Sorting out half-truths and facts from blatant lies. Trying to remember what he had told Starbuck so many sectars ago, when they had met. How much of it was pertinent to his con, and how much was real life. It was a tangled web that Chameleon had spun and now had to extricate himself from. If he didn't, he would undoubtedly lose Starbuck for good.
Pros and Cons?
One obvious thing that he had going for him was that his son was virtually bedridden. Starbuck's obvious pain and nausea, his generally rotten condition, made him a captive audience. And when Chameleon gazed into his eyes, using his skills as a conman to read what lay beneath the surface, he was well aware that within the young man was still a vulnerable child who had hoped and dreamed that at some point this day might come . . . perhaps delivered in a different set of circumstances though.
On the other hand, he had blatantly lied to his son, and had manipulated Cassiopeia into keeping the secret. Oh, his motivation had been his son's welfare at the time, at least that was what he was able to convince Cassiopeia of . . . and himself for a little while. True, Starbuck's resignation from the service would have deprived it of one of the best pilots in Colonial history, something they didn't really need in their current situation, but that was as much cover as truth. Now, how to convince Starbuck of the same?
Or to just tell him the truth.
He sat down heavily in the chair, relieved that at least Starbuck wasn't telling him to go to Hades Hole and was going to listen. Your last chance, old man. You had better get it right. "When the Cylons attacked Umbra, I was in town on business, getting in an order of the latest agro parts, most of which I had already sold to the locals. We had no warning, no local defenses. It was just a little agro community . . . no one expected the attack. To this day, I still don't understand their motives, or how they managed to get through the outer defense perimeter." He still remembered that false sense of security that he and Gabrielle shared; thinking that staying away from the larger centers would be a safer place to raise their son during the ongoing war with the Cylons. It was something he hadn't given any thought to before meeting the beautiful young woman who had stolen his heart and facilitated his change from a professional wagerer to a respectable dealer of agro parts and farm produce, and a father, all in the space of five yahrens. "And, as a result, the community was devastated. Completely destroyed."
Starbuck nodded briefly. It was all a matter of public record. It was one of the worst attacks on Caprica . . . up until the Destruction.
"I was badly injured. The building I was in collapsed, and it took centars . . . precious centars before anyone arrived from the surrounding communities to start searching for survivors. They pulled me out of the rubble the following day and I was transferred to a Life Center in Annulus. It was over a secton later when I finally awoke to find out what had happened."
Starbuck remembered reading in the archives that the surrounding communities had been overwhelmed with survivors, wounded, dying and over a thousand dead. People separated from their families. Outlying relatives trying to locate loved ones. Communications and land routes in and out cut off by the destruction. It was chaos. The rescue effort had gone on for sectons, of course, each day proving less and less likely to recover the living. It was a blow to the morale of the Colonies, and as such, was one of the most newsworthy and media covered events of the deca-yahren. Needless to say, the political fallout was enormous, with many a head rolling.
"The official reports recorded a direct hit on our home. No survivors. I refused to believe it. I couldn't resign myself to . . ." Chameleon wrung his hands as his voice broke. He suddenly realized he was still holding the cloth he had wiped Starbuck's brow with, the moisture wicking through to his trousers. He absently discarded it. And though he was looking at Starbuck, he was seeing beyond him. Going back in his mind to a time he had long since tried to forget. "It took me another secton to get strong enough to be released to go see the evidence for myself. It was horrifying. Everything that your mother and I had built up over five yahrens was gone. And so was she. And . . . I thought that . . . you were gone with her." He gulped in a few deep breaths.
Chameleon would never forget his desperation and anxiety during that secton in the Annulus Life Center, needing to see for himself that his wife, his child—his life really—were truly gone. As soon as he was able to walk safely across a room, his broken bones finally laser mended and his battered body recovered enough to eat and drink, he had discharged himself against medical advice. It had taken a further day to return to Umbra, most of the trip made on foot through the devastated war torn community, wandering in horror as everything that had once looked familiar was now laid to waste. A charred, twisted reminder of what happened when defenses were breached. It was disorientating, and took him a further day to even find what had once been his home.
"You were just a small boy, Starbuck. And rather attached to your mother's skirt at the best of times." A faint smile at how the youngster would always run crying to 'Mama' at the slightest provocation. "It never even occurred to me then that you somehow could have been among the children wandering in the Thorn Forest. The area around our home was ravaged, torn full of gaping holes from the Cylon strafing runs. Not a scrap of vegetation was left. The house itself was leveled, a smoldering, blackened ruin. I . . . I knew there was no way that . . ." He stopped, momentarily unable to continue. He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself, suddenly feeling weak in front of his strong son, the Colonial Warrior. "I heard the Cylons used some pluton charges in that attack. God only knows how you survived." Chameleon scratched his face, until then unaware that tears were running down his cheeks at the memories of the most horrific time of his life. He wiped at them absently, drawn back into the moment and again looking at his son.
"Then the . . . traumatic amnesia. The career in . . . genetic tracing?" Starbuck asked, his voice subdued, his eyes downcast as he remembered Chameleon's words in the RisingStar Chancery of his valiant efforts to find his lost son after finally recovering from the psychological trauma from the loss of his wife.
"Lies," his father admitted. "At least for the most part. Yes, I was in a coma for a secton following the strike on Umbra, but what I learned about genetic tracing was through a woman I met many yahrens later. We had a . . . brief relationship until I became . . . restless and moved on. I suppose, through osmosis, I learned enough about genetic tracing from her that it became a part of one of my many aliases later in life."
If possible, Starbuck appeared even more wan and deflated than before as he distractedly twisted his sheet through tightly clenched fingers. But it had to be done this way to make him understand. The harsh truth was, his father was no prize.
----------
Dayton entered Dr. Wilker's lab to find Captain Apollo and Lieutenant Boomer peering over Hummer and Baker's shoulders, staring at a small screen, reminiscent of a portable DVD player. As he drew closer he could see images of Earth—panoramic views from documentaries, dramatic scenes from their collection of movies, entertainment featuring the culture and performers of their time—all put together with a familiar piece of music that he hadn't quite placed before it faded out. He grinned as Apollo and Boomer actually stood there and applauded the others' efforts at the Journey to Earth promotional vid, its official premiere scheduled for that afternoon in the Council Chambers.
"Hey, I missed it. Can you play it again . . . Sam?" Dayton slapped Baker on the shoulder.
"I thought his name was Bob?" Boomer murmured jovially, feeling a bit like a kid in an amusement part after being privy to some of the first sights ever seen of Earth by Colonials.
"A beautiful friendship, either way." Dayton responded, still on cloud nine after Cassiopeia had invited him for dinner.
"It's impressive." Apollo told him with a grin. "This is as good as something the IFB would put together. It's definitely going to make an impression on the Council, not to mention the people of the Fleet. Their first views of Earth. I honestly wondered if I'd live to see the day."
"Here we go," Baker muttered into the Languatron. "Roll 'em!"
Earth, the final frontier. This is the story of the men of the Space Shuttle Endeavour and their home world. Their original mission: to resupply the International Space Station. Their reality: a journey through an apparent wormhole to a strange new world, learning about new life and new civilizations, boldly going where no Earthman has gone before.
Footage of the Space Shuttle Endeavour launching from Cape Canaveral, with some clever editing from The Six Million Dollar Man, and Apollo 13, accompanied the ripped-off intro from Star Trek, and Dayton covered his smirk with his hand as the familiar music started. Trumpets powerfully set the tone for the start of the vid, and within the first few bars he realized he was listening to the theme music from Star Wars.
Still, the Colonials seemed to be impressed, and the strong theme music was actually perfect as the string section took over and he began to recognize images from old movies—The Ten Commandments, Ben-Hur, Spartacus, Cleopatra, The Sound Of Music, King Solomon's Mines, Conan The Barbarian, Robin Hood, Julius Caesar, and, zanily, What's Up, Doc?—interspersed with scenes from documentaries, travel shows and TV Series. All together an impressive, entertaining, interesting and intriguing glimpse into Earth, her people, and her culture.
"Bravo!" Dayton added his applause to the others when it concluded. "Great job. Cut and print! I'll feel a little bit better about this Council meeting having something to 'wow' them with first."
"Oh?" Apollo asked. "Are you feeling nervous about the meeting, Commander?"
"Well, as Groucho Marx used to say, 'Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly and applying the wrong remedies.' So, in a word, no. I'm not looking forward to it, Captain." Dayton replied ruefully, Starbuck's recent pep talk about running for office himself adding to the mix.
"He sounds like a wise man." Apollo mused. "One of your leaders?"
Dayton smiled. "If only! We might have had fewer problems. A comedian actually. But they say it's only funny if it's true."
"Starbuck asked me to escort you and your men to the meeting, Commander Dayton." Apollo added.
"The booby prize, eh, Captain?" Dayton grinned, watching as both warriors and the technician appeared stricken at the Languatron's interpretation of 'a woman's breast offered as a reward for superiority'. "Heh heh. I knew that would be a good one!" He slapped Baker on the back as they both watched the three men considering them in horror.
"It's actually more like 'last prize', Captain," Baker assured the warrior, shaking his head at the Commander who was displaying some unusually Ryan-like tendencies. Something had certainly cheered his Commander. He wondered if it had legs . . . or was ethanol based.
"Oh," Apollo nodded at Hummer who began making adjustments on the translator . . . again. "Commander, do you think you'd have another opportunity to get into Fausto's officer?"
"I imagine so." Dayton replied with a nod. "He seemed interested in a couple racket sports I mentioned. I'm sure he'll want more details. Why?" Again the puzzled faces. "Racket-it's an Earth slang term for a deceptive, usually illegal scheme or operation. For separating people from their money. Like the sort this Fausto creep is pulling." They nodded, but still appeared confused.
"And this is . . . a sport on Earth?" Boomer asked quizzically.
Dayton chuckled. "Ah, I see. Sorry. Our language is lousy with more than one meaning for certain words. A racket can also be a . . . frame that is strung with . . . uh . . . catgut . . . " They looked baffled and horrified once again, and he knew what they were thinking. Lordy, lordy, lordy Miss Clawdie, what those guys on Earth do to their pets! "Uh, yeah, well . . . catgut is a thread made from the intestines of sheep . . . ovines . . . " They nodded as if a light, albeit more of a nightlight, had just gone on. "Anyhow, the taut, yet flexible nature of the . . . string makes it great for hitting a ball . . . and we have a few sports that implement a ball and racket." He sighed in relief at their look of comprehension, but almost felt the need to light up a cigarette and take five. "Now, why do I need to get back into Fausto's office, Captain?"
"Reece and I met with Sire Dracus. He was quite up front about Fausto approaching him and trying to blackmail him. He swore that he's turned Guidobaldo away each time he's come calling. Starbuck mentioned the possibility that Fausto is trying to set Dracus up since the Councilman is openly trying to enact regulations to do away with legal and open sports betting, shutting down Fausto's legitimate operations. They're the only cover he has for his crooked ones, and if the measure went through, he'd be ruined. We thought if we could plant a transceiver in there, we might learn something."
"Actually, Apollo, the way Fausto operates, I wouldn't put it past him to try and terminate Dracus as well. He certainly hasn't had any qualms about removing anyone from the quotient whose been in his way so far." Boomer posed.
"Well, so far the people that have been killed aren't quite as renowned as a Member of the Council of Twelve. That might just be an advantage in this case. I'm wondering if Fausto has realized that if he can't use the information he has on Sire Dracus to blackmail him, then perhaps he can use it to go ahead and discredit him."
"What exactly is Sire Dracus responsible for?" Dayton asked. "Politically, I mean."
"Mainly social services," Boomer replied. "But he has a reputation for getting on his high equine about moral issues, such as legalized gambling and drinking, that other bureauticians long ago accepted as being part of today's society. In some ways, he's almost a throwback to an earlier time."
"What kind of man is he?" asked Baker. "I don't mean his social position. The real man, himself."
"He has high personal standards, according to Commander Adama," Apollo told the Earthman. "He's highly intelligent, extremely well educated, a devout Kobolian, a famed and very liberal humanitarian. He once undertook the reconstruction of a whole town destroyed in a Cylon raid and the resettlement of the survivors entirely out of his own resources. He lives an abstemious way of life. In fact, he's very critical of any hedonistic ways. He definitely balances the Sire Uri's and Feo's in that lot."
"Pretty self-indulgent?" asked Baker again. "This Uri and Feo?"
"Very."
"Almost surprising then, that long sword collection that Starbuck mentioned," Boomer pointed out.
"I gathered it takes him back to a different era, when times were simpler." Apollo shrugged. "I tuned into the IFB earlier, and he actually made a public apology to Starbuck for any defamation of character he might have caused. He was singing our Lieutenant's praises before the Fleet, admitting he was wrong, in light of the triad scandal being exposed."
"By the way, did you hear anything about Sire Regus' post-mortem? Did he have a heart attack or not?" Dayton asked the Captain.
"Apparently so, according to Dr. Paye. His cardiac enzymes were 'appropriately elevated'. But he died as a result of bisecting his aorta with that blade. So it looks like taking Starbuck with him was probably exactly what Luana said it was, a last desperate attempt once he realized that he only had moments to live, to remove Starbuck from any chance at the Empyrean throne."
"That's a twisted ideology, if you ask me," Boomer inserted, shaking his head at the seemingly dichotomous values of Ama and Regus, both Empyrean. "And anyone who knows Starbuck knows he would assume their throne like Baltar would be canonized as a saint." He shook his head again. "What about Regus' son, Rogane? Any results on his post-mortem?"
"Yes," the captain nodded. "Just as we thought. A lethal amount of Elysium, with various other low levels toxins that it was likely cut with. Dr. Paye wasn't sure if it was the Elysium or the combination of toxic additives that actually killed him though."
"And the cause of death was recorded as what?" Dayton asked.
"Probable overdose." Apollo replied dourly. "He was a known user, after all."
"And Guidobaldo?" Boomer added. "Did Security question him about being seen with Rogane on the Maxidex?" The last he had heard, that was Reece's next stop.
"No. They haven't found him yet." Apollo replied. "He's conveniently disappeared. At least for now."
Boomer sighed, nodding. "So is Security still covering the Life Station?"
"Yeah. For now," the Strike Captain agreed. "Frankly, until Starbuck is safely on his feet again . . . " He shrugged off that feeling he had that they were missing something here.
"I'm all for it, buddy." Boomer slapped a hand on his shoulder. "Especially with Guidobaldo at large."
"Exactly." Apollo added grimly. "Hummer, why don't you show Commander Dayton how the transceiver works."
"Yes, sir." The tech reached across his bench, and pulled a small circuit from a box. He held it up for all to see.
About the size of a thumbnail, it looked incredibly complicated to Dayton. He wasn't even certain he recognized the components packed tightly on the tiny circuit board.
"Alright," said Hummer, "this little beauty here is a miniature remote activated transceiver, with random frequency shuffling. It can pick up both audio and video data from an area nearly the size of the bridge."
"Ah. A bug," said Dayton. He saw brow after brow furrow in confusion, and this time simply waved it off. "Later. Go on."
"Uhhh . . . yes," said Hummer, wondering if the Languatron was ever going to get a handle on this language. "Place this anywhere within Fausto's suite aboard the Rising Star, and we can see and hear what's going on."
"Pardon me for what must seem like a dumb question," said Baker, "but how can it acquire video? Sound I get, but unless it's pointed at you . . ." He trailed off, as an image popped up above the holo-reader. It was a clear, three-dimensional image of them all, gathered around the bench. The Earthmen leaned close, clearly amazed at the site before them as Hummer continued his lesson.
"It utilizes a scanner system not unlike that which we use for deep structural and metalurgical scans, allowing us to see through solid objects. By modulating the scanner wavelons in the emitter diode array, we can get passably decent imaging."
"Lord, it's kind of like the new medical scanners they were just introducing back home," said Dayton.
"There are similarities with medical technologies, yes," said Hummer. "But to be really effective, the subjects must be within, say, four or five metrons to see anything."
"And the sound?"
Hummer adjusted a control, and picked up a microwelder from the bench. He lightly scraped it across the top of the bench, and a deafening roar erupted from the speaker.
"Okay," said Dayton, "works for me. But, how do we get this little honey to where it will do the most good. From what I saw of this Fausto creep, he isn't the trusting type."
"When you were in his suite, what did you see in the way of security?" asked Boomer.
"His thugs were never far away," replied Dayton. "One of them, a big, bald hulk, never took his eyes off of me once he showed up. And one of the others kept moving around, with something in his hand that looked kind of like this thing," he indicated the Languatron, "pointing it every which way." It looked vastly different than the one Starbuck had given them for checking their quarters on the Rising Star, much more crude and cumbersome. "I think he was sweeping the joint for bugs."
Brushing the junction of two bones for insectons? Boomer shook his head.
"What will prevent him from detecting this thing?" asked Baker, indicating the device.
"Several things," said Hummer, with a note of pride. "First of all, it sounds like their detector isn't as sophisticated as what we're using. It's probably the TD 150. Kind of like the old Starfighters in comparison to our Vipers. With this little baby," he held it up, "the memory chip stores up to two centars of data before transmitting it. Then, it downloads it to us in a burst transmission lasting no more than a quarter micron. During that transmission, it randomly shifts transmitting freqs up to twenty times. Anyone trying to detect it, once hidden, would have to be practically right on top of it when it's active."
"What freqs?" asked Apollo.
"I've modified the circuit to transmit on frequencies only used by the Cylons, Captain," replied Hummer. "If a Cylon's vocal synthesizer is damaged, they can switch to a non-vocal system to communicate. No one monitors those freqs here, and we will pick it up through the good offices of Centurion Anthrax over there, relayed here via the Rising Star's auxiliary antenna array." He pointed at the cybernaut, sitting motionless in a corner.
"And while it's in scan mode?" asked Boomer. "What then?"
"When in scan mode, should it detect any sort of sweep or scan, it will shut down until its passive sensors tell it the scan has passed out of range," replied Hummer. "Not perfect, but you can only pack so much into this small a package. Any idea how often Fausto has his suite checked out?"
"I have no idea," said Dayton, his attention diverted by the captured and apparently rewired Centurion, having now seen it for the second time. It reminded him of a bulkier chromed Imperial Storm Trooper from Star Wars, only this was real life. There were a limitless amount of these things hunting for these people intent on their destruction. And now you're one of them, pal. He looked back at Hummer, adding, "But for a sharp operator like him, I'd wager it's often. Every few days, at the least."
"Hopefully that'll be enough," said Apollo. "How do we get it inside and hidden?"
"I have an idea," said Dayton, reaching inside his tunic. God, it feels so weird to have real clothes, again! He pulled out a small round object, held in a circle on a chain. He slipped the chain off, and held the object out to Apollo.
"What's this?" he asked, taking the proffered object. It fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, was round, and made of some kind of stamped metal. On one side was a portrait of a man's head, surrounded by lettering. L-I-B-E-R-T-Y. Below were more letters, I-N G-O-D W-E T-R-U-S-T, and what he recognized from his studies so far as numbers; 1 9 7 1. On the opposite side was the image of some sort of bird, with a bundle of arrows in one talon, and some kind of plant branch in the other. More lettering surrounded the image, and emblazoned a banner held in the bird's beak.
"An American half-dollar coin," replied Dayton. He briefly explained the coin. "An uncle who worked at the mint gave each of us a half-dollar as a good luck charm, from the same year . . .uh, yahren, we were born. The pirates didn't seem interested, so I managed to keep it."
"And your idea?" asked Apollo.
"Well," he said, as he popped the old John F. Kennedy coin out of its frame, "how about planting the bug inside here? Can you do it?"
"Slice it in half," Hummer muttered, half to himself, "hollow it out, slip the transceiver in. Very good. Let me have look." Hummer rose, and took the coin to another bench. After a quick scan, he mounted it in a frame, and with a very fine laser, sliced it in half along its length, and examined the inner surfaces with a high-powered lens.
"Can you do it?" asked Boomer.
"I think so. It'll be a tight fit, sir. I'll have to scrape it out almost to the surface, but she'll fit." He put the lens down. "Then, once she's sealed up again, we put the coin back in its frame, and no one will know."
"How will you plant it there?" asked Apollo. "He's bound to eventually find it, and . . ."
"I noticed a set of coins," said Dayton. "Displayed on a rack near his desk. We discussed it briefly. He's an avid collector, as I was once, and I showed him my old half-dollar. He offered to buy it, very taken with it being from Earth and all, but I said no. After all, it's one of the few things I have left from home, and it's not made of precious metal. Sadly, we don't use silver in our coinage anymore. But he offered me a hundred . . . what do you call them, uh, cubits, for it. I think I've changed my mind, and I'll sell."
"And with the bug right there in his office, we'll have a ringside seat," said Baker.
"Roger, Houston," smiled Dayton, looking at his old comrade.
"I thought his name was Bob," deadpanned Hummer to the others.
"I can tell you right now that Starbuck isn't going to like it." Apollo sighed. "He doesn't want you guys being associated with this plan in any way. He doesn't want to put you at risk. And Commander Adama won't like it either."
"Hey, what Café au Lait doesn't know, won't hurt him." Dayton insisted. "We owe Starbuck. This is the least I can do to help out, and unless there's something you haven't told me, this is my decision to make. I'm still my own man. Besides, if everything goes to plan, Fausto will be behind bars and out of the picture anyhow." After everything that Starbuck had tried to do for him and his men, despite their differences, he was damned well going to return the favour.
Apollo nodded towards Baker. "What implicates you, Commander Dayton, implicates the others by association."
"I'm with Dayton," Baker averred through the Languatron, with grim determination. "And I know for a fact that the others would agree. If we can do something to help, then let us do it. This should be our call, not Starbuck's, and not your Commander's."
"Boomer?" Apollo asked.
He sighed. "I honestly can't think of a better option. But . . . we have to tell Starbuck. Remember what happened last time we went behind his back with that security check on Chameleon." The lieutenant would never forget Starbuck's anger and disbelief over him and Apollo investigating his . . . father's background so many sectars ago. It had made him realize how important it was to his friend, finding a link to his unknown roots. So when Starbuck had shrugged off the entire incident in the Commander's office later by saying, 'I'm a little old to start breaking in a father now', he was well aware it was an example of Starbuck's infamous smokescreen at its finest, and he wasn't fooled for a micron.
"Agreed." Apollo nodded. "I'll tell him."
"Fine, but I hope we're not waiting for his permission here. This is a perfect opportunity to find out what you need to know." Dayton inserted, not understanding the reference, but musing that the entire Starbuck/Chameleon history would be a story worth hearing at some point.
Over a few of those Empyrean Ales.
----------
"You didn't . . . even try to look for me?" Starbuck could barely get the words out. Hades, going back as far as he could remember he had spent yahrens imagining his parents scouring each and every orphanage, foster home, detention center, or homeless shelter—always dependent on his current situation, of course—searching for him. He had spent even more time imagining an ecstatic reunion, the scene changing throughout the yahrens. It had never even occurred to him that his family could so easily and dismissively accept him as being . . . dead.
Chameleon winced. "I thought you were both killed. There was nothing left, Starbuck. Nothing."
All conscious memory of that period in Umbra was lost to Starbuck, and had been since he was a child. Thinking back, the traumatic amnesiac that Chameleon had first claimed to be on the Rising Star, was in all probability what his son actually was. Of course, the other children tended to use less charitable words for it in the orphanage. And even now, sometimes in the dead of night, fleeting images would come back to haunt the warrior in his sleep. The fear. The noise. The heat. The stench. The screams. The all-consuming need to find his mother. Well over twenty yahrens later he would still awaken drenched in sweat, his heart pounding, and his terror still as vivid as when he was a child.
"Then when I met you on the Rising Star, I had already seen your Warrior of the Centar interview on the IFB. The coincidence was . . . providential."
Though he felt increasingly numb, the warrior was still able to mumble, "Yeah. You told me. You just needed to get off the Rising Star. Away from those Nomen."
Starbuck still remembered those following centars on the Galactica as being almost magical. The more he had learned about Chameleon, the more certain he had become that they were indeed father and son. He had thought that it was only a matter of time until the fact would be confirmed and a whole new world would open up to him. Lords, he had been on top of the world, and he wasn't planning on coming down until he had celebrated a lifetime worth of natal days, Father's days, and Winter Solstice Festivals. Not even Apollo and Boomer's attempt to caution him had made an impact. Instead, he had declared their friendship over, angrily pointing out Apollo's, in particular, inherent inability to trust anyone or anything except himself.
Then later, after being attacked by the Borellian Nomen in the Galactica's launch bay, and Chameleon admitting that he was in fact impersonating Captain Dimitri of the Livestock Ship, the old conman had come clean with Starbuck about all the details. At the time, it had been a blow to the young man, but something he had quickly worked through. Though truthfully it almost had as much to do with saving face in front of his friends and the Commander as it did his well-known nonchalance coming to his rescue. As disappointing as it was, he had understood that Chameleon—who he had honestly become quite attached to—was simply doing what he had to do to survive. Much like the rest of them. Much like a certain kid from the streets of Caprica City, once upon a time. Besides, how could he grieve over what he never really had? At least that's what he kept telling himself.
"Well, what I didn't tell you, Starbuck, was that the more time I spent with you, the more I thought that if my son had survived to maturity, that I hoped he would have turned out to be half the man that you were." Chameleon leaned forward, with voice rich with sincerity. "You have to understand that I was playing the odds, and they were next to nothing. I truly thought my son was gone. But every time you began to open up to me. . . or point out the similarities in our nature . . . the more I realized how . . . how hurt you were going to be when you found out we weren't father and son." He sighed. "I guess you . . . introduced me to my conscience."
Starbuck could feel a tightness engulf his throat as a voice inside him cried out, but I knew that you were my father! I just knew it. He swallowed it down and instead asked, "Then why wouldn't you . . . ?" His voice broke and he sucked in a breath, lowering his head and raking his hands through his hair.
Chameleon shook his head, wiping at eyes that were once again filling with moisture. "Please let me finish, Starbuck. After you told me in the launch bay that you were going to resign from the Service to get to know me, I couldn't believe that you were willing to sacrifice everything you knew and loved for a . . . a despicable old conman who was leading you down the garden path. You wanted so . . . desperately to find your father. To find out who you were. I knew I couldn't let it go any further. I had to tell you the truth, and I was going to . . ." His voice was but a whisper as he added, "that was when the Nomen arrived."
Lords, up until then it had been one of the most incredible rides of Starbuck's life. His expectations were built up so high, you couldn't have reached them without an ion propulsion system. His instinct had practically screamed that Chameleon was his father. If he could have put cubits on it, he would have bet everything he had. And, as the old man had said, he had been considering giving up everything . . . to recover those lost yahrens and find out who he was and where he had come from.
What a fracking idiot.
Then Starbuck's house of cards had come crashing down around him. Boomer and Apollo arriving on the scene, Apollo looking at him sadly, and then looking beyond him to Chameleon. Chameleon admitting that he was "Captain Dimitri". And then the whole sordid tale unfolding.
"So you have to understand that when Cassiopeia found me and told me the results were actually positive, I was . . . flabbergasted. All I could think of was what I had already put you through. You're a war hero, son, a respected officer. A man of courage and honour. Look what you've made of your life. What you contribute to what remains of our society as a Colonial Warrior on a daily basis. Me? I'm just a two-cubit crook. A wagerer and conman who's never played straight for five centons in his whole life. Other than those precious yahrens I spent with you and your mother so long ago, I've never done an honest or respectable thing in my life. And you were willing to throw away all that you had known, all that you had accomplished, all that you mean to our people . . . it was just . . . wrong." His wavering voice again broke with the intensity of his feeling. "I just couldn't be a party to that."
Wrong.
The word, thick with emotion, echoed through Starbuck's mind. As much as he could somewhat understand Chameleon's motivations, he couldn't help feeling betrayed. Rejected. Hey, it's not like it's the first time. He closed his eyes, his chest tight with anguish. He didn't dare speak. He couldn't.
"The ridiculous thing was . . . I thought I could have it both ways, Starbuck. When you told me that you had grown . . . attached . . . Lords, it was like a precious gift from God above. I thought we could still get to know each other, become friends, and you wouldn't ever have to find out what an abysmal failure as a man your own father really was." He sighed wistfully. "Oh, how I wish I could have been the kind of father that a man like you deserved, Starbuck. Another Adama perhaps. Or a Cain." He shook his head. "Old fool."
Starbuck's eyes were clenched tightly, stinging with unshed tears. He felt that he would break into a million pieces if anyone laid a hand on him at that moment. He couldn't even look at Chameleon. He knew the merest sight of the regretful old man would make him melt down. Frack. Get it together, Bucko. You might not know where you came from, but you damn well know who you are. He took a deep breath, feeling it escape raggedly. So he took another.
And let it out.
"I never said that I expected you to be . . . Adama." Starbuck paused, again wringing the sheet with his hands. "I gave up creating my father in the image of a hero . . . or a great warrior . . . or some exiled member of Royalty . . . almost twenty yahrens ago." He sniffed self-deprecatingly at his childhood memory of 'Prince Starbuck' arriving home on his regal stallion, before finally meeting his father's eyes again. "I just wanted to know . . . where I came from. Who my people were. That I belonged somewhere." He cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders before he continued.
"What's 'wrong', Chameleon, is you didn't . . . you didn't give me the chance to decide for myself." Starbuck's voice gained strength as simmering anger began to replace pain. "Knowing at that point that it was all a just a ploy to get away from the Borellian Nomen, somehow I just don't picture myself leaving the Service to . . ." His tone was acerbic as he continued, "follow in your footsteps. But you didn't think about that, did you?"
Chameleon's eyes closed, his shoulders slumped, and he hung his head dejectedly, shaking his head in mute reply at his son's words of truth. Every yahren he had lived showed in his bearing. He didn't deny a thing. It was Starbuck's turn to speak.
"Do you know what I think?" Starbuck continued, his breathing uneven as a slow burn ignited into the temper he was known for and he lashed out against his father. "I think you've spent so many yahrens not caring about anyone except yourself, that it was just easier to lie to me. You were scared to have someone in your life that wasn't just serving the purpose of your latest scam. No commitments, no expectations . . ."
His rebuke abruptly died on his lips, his ragged breathing was the only audible sound from him, as Luana's words came back to haunt him from the triad court. No commitments, no expectations, no kiss and tell. Words that she had thought he needed to hear before he would get involved in a relationship with her.
She was right.
Starbuck closed his eyes, overwhelmed by the obvious, the glaring truth snapping him out of his tirade more effectively than a slap across the face. . . the sting much the same. He sniffed self-derisively, as the well-known phrase ran through his mind so poignantly; like father like son.
How many times had he blown off relationships for what amounted to basically the same reasoning? Ask Athena, she could tell you, Bucko. He shook his head. There was a long list of women he had loved and left, or had just let slip out of his life, especially when things began to look serious. Hades, the only permanent fixture in his life for over a deca-yahren was Apollo. Then again, he didn't need to worry about sealing with Apollo.
"Just like me," he said quietly, opening his eyes, and looking at Chameleon. The old conman looked at him nervously, probably wondering what was going through his head, and if he was just gearing up for a further blast of condemnation. "Well, at least I know I . . . come by it honestly." He sniffed at the ironyof that phrase in relation to his father.
"I'm not sure . . . I understand," Chameleon replied, studying his son, trying to read his mood.
Starbuck sighed, again raking his hands through his hair and closing his eyes. "Me neither."
Sagan, he felt tired and sore. Like someone had stabbed him in the . . . oh, yeah. More than anything else he just wanted to be alone. Oh, to be able to pull the covers up over his head and make the world disappear for a few precious centars of peace.
"Son?" Chameleon tried to draw him out.
"I need to . . . wrap my brain around this," Starbuck told him quietly.
It was a far cry from what he had ever expected. Instead of joyous, he felt strangely empty. Instead of throwing his arms around his father, he wanted to be left alone. Instead of storming the bridge to announce over the Unicom that he had found his family, he'd just as soon keep it to himself . . . at least for the moment.
"Can I . . . come and see you tomorrow?" Chameleon asked tentatively, his brow knit in concern.
Starbuck nodded slowly. "Yeah."
The old man's hand briefly covered his own and it startled the warrior for a moment as he looked down in surprise. Slightly mottled, veins distended, flesh wrinkled. He looked up into the equally lined face that was filled with sadness and regret.
"I'm sorry, Starbuck." The conman's lips tightened and he shook his head as he turned to leave.
"Chameleon." He touched his father's sleeve, unexpectedly reluctant to let him go. Almost wondering if, indeed, he would return . . .
The conman smiled knowingly, as he turned back. "I won't run out on you again, son." He leaned down over the biobed and gripped the young man's shoulders, then tentatively put his arms around his son for the first time since Starbuck was a child. Chameleon sniffed loudly, choking back the rising tide of emotion, his voice shaky. "I . . . I promise."
"I'll hold you to that," Starbuck rasped, leaning into the embrace, patting the old man's back awkwardly, and blinking back tears once again. Father.