For the 'guy in charge', he was surprisingly hard to track down. Maybe you should climb inside one of Wilker's gutted Cylons and storm the duty office. Perhaps that would get his attention.
As though it was a message from the Lords of Kobol, he suddenly rounded a corner and appeared with Boomer and . . . Reece. Reece? What in Hades Hole is he doing with Reece? Of course, he was headed in the opposite direction and at something approaching the speed of light . . . which was fairly typical of their relationship at this point.
"Apollo!" Sheba called out. Loudly. Emphatically, some would even say.
The men turned as a unit, which would have been impressive if they were fighter crafts or rhythmic dancers . . . but they were just men. And on her list of all things living, they currently fell slightly above roachons on the evolutionary scale.
Only just.
The Strike Roachon paused as he saw her. He said something to the other two, and they nodded briskly, then turned to scurry off on their . . . quest. For it had to be a quest. Something of such incredible importance that Apollo would be involved up to his Colonial . . . eyeballs. Something that nobody else, but Apollo could handle. As was his want.
"Sheba." His smile was genuinely warm and inviting as he approached, but she still noticed that he looked at his chronometer.
Roachons develop technology! See it here tonight, on the IFB!
"Apollo." She nodded, pasting on a smile, wishing she had been fresh from the turbo wash, and not recently in from patrol with a bad case of helmet head. The patrol had turned up no sign of the planet Axius, but she could tell him that later. For now . . ."You must have been busy yesterday evening." She ran her fingers through her hair self-consciously, somehow ah-hem-ing without the usual sound effect.
"Was I," he agreed, nodding his head, rolling his eyes, his face screwed up painfully. Or maybe that was just her perception of it. "I was tied up until 2300 in the Science Lab with my father, Boomer, and . . ." This time his face definitely twisted, almost as though he had suddenly caught a whiff of something absolutely rancid. Yes, that's the scent of hunted roachon, Apollo. Don't ever forget that scent! His eyes opened wide and he held his hand up to his forehead as if a good smack to the grey matter could somehow make a difference now. Then again, she had heard that it took a well thrown triad ball to the head to actually get his attention these days. "Lords . . . Sheba." He truly looked horrified. "Our . . . dinner." He shook his head dismally. "I forgot all about it. I'm guilty. I confess."
It took just about every scrap of self-control that she had to reply calmly, "It was delicious. A bit much for one woman, but still delicious."
He shook his head, yet again, as if he was still in denial that this could happen to him. "I'm sorry." He drew in a breath and then reached for her hand hesitantly. "I know how badly I screwed up. Of all the times to forget . . ." He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. "I'm so sorry, Sheba."
It was one of the better displays of self-flagellation that she had seen, short of pulling out a bovinewhip and giving himself a few lashes. Then again, after the confrontation that they had had on the asteroid, she had deserved a nice dinner out with him to talk about things that were obviously on both of their minds. Instead . . . he stood her up.
"What was so important?" she asked again, ready, as usual, to give him the benefit of the doubt . . . with the correct supporting evidence, that is.
Apollo puffed out a breath of air. "Starbuck's involved in . . . " He rubbed his forehead. "Lords! Where do I even begin?"
Starbuck. Starbuck needed a constant stream of friends, lovers and medical support staff to keep him upright and breathing, it seemed. Except when in a cockpit. "What's he done now?" she asked ruefully.
"Let's just say he decided to strike up a personal vendetta against one of the most powerful criminals in the Fleet. Since then there have been three terminations that look to be related, one of them being Rogane, the son of . . . "
"Regus?" she gasped, all thoughts of the errant Apollo driven out of her head for the moment. "That . . ."
Apollo nodded. "You remember."
Of course she remembered. The Empyrean Ball. Rogane the Toad. Starbuck had kissed the Toad's betrothed. And Sheba . . . had uttered profanity before the assembly. Loudly. Emphatically, some would even say.
Only days afterwards she had found herself crashing the Empyrean Quorum trying to force the small bureaucratic gathering, including Regus and Rogane, to vote in favour of lifting the Empyrean Curse from Starbuck. By then the lieutenant had been so ill and delirious, that even the no-nonsense Dr. Salik had believed it was the only chance left to save Starbuck's life after a crawlon's venomous bite.
Sheba bit her lip, shaking her head. "What can I do to help?"
Apollo paused, considering her for a couple microns. He lightly brushed fingers against her cheek. "Are you sure?" he asked quietly. "Really?"
"Of course," she nodded. "Hey, if it makes you feel any better, if our roles were reversed . . . " She paused for effect. " I'd certainly stand you up for Starbuck. After all, he's just sooo . . . " She left the message unsaid, letting Apollo finish it as he saw fit. She smiled devilishly, but what she didn't say was she owed Starbuck. She would never forget him, along with Apollo, turning back to give Commander Cain covering fire as he moved to engage Baltar's task force near Gamoray. Or rappelling down the side of a cliff on Alrin to haul her astrum back to safety. Especially, when she had found out later that it was only his third climbing experience, and he had sworn up and down after the first two not to do it again. And then there was that entire episode with the Ship of Lights when Iblis had apparently killed Apollo. Not once did Starbuck blame her when it was certainly warranted . . . at least in her own mind. Instead, he had placed the blame squarely on Count Iblis. Oh, then there was that night on the Rising Star . . . She grinned.
"Actually, that . . . doesn't make me feel better . . .atall." Apollo murmured, letting out a relieved breath and deciding to just thank every Lord of Kobol that she wasn't telling him to go to Hades to Hole right now. "I must be the luckiest guy in the star system to find someone as patient . . . "
"Don't," she stopped him short, watching his face fall. She smothered a giggle at the abrupt change in him. "Sorry, that just sounded like one of Starbuck's lines for a centon. Please tell me he hasn't been coaching you." She winced at the very thought. No one could do Starbuck quite like Starbuck himself. "Apollo, we still need to work some things through, but I know we'll make time for that later. When this is sorted out. Now, tell me what's going on, and how I can help?"
----------
Triad. A full contact sport played between two teams with two men each, though Chameleon had mentioned there was a lesser followed women's league. The points were obtained by throwing the ball through one of the holes on the wall of the court. It looked somewhat like a cross between basketball and rugby. Or rugby and a Viking raid. In other words . . . street rules.
"Would you get a load of those uniforms?" Ryan murmured with a laugh as he watched the IFB equivalent of the Sports Channel. Ever since Starbuck had been vindicated from all question of throwing his games—not that the astronauts were even aware of that scandal—the IFB had been running repeats of several of the best games all day long, most of them featuring the Gold Team. Each and every shot that Starbuck had missed had been tediously slowed down and run in slow motion as the sportscaster pointed out the slight variation in the ball's path. Now the burning question was, when would Starbuck and Apollo play the long awaited game with Barton and Bojay, which had been cancelled because of the pirate asteroid mission.
"Who do you think designed them? Cher? Maybe Madonna?" Dayton chuckled along with him, running his hands through recently shorn hair. Ryan had resisted the trip to the barber, the laser clipper that the man wielded making him nervous.
"Well, definitely a woman. No man in his right mind would stick a soldier in a modified two-piece bikini with a cheap bicycle helmet from Wal-Mart to play sports back home. I hope to God they gave them jock straps. Not a whole lot there to protect a guy." Ryan grinned, digging into the tray of food that Zeibert had delivered to them with his culinary adviser, Porter. It was apparently supposed to resemble an authentic Italian Antipasto platter with meats, cheeses, marinated vegetables and bread on the side. Ryan had scarcely looked at it, he just ate. After thirty years of that horrid root, virtually anything was a delicacy. "Just remind me, if anyone asks us if we want to play triad, to find out if the costume is optional."
"I think I'll pass. At my age, I'm sure I'd put out my back just trying to get into that costume."
"Well, imagine what you'd wreck getting out of it," chuckled Porter, also sporting a new haircut.
"The rest of me, I'd expect." Dayton replied ruefully. He stabbed at something on his plate, eyed it a moment, then shoveled it in, followed by a drink.
Man, this hooch is good!
Ryan likewise swallowed down a mouthful of food. "I like Zed though. He seems to be on the ball, so to speak."
"You would. But I'm sure you heard it wrong. It's Zee." Dayton corrected him.
"Zed." Ryan argued, his smile absolutely radiant. "There is but one correct way to pronounce it, my American friend. After all, we wouldn't want our hosts to think we were a bunch of backward rednecks! Would we?"
"Zee . . ." Dayton laughed at the familiar battle, his arm rising to block the flying hunk of meat heading his way.
Starbuck walked through the door of the Rising Star office at that moment, catching the men enjoying a relaxing moment of friendship, and doing a double take at the short hair. An additional four people were occupied in front of two different computer terminals, Ryan's face lit up at his appearance and he switched gears to Colonial Standard.
"Starbuck, we've been waiting for you all day. They're working us like dogs here." He reached for another piece of something that resembled Genoa salami. It didn't taste like it. In fact, he wasn't sure what it tasted like, but what the heck. It was better by a long shot than koivee.
"Hey, Macchiato," Dayton grinned. "We've been checking out your game. Quite the costumes, kid. Airy, to say the least."
"Mocky-what?" Starbuck asked, shaking his head at the Commander as he looked around the office. No answer was forthcoming, so he just shrugged. "How's it going here, anyhow?"
"Good, we're learning a lot." Dayton nodded, shifting modes and making eye contact with the lieutenant. "The cards are what are slowing us down. Graphics, but I always sucked at video poker anyway. We'll tell you all about it if you can get us out of here and back to our new place." He motioned towards the hard working team. "I think we're pretty much ready to call it a day, even if they're not."
"Well, I can take care of the card issue." Starbuck tossed the Earth deck to Dayton. "Compliments of Baker. He's still with Hummer in the Science Lab." He briefly explained how the items had been found amid the debris aboard the Endeavour. "He sent some of your personal belongings as well." He held up the container holding the identity cards and handed it to Ryan. Aquila's four designers immediately moved in. It was reminiscent of scavengers attacking carrion the way they descended on Dayton and his deck, and he quickly surrendered the coveted items, turning his attention to the old leather folders.
"Where's Chameleon?" Starbuck asked.
"Right here, Starbuck."
Off to the side, Porter stifled a laugh. That name!
Starbuck turned to see the elderly man walking into the office. "I need to have a word with you about the IFB release."
"Well, timing is key in public relations, Star . . . Lieutenant." Chameleon replied.
"Yeah, well, tell that to the Council of Twelve. They weren't too happy with your timing, Chameleon. Generally, when they release an announcement, they like to be aware of it ahead of time." Starbuck replied, raising his voice. "Sire Dracus wanted me to tell you . . ."
"Whoa! Ease off the espresso, Starbuck." Dayton approached him, stepping between the two Colonials. "Chameleon is just looking out for our interests. And he's done a bang-up job so far. From where I'm standing, what he did was justified. After all, this place is one helluva lot more comfortable than the Galactica."
"The food's better too," Ryan piped up from behind the platter as he started looking through the container of wallets.
"Got that right," said Dayton, looking down at his waistline. "I think I'm back up to 0.01 body fat. I can almost see myself again."
"Look, there's a certain amount of protocol to go through . . ." Starbuck stepped forward until he was head to head with Dayton. "And that includes keeping your Liaison Officer notified of what you're doing . . ."
Dayton could feel himself bristling in reaction to the younger man's subtle aggression. "The only reason there is a Liaison Officer, Cappuccino Froth, is so your Commander and the Council can try to maintain some kind of control over us. Not this displaced astronaut. Frankly, Starbuck, I ain't no man's patsy." Dayton spat back at him.
"I'm sure that would be even more impressive if I knew what the frack you just said," Starbuck snapped back, raising his hands with frustration and annoyance. "Look, I take the heat for what goes wrong, and after that party we had with Torg and Bex, I've had just about all I can stand."
"Hey, folks. If you can't take the heat, stay out of the kitchen." Ryan threw at them as he shoved something else in his mouth. They all just stared at him for a moment, Starbuck and Chameleon in confusion, Dayton somewhere between frustration and capitulation, Porter struggling to keep up on the languatron. "Just trying to get in the spirit of things," Ryan said with a shrug. "Tossing in an American quote now and then to keep Dayton on his toes. Harry Truman, wasn't it?"
"What don't we all calm down?" Chameleon suggested after a moment, returning his attention to the others. "I'm sure we don't want another incident like the one on the Galactica . . ." He looked from Starbuck and Dayton over to Aquila's people. "I assume Sire Dracus has discussed when he wants the Council to have their audience with Commander Dayton and his men."
"Don't you have that backwards?" Starbuck asked, his jaw clenched, taking a step back from the Earth Commander.
"Sounds about right to me." Dayton returned with a grin. "Whenever they get around to it."
"Let's go back to the new quarters and go over your agenda, Starbuck. We'll try and work out a time agreeable to both parties at the first opportunity that presents itself," Chameleon added soothingly.
"Fine," Starbuck huffed, and left on the conman's heels.
Dayton turned to Ryan, and, wary of bugs, signed to him and Porter: That went well.
Convincing, I hope, Mark. Then aloud in English. "Our wallets, Mark. Lord, love a duck! I don't recognize myself." He handed one to Dayton.
"Jeez! Erma Bombeck was right!"
"Huh?"
"When you look like your passport photo, it's time to go home!"
Ryan snorted in amusement as they followed the Colonials. "I hate to tell you, you old fart, but you haven't looked like that for twenty years."
----------
A bounty of food and drink lay before Apollo, Boomer and Reece as they awaited Sire Regus in his considerable chambers aboard the Malocchio Freighter. While the rooms themselves were Spartan, having been designed originally solely for cargo, the size alone attested to the man's station, especially when so many others in the Fleet were crammed into quarters about half the size of this man's turboflush.
Reece fidgeted restlessly as Boomer and Apollo both partook of the sumptuous feast before them. Apparently, they had explained to him, this charade was a part of Empyrean culture and had to be completed before any serious discussion could begin with Sire Regus. Reece watched impatiently, he himself partaking only of a small drink, as the other two dug into the food with relish and discussed, of all things, the captain's love life.
"So, Sheba really just offered to help and accepted your apology?" Boomer asked skeptically.
"Well, she offered to help," Apollo agreed. "She's an amazing woman, Boomer. I'm a lucky guy."
"Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?" Boomer asked, taking a sip of ale. For a moment, his eyes were as big as Base Ships. Oh yeah! This is the good stuff!
"What do you mean by that?" Apollo countered.
Boomer chuckled. "You two have been at each other's throats for about a sectar. For Sagan's sake, if eyeballs were laser turrets . . . The amazing thing is that neither of you is in the Life Station."
"Very funny, Boomer," said Apollo, tossing a gnawed bone at him. "You're getting cynical in your old age. You're starting to sound like Star . . ."
"Gentlemen."
They turned from where they were sitting to see Siress Rea floating into the room, or so it appeared beneath the black mourning gown that flowed to the floor covering her feet as though the mere sight of them would be distasteful. Her bearing was imposing, and she had an expression that reminded one of a thunderstorm building up over a mountain. The men immediately rose to their feet.
"Siress Rea. Our condolences on your son's loss." Apollo bowed slightly as he approached her. "This is Lieutenant Boomer and Security Officer Reece."
"Thank you, Captain." She nodded politely at the others. "I regret to say that Sire Regus has not returned, and cannot see you now."
"When do you expect him back?" Apollo asked.
"I cannot say." She shook her head.
"Do you know where we could find him?" Reece asked. "It is rather important that we speak with him, Siress."
"No."
Apollo cleared his throat, wondering if the woman was withholding information, or simply didn't know. "Perhaps we could ask you a few questions?"
Her eyes opened wide at the very idea. "Me?"
Apollo nodded. "Yes, Siress."
"I . . . I am not certain I would be of much help," she replied, squaring her shoulders.
"Siress . . . do you know the circumstances surrounding your son's death?"
She wet her lips, hesitating for a moment before admitting, "No."
"Do you want to?" Apollo asked, remembering that women in the traditional Empyrean Society, even those in the upper crust families of the social hierarchy, were essentially second class citizens by modern Colonial standards.
She nodded tentatively. "Very much so."
Apollo pulled out a chair and motioned for her to be seated, keeping in mind that this women had fainted at the Empyrean Ball when Sheba had muttered 'holy frack' in her pristine presence. Hesitantly she did so.
He sat down opposite her and, trying to keep in mind that this woman had likely been sheltered from the horrors of real life for her entire lifetime, he told her the circumstances of Rogane's death. The Siress, to her credit, maintained her guise of composure, only allowing it to slip once as she gasped in a breath, her face paling in light of her son's culpability in another's termination.
"Security found a knife with Rogane. An antique, by the looks of it. Do you recognize it?" Apollo asked her, pulling up a holographic of the termination weapon on his datapad.
Siress Rea nodded briefly. "It was a gift from Sire Dracus to my husband. It is one of a pair that we have treasured as a gesture of his friendship since . . . " She covered her lips delicately with a dainty handkerchief, as if she was betraying a trust, her eyes drawn to the wall that the pair of masterpieces usually occupied. Both were conspicuously absent. She wondered briefly what had happened to the second one . . . and where in the heavens her husband had gone.
"Since?" Apollo asked softly. "Please, Siress. Anything that might help shed some light on this. We suspect that your son was framed for this termination. We would appreciate any information that might help clear him of these charges."
"Rogane . . . was sent to the Sagittarian University to further his education. A private school catering to the wealthy, preparing our children to be the future leaders of our Worlds." She sniffed aristocratically. "The boy pestered us relentlessly for two yahrens before we finally ceded to his wishes, believing that giving him a more . . . universal education than the one he would get in our own . . . sectarian culture would be an advantage to him. We were wrong. Within six sectars of his introduction to the university he formed a drug dependency. Filthy, disgusting ..." Her features contorted in pure hatred.
"Elysium?" Reece asked.
The Siress nodded. "Regus took him to a private clinic that specialized not only in the treatment of addictions, but also in client confidentiality. That was where my husband met Sire Dracus. There was a . . . 'parent support group', I believed they called it. Dracus' eldest daughter was also a patient, you see."
"And?"
"After a yahren of therapy, Rogane returned home. The Destruction followed shortly thereafter."
"And your son's drug dependency?"
Siress Rea dropped her gaze. "I admit to being a little naïve of such things—my husband prefers to not worry me about such matters—but I believe that Rogane started using Elysium again after Lady Aurelia made it known that she preferred a common warrior over our son in front of Empyrean nobility and Colonial High Society alike during the Empyrean Ball." She met Apollo's eyes, not even intimating any regret at her choice of words.
"Siress," Reece handed the holoptic of Rogane and Guidobaldo over to her. She took them, her expression one of concentration. "Do you know this man?"
"Not personally." She shook her head as she contemplated the likeness. "I know that my husband has received him on at least two occasions, the last time throwing him bodily from our home."
"His name is Guidobaldo. Does that mean anything to you?" Apollo asked.
"No."
"What about a man called Fausto?" Boomer spoke up. "Has your husband ever mentioned him? Even in passing, Siress?"
Her lips tightened. "My husband does not curse often, but this Fausto has inspired a string of expletives that I have never heard before come from any man's lips." She sniffed again, with her head tilted at just the right angle to communicate her disgust. "In fact, there is only one other man that he despises as much."
Apollo winced, knowing the answer before he uttered the question. "Who?"
"Your Lieutenant Starbuck."
"I . . . see."
----------
Memories of another time, another place. When the future seemed to hold so much promise. So much hope. His son's life was ahead of him. His path towards greatness was clear.
All gone.
"Come in, my old friend."
Dracus' voice seemed to come from the very walls, as Regus stood, clothed in a dark formal robe, in the Councilman's antechamber surrounded by the long swords that were so synonymous with the other man. He turned slowly, suddenly feeling every yahren of his age, raising his hand reflexively as Dracus reached out to him.
"I am so very sorry for your loss, Regus. I've prayed for Rogane's soul, that our Lord will see in his infinite wisdom that he was not responsible for his actions, and will hasten his trip to Paradise." Dracus gripped the other man's hand briefly.
"Then you have heard . . ." Regus murmured, his voice soft. He rubbed his chest for a moment, hoping to ease the pressure that was growing within once again The pain came far too often of late. The ravages of old age, Regus. You need to rest.
"Yes," Dracus replied. "The Council is of course notified when men of distinction, such as your son . . . " He sighed deeply as he led the other deeper into his chambers. "It's a terrible tragedy. Numbing. I grieve with you, both as a father and a friend."
"I don't understand . . ." Regus mumbled, raising weary eyes to the other. "I thought we were past it." He had truly believed that Rogane had left his addiction behind. He was clean.
Dracus poured them both a drink, handing the extremely vintage ambrosa to his peer. "You must admit, Rogane had been under a great deal of stress," Dracus reminded the other. "Ever since the Empyrean Ball . . ."
"That blasted Ball," Regus cursed. "I begin to believe it was I who was cursed!"
"The Lords have indeed been kind to Lieutenant Starbuck." Dracus mused. "Indeed, they seem to favour him. Who can say why?"
Regus took a drink of ambrosa, enjoying the warmth that pervaded his tortured spirit. "He's the bane of my existence," he spat. "Him and Fausto."
"I've told you how to handle Fausto," Dracus replied. "It really is quite simple actually."
"I have a family. My surviving daughter and son. My wife." Regus growled. "I have to protect them. I do not have the luxury of only defending myself, as do you."
"Everything you do to help Fausto only digs you into a deeper hole," Dracus told him. "Something I would think you were well aware of. Report him to Security."
"And have him destroy my good name? My standing in society? Or what remains of it." Regus took another drink cursing the day he put his trust in the 'confidentiality' of that private clinic that had obviously turned over a list of their affluent and wealthy clients to Fausto. "I cannot." He sat heavily in a chair thinking of the many things that Fausto had asked of him, and of the many that he had refused. Including the termination of the electronics shopkeeper. All but one. "All I really did was find Myrddin for him. I knew that the parlour trickster was working on something to make balls hover—pretending in front of the common folks' children it was truly magic." He snorted derisively. "In return Fausto agreed to specifically target Starbuck in the triad scam in order to discredit him before my people. To curtail this obsession some of them have with the Lieutenant. Savior indeed!" he spat. Now he realized that his refusal to terminate Myrddin, had culminated in a clear message from Fausto . . . in the form of his dead son. "I cannot taunt Fausto openly as you do, Dracus. I could not believe you would dare to call for an end to all open sports betting the way you did, rebelling so openly. Virtually attacking him in public."
"I had to, old friend." Dracus replied, topping up the other's drink. "I cannot let Fausto think he holds any power over me. I refuse to succumb to his filthy demands. He cannot exploit the dead. And he knows it."
Regus nodded somberly, knowing that Dracus was the last of his clan after the Destruction. Like so many others, his entire family were lost. It put the other man in a position where only he was at risk.
Dracus placed a hand on the other's shoulder. "Lieutenant Starbuck was here a short time ago." Regus' head snapped up, eyes wide. "You should know that he intends to take his rightful place as Emperor when he seals with Princess Luana."
"NO!" Regus snarled, his head jerking upright. "I will not see it done, Dracus! That . . boy, that parentless guttersnipe . . . will blaspheme and debase all that the Empyrean nobility hold dear, ending thousands of yahrens of tradition!" He wiped the spittle from his chin.
"Perhaps it is a message from the Lords, my friend," Dracus soothed him. "Perhaps change is inevitable. For all our good intent and hard work, it is perhaps the one thing that we cannot prevent."
"Perhaps," Regus replied evenly, setting down his empty goblet. "We shall see . . ."
----------
Starbuck blathered on about Council appointments, and IFB interviews, all the time using the handheld analyzer that would detect any transceivers planted in the Earthmen's quarters on the Rising Star. Chameleon made comments as he felt appropriate, while he followed his son around the rooms.
"We're clear," Starbuck told them, after completing two full sweeps of the room. "No. . . uh, what did you call 'em? Bugs?" Dayton nodded. "Well, the place is clean."
"Well, then, I guess no one suspects why we're here. At least for now. Can we hold onto that?" Dayton asked, nodding in appreciation as the warrior handed it over. "Oh, by the way . . . I have something for you, Starbuck." Dayton fished inside one of the leather folders recovered from the Endeavour. He retrieved a card of some sort, and after a quick glance, and a chuckle, handed it to the Viper pilot.
Starbuck reached out to take the heavy paper card, the print faded but still fairly legible, with small pieces apparently cut or punched out in four different areas. "Just . . . uh, what I've always wanted." He grinned. " What is it?"
"A Starbucks Coffee Card." Dayton replied with a wink at his fellow astronauts. "Another six punches will get you a free coffee."
"Starbucks?" said the card's namesake. "You mean this . . . " he pointed to the word on the card, "is the same as my name?"
"You got it, House Blend!" said Dayton, trying to keep a straight face . . . and failing.
"It was a company that made something similar to your java," Ryan clarified. "Dozens of varieties. Damn popular, especially out west. I recommend the French Roast."
"You would," teased Dayton.
"Ahhhhh . . ." Starbuck nodded, turning it over in his hand. All of Dayton's pet names that meant nothing to him, but had the others breaking into peels of laughter. Obviously something to do with this company. Starbucks.
"I also managed to get into Fausto's office." Dayton told him, watching the young man's features shift from bemusement to full concentration. "I overheard an interesting conversation beforehand." He relayed the particulars to them all.
"'Quorum member'. Quorum of Twelve?" Chameleon asked. "Has to be."
"And 'whelp's condition'. I wonder whose whelp?" Starbuck mused, unaware of Rogane's death. "Suspicious, but kind of vague. Unfortunately."
"I know." Dayton agreed. "But, I made it into his office and I found out that his door responds to some kind of swipe code on his identification card. I saw him access it twice after I had left."
"Good job. Where does he keep that?" Starbuck asked. "Or did you get to see that?"
"Inside his overcoat. Right breast pocket." Dayton replied with a grin. "The way he reached for it, almost automatically, makes me think it's always there."
"Should be an easy lift," Chameleon smiled, waving his fingers in the air.
"Ah," said Dayton, looking at Chameleon. "You're a master of the old five-fingered discount, eh?"
Chameleon polished his nails on his shirt, and took a small bow.
"You're not going near him, Chameleon." Starbuck shook his head. "When all of this clears, if it does, I don't want any of you implicated in this."
"Then who are you going to get to do the lift?" Chameleon asked, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "Remember, Fausto knows most of the usual suspects that could pull this off. And what would any of them be doing at a fancy soiree for the Journey to Earth opening with Council Members and the rest of the elite?"
"I'll do it," Starbuck replied.
"Starbuck, the art of lifting something undetected takes yahrens of practice. Trust me on this point. And a naturally light touch."
"I'm a Viper pilot! Believe me, I have a light touch." Starbuck replied with a grin. "Just ask Cas . . . uh. . . never mind. Besides . . ." he reached into his flight jacket and pulled out Chameleon's identification card, handing it back to the conman. "If I can lift it from you undetected, I can lift it from Fausto." Then there were the flawless lifts he had done on Commander Adama and Apollo. Yeah, it was just like riding a hovercycle.
Chameleon's jaw dropped. "How did you . . .? When . . .?" Starbuck evidently had fingers like his old man, or at least like Chameleon did in the early days . . . But . . .
"Nice job, Fingers." Ryan patted him on the back.
"What did you do before you became a fighter pilot anyhow?" Dayton asked with a grin. "Time?"
Starbuck shrugged, smiling despite the ribbing. "Something like that."
"Really, Starbuck." Chameleon encouraged him to elaborate. Here he had thought his son had gone from an orphanage to the Academy. Or perhaps that was just what he had wanted to think. A nice, safe, stable environment. It had gone a long way to lessen his own guilt for just accepting that his son was dead all those yahrens from a direct hit on their humble farm house. Why didn't you tear every orphanage on Caprica apart looking for him? A real father would have. A real man. "Where did you learn to pick pockets?"
Starbuck shrugged. "I spent a bit of time on the streets."
"Where?" Chameleon pressed him.
"Caprica City." The dismay on the older man's features completely threw him. "What?"
"I guess there's still a lot that I don't know about you," Chameleon muttered, realizing that unless he told his son the truth about their relationship, then that situation was unlikely to change. You'd better make up your mind, Cham. None of you has forever.
"Endless talents all wrapped up in one package," Starbuck grinned, summing himself up in a phrase.
Ryan draped an arm around his shoulders, planting a loud smooch on his cheek. "Oh, I think he's just adorable." He batted his eyelids dramatically. "Raaaaa-ly, I do!"
Starbuck pushed him away, shaking his head as Porter and Dayton broke into laughter. "Get off me." He wiped his cheek, rolling his eyes at the Earthman. "When is Dickins getting discharged from the Life Station?"
"Tomorrow," Dayton answered, repeating the phrase for Porter's benefit in their own tongue. Porter nodded in agreement.
"And the target day for the Journey to Earth?"
"Well, they were going to try and put it together within a secton," Chameleon told him, "but now that they already have those playing cards to simply modify, that might move it ahead a couple days."
"Well, the last word from Hummer and Baker was that some of your data discs were salvageable, and they even had your vid player working at one point last night. I hear Commander Adama was up half the night with Hummer watching everything he could." Starbuck relayed. "Once Komma perfects his program, we'll be set to go."
"There is something else we're going to need for this shindig," Ryan mentioned.
Starbuck's brows furrowed, shaking his head. He glanced at Chameleon's languatron. Lower leg bone burial. Ryan tried again. "What's that?" Starbuck asked, making a mental note to maim Wilker at his earliest opportunity.
"Dates." Ryan grinned, waggling his eyebrows.
Starbuck shook his head solemnly. "Sorry, Ryan, I already have a date."
"Ahh, Starbuck!" Ryan whined in apparent disappointment.
Dayton slapped him on the back. "Nice one, kid. Don't worry, we'll take care of ourselves."
"Oh? Do you have someone in mind?" Starbuck asked him.
"Might just have." Dayton replied, thinking about fluid blue eyes, gently curling blonde hair, swelling . . .
"You don't waste anytime," Starbuck grinned.
"I might not have much of it left." Dayton replied with a nod, thinking of another blonde-haired beauty who still held his heart. And always would. Yvonne. "I have to make the most of it."
"Fair enough. Well, I'll be back tomorrow to drag you all off in chains to see the Council of Twelve." Starbuck told them. "We're right on track for now."
"Yes, it's gone surprisingly smoothly." Chameleon mentioned, walking with his son to the door. "When this is all over, let's sit down and compare stories on how we learned to pick pockets."
"Sounds interesting." Starbuck grinned. "If there's a bottle of ambrosa involved, then I'm in."
"Done," Chameleon smiled. A bottle of ambrosa and just the two of them. Perhaps that would be the time to tell his son . . . "Until tomorrow then."
"Right."
"Oh, Starbuck?" said the conman.
"Yeah?" said Starbuck, half-turning to look at him.
"Here. You might need this," he smiled, handing his son back his ID pad.
----------
Starbuck turned the corner, amazed at how every time he was on the Rising Star, in contrast to just about every other passenger carrier in the Fleet, the corridors always seemed empty. No kids running up and down burning off the energy of youth. No, the children of the elite were otherwise occupied doing . . . whatever it is wealthy kids did.
His step faltered as he saw a man dressed in a dark cloak slumped against the wall, his downward slide ending as his astrum hit the deck. The man's left hand clutched at his chest and he let out a groan. Starbuck broke into a jog, closing the distance between them in microns.
"Hey, are you okay?" Starbuck knelt down on one knee before the man, grabbing his shoulder.
"Help . . . me . . ." the man grunted, clenching the warrior's flight jacket in his left hand like a lifeline as he gazed at him in desperation. Sweat ran off his brow.
"Sire Regus . . ." Starbuck stuttered, staring at the Empyrean Nobleman in surprise for a moment before his training kicked in. If it wasn't a heart attack, it was pretty damn close. "I'll get help."
"No . . ." Recognition flickered in eyes full of suffering and his grip on the warrior tightened. "Dracus was right . . ." A faint smile. " A message from . . . the Lords . . ." Regus murmured quietly, his right hand reaching beneath his cloak.
"What?" Starbuck asked, leaning closer, barely hearing the other. He twisted his head, looking down the corridor for the closest comm unit to call for a med tech. If he didn't get help soon . . .
An abrupt breath expelled in a tortuous gasp. Starbuck's mouth opened, his breath caught in his throat, as he tried to suck in precious air. His fingers dug into Regus' robes from where they had rested on the man's shoulder. The pain followed a micron later, slowly building from a burn to a searing torment as he looked down between them in morbid fascination. In paralytic shock.
The knife was still inside him, Regus' hand still clenching it, his knuckles white. Blood oozed from the jagged hole in his tunic, spreading its stain across his uniform. It was surreal. As though time had slowed down to force him to endure every milli-centon of the experience. Starbuck slumped against the wall, his supporting leg giving out beneath him. Regus stayed with him, his grip relentless as he twisted his body to face the warrior. Then the Empyrean pulled back slightly, changing his grip to press against the lieutenant's chest. Starbuck's head lifted and met the older man's eyes. As if that was what he was waiting for, Regus gazed at him balefully, and jerked the blade back out again, twisting it sharply, tearing at flesh anew. An animalistic cry of pain ripped from the warrior's throat.
Regus let the knife drop to the deck and using both hands, gripped the other's flight jacket with a talon-like hold, watching . . . savouring . . . every glimpse of the other's pain, confusion, and suffering. "For my son," Regus rasped at Starbuck, his own pain overcoming him for the moment, and he loosened his grip on his gasping victim, allowing him to slump over backwards to the deck. "Interloper! Desecrater of Sacred Tradition! Die, you fool!" As his back hit the deck, Starbuck's stomach screamed in protest as his extended position pulled at mutilated flesh. He rolled to his side, his hands uselessly cradling the wound, his back to Regus.
Regus took a deep breath, steadying himself, the crushing pressure in his chest once again receding enough to function. He picked up the ancient knife, eying the warrior for a moment. It would only take a few microns to slash his throat, ensuring his demise. It would leave him with no doubt that the cocky young man who had so naively thought that he would be permitted to claim the Empyrean throne would be dead. He was only a metron away. So easy.
If was as if Starbuck had read his mind.
Fighting his way through the blinding haze of pain, Starbuck reached for his weapon. His bloody hand gripped the blaster, and he drew it, leveling it at the other as he shifted slightly onto his back. His hand shook with the pain, but he clenched his teeth, fighting against the wave of darkness that threatened to envelop him. Regus stopped his advance, knife in hand.
Starbuck hesitated for an instant, and then pulled the trigger, changing his aim at the last micron, watching an enormous chunk of the wall beside Regus explode. Fragments of plaster and dust showered down on them. The man jumped, yelping in fear, and then blinked in surprise that he was still alive.
"Bastard!" Regus snarled, realizing the other had fired to get help. The answering echo of pounding footsteps drawing closer made up his mind. Once again, he propped himself up against the wall. He mentally prepared himself for the ancient ritual, regretting he had no 'second' with an accompanying long sword to sever his head from his shoulders. Regus rested the point of the knife against his stomach. Adjusting his grip, he wrapped both hands around the hilt.
Starbuck watched silently in horror as Regus plunged the blade into his own flesh, rending the flesh from left to right. Not a sound passed the Empyrean's grimacing lips, save a slight gasp. Then, after sucking in a further breath, he made one more cut vertically, completing a rough 'cross' shape. Blood and bile poured from the wound and the man slumped forward, his hands still tightly clenching the blade's hilt. Starbuck had heard tell of ancient warriors who had practiced the tradition to prevent themselves falling into the hands of the enemy, or to attenuate shame. But . . . Lords . . .
The pain was tortuous . . . exquisite. Regus looked up for a moment, despite his own obvious agony, seeking the other's gaze. He smiled at the revulsion on the warrior's face . . . the lack of understanding . . . the fear. Only in this way could Regus end his life with his transgressions entirely erased by his bravery; with his reputation not merely intact, but actually enhanced. His shame was attenuated, his honour, and that of his family, restored. As his life's blood soaked his robes, he felt the descending darkness and knew that Paradise lay just beyond it. He stretched out his arms, surrendering himself body and soul, never doubting for a moment that eternal salvation awaited him.