Apollo paced Fausto's office as Boomer sat somewhat more patiently on the corner of the desk, waiting for the location of the hidden room from Corporal Komma. The lieutenant's eyes followed the captain as he covered the three steps from one side of the room to the other, and then turned sharply on his heel and repeated them.

"Taking too long . . ." Apollo muttered.

"It's only been five centons." Boomer replied logically. "He's probably wading through data."

"Feels more like a day."

"I know," replied Boomer, still watching the other. "Apollo, will you stop pacing? You're going to wear a trench in the deck plate."

"Boomer, I can't help it. I was supposed to be backing him up. Instead, I've lost him." He stopped, looking at the other. "Some fracking friend."

"Hey, if you're looking to ascribe blame—which Starbuck would absolutely hate, I might add—then I'm just as culpable." Boomer raised his hands defenselessly.

Apollo blew out a short breath of frustration in return, knowing the lieutenant was right. He just hated sitting still, waiting on someone else before he could act. Especially, knowing that Starbuck was in the hands of a killer.

Two figures dressed in black crossed in front of the open office door, drawing their attention. Apollo recognized them as two of the rescued Earthmen. Ryan briefly looked in and paused. He looked hastily at Baker, seeming torn in some way, before pushing his friend on ahead and stopping.

"Dr. Ryan." Apollo looked at him critically. What had formally been a pristine white shirt was now splattered with . . . what looked like blood. But whose? "What's going on?"

"I think we know where Starbuck is," Ryan advised them. "Dracus has a secured backroom in his suite. Delta Level, Suite 10500. The Empyreal Suite, or so I'm told."

"What makes you think . . .?"

"Dracus left early. Champing at the bit for some reason. Mark and Chameleon followed him." The Earthman's face was impassive, all evidence of his normal jocularity gone. "I haven't heard from Mark, and I was supposed to." He swallowed briefly. "I think he's in trouble. I think they're all in trouble." He paused, screwing up his face as if what came next didn't come easy to him. "I . . . I could use your help." He looked pointedly at their weapons, then added as a seeming afterthought, "Captain."

It was sketchy, to say the least. But the fact that the Earthman had stopped to confide in them, to get their help, spoke volumes more than his words. Even more so after thirty yahrens in that hole from Hades they had found them in. In the end, Apollo knew that Ryan was fond of Starbuck. Maybe a little too fond of him. Sagan, how could he not be fond of the man who had rescued them all from a living death? The astronaut was looking out for their buddy, as well as his Commander. But where precisely did Sire Dracus fit in? They would likely find out when they crashed his quarters.

Apollo looked to Boomer who nodded once curtly, before the Strike Captain spoke into his communicator. "Corporal Komma, this is Captain Apollo. When you're finally ready, you can reach me with that information on my personal communicator."

The communicator crackled to life. "Sorry, Captain. I just had to double check the information because that particular suite of rooms has a privacy code on it. I needed Commander Adama's clearance." Komma informed him. "It's Sire Dracus' rooms, Sir. Delta level, Suite 10500."

Ryan's jaw tightened and he rolled his eyes. "Duh. Well, Captain?"

"Let's go." Apollo replied.

----------

Dayton's brow crinkled at he looked in surprise at the woman who had sneaked up on him and Chameleon. She was covered in black from head to toe: a filmy veil that seemed to be more about fashion than function; a long, elegant black gown; even a coordinating small, black gun . . . which he assumed was of the laser variety, despite its size. From the way she filled out her clothes, he might, under other circumstances, found her sexy. In this one, she reminded him of a Black Widow Spider.

You let a woman sneak up on you? Must be getting old, Mark!

Hell, you ARE old!

"Who are you?" Dayton asked curiously as he raised his hands slowly. He looked at Chameleon in question. He was sure that the Councilman was single. The conman shook his head, clearly not knowing her identity.

"Silence!" she snapped, her form tight with tension. She waved the weapon towards the bed chambers where the Commander had already searched. "That way. Now."

"Uh . . . I like to get to know a lady before entering her bedroom," Dayton quipped, trying to delay for time, seeing her suck in a deep breath in agitation. By her bearing, and enunciation, he had a feeling she was from the Colonial upper class and wouldn't appreciate his remark. So he made another. "Wouldn't mind knowing what was under the burka before I decide one way or the other . . ."

"I said, silence!" she repeated, actually stomping a foot. "For pity's sake, you sound like that insolent daggit, Starbuck!" Her eyes flickered to the screen, her features settling in a crazed contentment. "Now, if you don't start walking right now, I will fire."

"Easy, lady. Don't get your knickers in a knot," Dayton continued, walking back to the bedroom with Chameleon looking at him warningly.

"Uhhh, maybe you should forego the flip remarks, Commander," the conman hissed.

"Well, I . . . "

"She has the blaster."

"Blaster? Couldn't you find another word? Sounds like I'm in a Star Wars movie."

"SHUT UP!" she growled.

The two men entered the chamber and paused as she pointed towards the wardrobe. Dayton sighed and entered the dressing room, somewhat mollified to find it mostly empty, with only a few suits of clothes carefully hung in place. Dracus might have a slightly sociopathic taste for fine art, but at least his entire persona wasn't a lie. His eyes narrowed slightly as he noticed a panel slightly ajar just beyond the clothes. He walked towards it, pulling the clothes aside and pushing it open to reveal a tunnel.

"Keep going."

"In here?"

"Yes."

Another flip retort came to his lips, but one look from Chameleon convinced him it might be ill-advised just now. The tunnel was only a few metrons long, and they were soon in an inner chamber. Two monitors were displayed, one showing Dracus' quarters and the other showing a close-up of Starbuck. Dayton heard Chameleon gasp as his son looked blearily ahead, obviously restrained, his eyes having trouble focusing, his face bloody. A sealed hatch a couple metrons away obviously lead to another chamber, likely where they were holding the warrior.

"What have you done to him?" Chameleon whirled on the woman, backing off at the last instant as she tightened her finger on the trigger.

"Less than he deserves." She spat. "But don't worry. There's more to come. Sire Dracus has promised me that Lieutenant Starbuck will die many deaths before he is allowed to draw his last breath. He will pay for the humiliation and suffering he has brought on my family!" Her last words were accompanied by a rising voice, and a shaking of her gun hand as her eyes flickered to the screen, then the hatch, and back to the two men who were her prisoners.

"Your family?" Chameleon asked, peering at her closely. "Who are you?"

She slowly removed her veil. "Siress Rea of the Great House of Regus."

"Regus? Isn't he the maniac that tried to gut Starbuck?" Dayton asked, his eyes swinging to the image portrayed on the screen. There was no sign that Starbuck could hear their discussion. That either meant the chamber was sound proof—which made sense if they used it to torture their victims—or merely that Starbuck was too far gone to care.

"Maniac?" Siress Rea screamed shrilly. "Regus was an honourable man. A good provider and a respected member of the Empyrean Quorum. Lieutenant Starbuck changed all of that when he dishonored my son at the Empyrean Ball, and caused him to plummet back into . . . " She trailed off, her hands shaking as she pointed the weapon at Dayton, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

"You can't blame Starbuck for your son's drug dependency." Chameleon shook his head vehemently. "That happened long before . . ."

"You know not of what you speak!" Siress Rea denied, turning her weapon on the conman.

Dayton glanced at the closed hatch. Nothing. Now or never. He let out a blood curdling scream worthy of a teenage girl in a horror movie. He grinned as both Chameleon and Siress Rea jumped a mile high in surprise, and he was beside the Empyrean woman in a heartbeat, grabbing her weapon and soundly thumping her on the chin. He caught her as she slumped into his arms.

Chameleon stared at the Earthman agog. "You hit her. You hit a . . . a woman," he sputtered in shock, not necessarily upset about it considering the circumstances, just. . . surprised.

"I feel differently about a woman holding a weapon on me while she's telling me about how she's arranged the prolonged torture and eventual death of one of my friends." Dayton paused, realizing that somehow the lieutenant had made it into that tight knit little circle of people that he considered 'friend'. And consequently, he would do anything necessary to keep the kid alive, as he would his men.

Chameleon looked at the woman regrettably as Dayton lowered her gently to the ground. To lose her son and then her husband, and to feel driven to this end. It was a tragedy in itself. However, realistically he supposed it was better that it was her tragedy and not his own. Blowing out a breath, he looked back at the image of his son on the screen. They needed to get in there. To do so effectively, they needed the element of surprise. "I . . . uh, think I have an idea, Dayton. Hear me out."

----------

If Starbuck looked long enough at the old painting displayed before him, the figures seemed to move. The young women were smiling alluringly at him. The one in the middle whose eyes were cast towards the heavens slowly and coyly turned her head towards him, smiling invitingly and then winking at him. She spoke to him, the sound a muffled murmur he couldn't make out, no matter how hard he tried. He tried to lean closer. She then smiled at him adoringly. He grinned back.

Until someone smacked him in the head to get his attention.

"I don't believe anyone has explained to you how 'Factuality Elixir' works, Lieutenant." Dracus circled around Starbuck like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Images of the shark from the Earthmen's presentation came to him. "You are powerless to fight its effects. You will tell me the truth."

Starbuck looked at him quizzically, his attention returning to the moody man. He concentrated on keeping his eyes on the other as the Councilman's blurry form seemed to gradually split in two, the kaleidoscope of colour behind him making the transformation appear to be a carefully staged illusion. He looked around distractedly, wondering if there were any Empyrean Necromancers around that he could blame this on. Or—he paused, looking at the Dracus twins and then the animated painting with a critical eye—maybe it was the drug they had just poured down his throat. "You . . . thur ab . . . sure about that?" He wasn't certain which one of them to address his question to, so he considered each of them in turn.

Dracus looked at the pilot strangely before asking Guidobaldo, "Are you sure you didn't give him too much?"

"Same dosage we've always used," answered the thug.

"Maybe all that medication from Life Station . . . check his eyes. They should be dilated by now."

The assassin shrugged, grabbing a fistful of Starbuck's hair at the back of his head and jerking his head up at an awkward angle.

"Oww!"

"What the . . ." Guidobaldo muttered, grabbing the warrior's head in both hands and twisting his head the other way, running callused fingers along his neck.

"Hey!" Starbuck protested again. "Get off me! That tickles!"

"What the frack's this?" The killer palpated the swollen lump on the warrior's hairline.

"Scratch it, will ya?" Starbuck asked hopefully, switching tactics. The itch was incessant, and with his hands restrained behind him, it was almost unbearable . . . especially now that they had reminded him about it. "It's driving me cracking frazy."

"What is it?" Dracus asked, leaning forward to see, and ignoring the warrior.

"Probably a transceiver. It's . . . embedded." Guidobaldo reported. "Surgically, under the skin!"

"Now that's critical thinking!" Starbuck baited the assassin, suddenly getting an idea. Which was amazing under the circumstances. "Can't sneak much past you, Guido."

"Guidobaldo." The killer replied, forcing the warrior's neck to an impossible angle. Starbuck grunted in pain struggling against the force that seemed to be trying to break his neck. Bad idea, Bucko. Stop baiting sociopaths.

Dracus—and his equally evil twin—stirred before the Colonial Warrior, blades in hand. "Then let's extract it." The voice cold.

Starbuck hesitated as he looked at them suspiciously. Interestingly, the single voice was coming out of both sets of lips. He chuckled at the blatant discrepancy. Someone had cut costs on the special effects for this illusion. A low budget production. Definitely IFB! "Uh . . . I'm reasonably sure it's not working anyway, so it's probably not worth your willie . . . wil . . . while
. . . " Starbuck gazed back and forth between the Dracuses who were glaring at him malignantly. "For either of you."

They advanced on him together, moving as one as the assassin held his head. The pilot sucked in a breath as the Dracuses paused above him, looking into his eyes mockingly before they struck. Starbuck grunted, reflexively closing his eyes as their blades hit his neck. A sharp sting was the anticlimactic result of the procedure. Guidobaldo released him.

He opened his eyes, blinking and shaking his head as the Dracuses magically began to meld back into one, the haze lifting slightly from his mind. The kaleidoscope similarly began to recede. It was almost disappointing. Lords, what a trip. Bloody fingers held the transceiver in front of his face, turning it over. He could feel warm blood oozing onto his neck.

"How can we tell if it's operational?" Dracus asked his henchman as he examined it.

"They'd be here by now if it was. I'd say it's defunct," the man returned. "It never turned up on any of our sweeps."

The bureautician nodded, satisfied. He dropped it on the deck, stomping on it with the heel of his boot. Starbuck winced as the transceiver crunched beneath the other's foot, definitely a low point, functional or not. He had the faintest hope that once removed and free of bodily fluids, it might again emit a signal. Bloody useless electronic felgercarb.

"Now, Lieutenant, tell me what were you looking for in Fausto's computer?"

The pressure increased once again on his neck when he didn't respond immediately. It was almost grounding. The pain drawing him further from the mist that had tried to envelop his brain after the Factuality Elixir. Apparently, the concoction wasn't all it was cracked up to be, or the effect was extremely short lived.

"His centerfold collection. We heard in barracks that Miss Yule was a knockout. Great Landing Bays."

Smack!

"Lieutenant!" hissed Dracus.

Starbuck didn't need Empyrean powers to tell that the other had reached his limit. "You," Starbuck replied with a grunt, the taste of blood filling his mouth. He spat it out, unfortunately missing Dracus entirely when the man bolted backwards. "You!"

"And what did you find?" Dracus hissed, leaning closer once again.

Starbuck grinned, holding the bureautician's eyes. "You, Boray breath! Files and files about you. Dozens of 'em! All residing in the Galactica's mainframe as we speak, on the way to Commander Adama, Security, Sire Solon, and the rest of the Council of Twelve! Enough to bury you, Dracus." Starbuck bluffed, watching the other's reaction carefully as he strung him along. "Fausto has a lot more on you than just an Elysium-addicted daughter. He's got dirt on you all the way back to the day the doctor smacked you on your astrum. Holoptics. Dates. Everything! Including your association with this lowlife gutter-rot." He nodded towards the assassin and waited a beat, reveling in the look of sick fear coming over Dracus' face. It was satisfying on so many levels. "No wonder you hate Fausto. He's been wanting to destroy you for a very long time, hasn't he?" The bureautician drew in a sharp breath. "I wonder if he finds it as amusing as I do that we intercepted the information—the case he's built against you to try and manipulate you to his ends—and now you're both going down." He sniffed, a smirk on his face as he looked at the assassin. "You too, Guido. First class tickets to the Prison Barge for all of you for the rest of your lives."

"Then you know the truth," Dracus murmured quietly

"About your extracurricular activities?" Starbuck asked rhetorically, nodding towards the antique painting. Now he finally remembered the piece, though why it suddenly came to mind he couldn't explain. Images of Matron Mireya hammering it into their teenage brains during instruction period flickered through his mind. Bottisario's Maia and the Angels. Reported stolen, from the Sandron Museum in Gemon, about the time he'd joined the service. Appraised just before then at being worth over ten million cubits. Whereabouts still unknown.

Until now.

"You're through." Starbuck told him, knowing that if the killer was working for Dracus, then he was willing to bet that the bureautician was involved in a lot more than the amassing of expensive works of art. The naked fear in the bureauticians eyes at his uncertain future told him as much without a doubt, though it was gone a micron later, replaced with raw anger. But how was it that Guidobaldo was also working for Fausto?

Dracus' gaze flickered to his henchman and he nodded before growling, "You first, Lieutenant. Guidobaldo, kill him. Slowly and painfully. I want to hear him scream for mercy." He grabbed Starbuck's jaw, glaring into his eyes. "Just before he begs for death." He stepped back as if to wash his own hands of the gruesome task.

"My ultimate pleasure." The assassin replied with a menacing leer towards the warrior. He turned, walking towards a cupboard that was just within the lieutenant's line of sight if he craned his neck sufficiently. "Just allow me to retrieve some of my favourite tools . . ."

"Wait a centon." Starbuck interjected quickly, his pulse quickening. "You've got it all wrong. You forgot the part where the maniacal criminal tells the handsome hero about how he came to employ his arch enemy's right hand man . . ."

"Kill him!"