looked at the message until that morning, while he was trying to choke down a quick meal before heading to the launch bay to catch a transport. "You see, as Liaison Officer I have to maintain communication between parties. Two-way communication." He smiled briefly before returning his glance to the ancient weapon. More ancient than the war with the Cylons. "I'll be meeting with Commander Dayton after I leave here."
"Ah, a failure to clearly communicate. I see." Dracus returned, smiling slightly at the other. "A common hazard in the bureaucratic arena."
Starbuck nodded. "I've heard that."
"Now here . . ." Dracus lifted the sword off the wall, drawing it from its scabbard. "Note the balance as you hold the weapon." He handed it to Starbuck who took it reluctantly. "It subtly pulls the weapon forward without make it cumbersome. It helps direct the blade as it is wielded."
"Lords, it weighs a megon!"
"Well, those old-time warriors were big men, Lieutenant. Muscles like granite columns, some of them." He looked the lieutenant up and down thoughtfully as if reflecting that he was a warrior of a different weight class. "In the right hands, one of these could hack a man to pieces through all but the heaviest armour."
Starbuck stood to the side, holding the long sword before him with both hands as instructed, feeling a bit like a kid playing make believe. Memories of ancient tales and poems, with chivalrous knights on equusback, riding out from castles, fighting dragons and rescuing damsels in distress filtered through his mind for a brief micron. The sword was surprisingly easy to manipulate once he adjusted his grip and stance, and he couldn't resist thrusting it forward to terminate the loathsome beast that reared its hideous head, threatening to consume entire villages of lonely vestal virgins . . .
"Addicting, is it not?" Dracus asked, with a smile.
"Never would have thought it of you, Dracus . . . Sire Dracus." Starbuck hastily corrected himself as he returned the long sword.
"If I could have chosen the age that I lived in, it would have been before space travel. A time when things were decided by the blade," he held the sword up to the light, gazing at the blade almost reverently, "instead of by the laser blaster."
"Sounds like you're an Empyrean wannabe." Starbuck jested, pausing as the man startled and looked at him searchingly. "I meant, because they prefer a . . . simpler way of life. Less dependant upon modern technology. The lifestyle of a Luddite for the most part."
"I see. Well, that is now changing, even for the Empyreans. I'm certain they never thought they would potentially see a Caprican commoner on their throne through the abdication of Princess Lia and the subsequent marriage of Princess Luana. If you indeed plan to rise to the throne?" He stared at Starbuck for an instant, pausing to weave the blade before him with evident skill and showmanship, before returning his gaze to the young man.
The lieutenant wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a message or a threat, but either way, he didn't really care. "Emperor Starbuck." Starbuck grinned brashly. "Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
"Well, beware, Lieutenant," said Dracus, sheathing his blade and returning it to its hallowed place upon the wall. "Throughout history, few Emperors have enjoyed the rewards of old age." He considered the warrior almost regrettably before adding. "Now, about the Earthmen..."
----------
"How's the head today?" Boomer asked as he and Apollo walked into the Security Office.
Apollo spared him a glance, deciding to ignore the comment. Why in Hades Hole did everybody find it so damn funny that he had been decked by a triad ball? He couldn't help but think this wouldn't have received half the amount of attention if it had been Boomer on the receiving end. He sighed, turning towards the officer on duty. Reece had commed him, letting him know that the DNA results on Starbuck had been fast tracked. "Reece. What's the verdict?"
"Starbuck's cleared." Reece told him from behind his desk, appearing somewhat relieved to give the news to the man's best friends. Though he had seriously doubted that Starbuck had anything to do with the termination, one had to admit that the warrior had an uncanny habit of being in the wrong place at the most inconvenient time. Like when the bodies turned up. Then there was his bloody temper, which the Security Officer had witnessed first hand on more than one occasion. "And, you're not going to believe this. We found another body on the Maxidex. But, this guy has blood on his hands . . . and his clothes. I think we've found Borka's killer."
"Did you find the termination weapon?" Apollo asked.
Reece nodded. "Yeah, at least it looks that way. Some kind of fancy knife."
"Fancy?"
"Willem said it was a real show piece. Old. Well crafted. Kind of ornate. We haven't matched the DNA samples yet, but we found the knife on the dead kid's body. Inside his jacket. Will is over on the Malocchio Freighter. He had to notify the next of kin about the kid." He motioned for the warriors to sit down.
"Kid?" Boomer asked, pulling up a chair and straddling it.
"Yeah, all of nineteen or twenty. Tops. Probably a user from the look of him. Lots of old scarring around the usual injection sites to go with the most recent marks." Reece shook his head in distaste. "Sure looks like a overdose. The toxicology screen will tell us for sure. If not, we wait for the post mortem to find out the cause of death."
"Elysium?" Boomer rested his arms atop the chair's back.
"That's the poison of choice these days, Lieutenant." Reece nodded. "The weird thing is this kid is from a good family." He paused. "Was from a good family, I should say. Upper class. I don't understand what would motivate him to carve up sludge like Borka for a few cubits."
"Maybe a adverse reaction to the Elysium. Who is he?" Apollo asked, perching on the edge of the desk. The Malocchio was the largest passenger freighter in the Fleet, so the chances of him knowing the identity of the kid was unlikely, still . . .
"Rogane. Son of the Great House of Regus."
"What?" Apollo blurted out. "Holy frack . . ."
"Rogane the Toad?" Boomer asked the captain, almost regretting the words the moment they left his lips. He could still picture the indignant snob, short, chunky and prematurely balding, as he strutted around with his nose in the air, and an aura of superiority while he put on the stiff upper lip required to mix with the warrior-class at the Empyrean Ball. Starbuck had referred to the extremely unpleasant young man as 'the toad' ever since that night when the lieutenant had kissed the other's betrothed, Lady Aurelia, and had started a cascading series of events that seemed to irrevocably link him with the Empyrean people from that point onward.
Apollo nodded. "The same. You know, every time the pieces to this puzzle start to fall in place," he shook his head in bemusement, "something else happens to complicate things."
"Maybe they're not related." Boomer suggested. "Coincidence?"
"Regus' son kills Borka? Not just kills him, but mutilates him? I don't think so." Apollo shook his head. "Borka was a trained goon. Rogane, a bureatician's spoilt brat. There's the chance of snow on Borellus that Rogane randomly picked Borka and brutalized him while under the influence of Elysium . . . just before dropping dead of an overdose. Oh, and the Cylons just got religion." He rolled his eyes dramatically. " No. Besides, it would never have occurred to me that Rogane had a drug dependency."
"But," Reece responded, "his family wouldn't exactly advertise it if he did. It would dishonour the family name." He shook his head. "No, with Regus one of the heads of the Great Houses, they'd keep something like that good and quiet."
"Reece is right." Boomer agreed. "I think someone was pulling strings here. Manipulating this from off-stage somewhere. What would Rogane even be doing on the Maxidex? He could barely stand being in the same Fleet as those 'common riff-raff', let alone on board the same ship with them. And why would he attack Borka for a few cubits when he comes from a wealthy family?"
"I'm inclined to agree with you both." Reece nodded thoughtfully. "However, if the kid had a drug problem, then the Maxidex is the place to get Elysium, no questions asked. There's a dealer around every bulkhead, and some don't even cut the stuff. As to Borka, I think that just reeks of Fausto's involvement."
"How do we prove that?" Boomer asked. "These dirt bags aren't exactly leaving a trail of clues behind. Live ones, anyway."
"Maybe we should start by asking Sire Regus." Apollo suggested.
"Do you really think that he'll want to talk to us?" Boomer asked.
"He doesn't have a choice." Reece replied, holding up a sheaf of holoptics. He handed them to Apollo. "Besides, anything less could be considered an obstruction of Colonial Justice. At least that's my story, and I'm sticking to it."
Apollo showed them to Boomer. "Who's that with Rogane?" He didn't recognize the stocky, muscular man with bristly, dark hair.
"Guidobaldo. He's Fausto's second in command. The man who reputably does his dirty work for the most part." Reece explained. "Those were taken on the Malocchio first thing yesterday morning."
Boomer let out a low whistle. "Not long after Myrddin had been terminated. Hades Hole, we might have hit the jackpot."