"Lieutenant?" asked Adama.
"We be on final approach now, Commander," said Croad, piloting the shuttle. The Rising Star was full in the viewports. "Approach control has us now. Touchdown in four centons, sir."
"Good. Any word from my son?" He carefully controlled his features.
"Nothin' so far, Sir."
Adama nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He could barely believe how the recent events had unfolded since hearing the good news that Bojay's landing party were safely returning from Axius after the refugees and pirates had been essentially traded for them. Now it appeared as though Sire Dracus was further involved in this quagmire than they had first thought. A man of such previously unquestionable integrity, a man he had known casually—or not known, as the case may be—for well over twenty yahrens. It left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. A reminder to completely trust no one? That Human nature could be as evil and twisted as that of any Cylon? That enemies existed within the Fleet as well as without?
He took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. And now Starbuck had been abducted, albeit having successfully activated Komma's PAP program first according to the corporal. Every centon that passed made it less likely that the lieutenant would be found alive. A young man that through his constant companionship to Apollo . . . and his early on-again off-again relationship with Athena . . . had in many ways become like another son to him, however reluctantly. Long had he tried to enfold Starbuck in their family, sensing the warrior's deep routed need to belong. Equally long, had Starbuck danced on the periphery, seemingly unsure whether he was crossing some invisible line of propriety, having never known the unconditional acceptance of 'family'.
Adama couldn't help but wonder how much of Starbuck's attraction to Athena had been instinctual, and how much of it had stemmed from a subconscious 'legitimate solution' to definitively situating himself within their household after spending many of his furloughs with Apollo's family. He had actually breathed a sigh of relief when the romance seemed to fizzle out of its own accord, knowing that their obvious 'chemistry' would never overcome the differences that always seemed to have one of them looking for commitment as the other sought some much needed 'space'.
And now Starbuck had finally found his family. His real family. The one he could accept without question through the mystical connection of love with Luana, and the more scientifically conclusive evidence of blood with Chameleon. It still felt a bit like a dream that Chameleon had finally come forth about his true relationship to the lieutenant, and even more so that the warrior was engaged to an Empyrean princess. The young man's usually stormy flight path seemed to be finally affecting a course correction towards a smoother destiny. Or so Adama had thought.
Enter Dracus.
The burdens of leadership and fatherhood. There were some days that it all seemed too much. Like today.
----------
Dracus gloated, his eyes wide and fierce, his face contorted in triumph. With sword raised high, he held a moment, savouring the sight of a defenseless Dayton lying there as good as dead. He laughed as he began the downward strike with his sword.
"NOOOOO!!!!!!!" Starbuck screamed, the chair rocking from his struggle. Dracus' eyes flickered to him mockingly for an instant. Almost at the same time, Chameleon shouted piercingly.
It was all Dayton needed.
Desperately looking for an opening, he abruptly kicked out, his shoe connecting with Dracus' left knee. With a cry of shock, the renegade Sire staggered backwards, then cursed as the astronaut's foot hooked his ankle, yanking hard. With a sharp cry, he toppled to the deck, grunting as the wind was knocked out of him. Dayton was on his feet in a streak, grip tightening on his weapon.
Starbuck gritted his teeth, his shackles biting into his wrists as he watched Dayton's sword pursue Dracus, the sound of the blade scraping against the deck echoing through the chamber. The bureautician rolled out of the way, moving faster than a man of his position should and he regained his feet, backing up as Dayton advanced. The Councilman was puffing hard.
"Good . . . move, Earthling," he said, the two antagonists less than a metron apart, blades poised. "I confess to not having seen that one coming."
"It's 'Earthman', if you don't mind," replied Dayton with a wince, obviously recognizing yet another victim of Ryan's twisted influence. "I like to keep 'em guessing,"
"Alright, guess this!" hissed Dracus.
He lunged forward, his blade slashing upwards, as he knocked Dayton's aside and kept on advancing. But the Earthman was ready, bringing his own weapon back down with all the strength he could muster. He lashed out with a leg to trip his opponent once more, but Dracus was prepared. He half-turned, escaping Dayton's boot by scant centimetrons.
The Commander pulled back somewhat, and slashed backwards, hand on the weapon's ricasso. Dracus hurled himself back too slowly, crying out in pain as Dayton's sword found a target, slashing across the fabric of his tunic and superficially slicing the flesh of his abdomen.
"You . . ." snarled Dracus, lunging once more.
Again Dayton was ready. He spun about, using the sword's deadly arc as a wide shield, then finished his turn still swinging. This time Dracus blocked his attack just a micron too late.
The bureautician shrieked in pain as the cutting edge of Dayton's sword connected with his upper right arm. Starbuck could almost hear the fabric of Dracus' sleeve rip, and feel his own flesh rending from the notched edge on the battered blade, his recent experience with Regus still fresh in his mind. Blood spread in an ever-widening circle around the bureautician's wound.
"Yes!" Starbuck yelled encouragingly as Dayton pulled back a few steps, keeping his sword moving in front of him, concentrating on his foe.
The Commander grinned at the warrior before taunting Dracus, "Hurts?"
Dracus' only reply was a snarl. He resumed his attack.
Throughout the entire chamber they battled, each man seemingly taking his turn to press the advantage. Starbuck gritted his teeth time and time again as Dracus drew Dayton closer and closer to him, getting infinite pleasure out of their blades clashing nearby enough to give him an old-fashioned shave—whether he needed it or not. He spared another glance at his father, still grappling with Guidobaldo, but behind him and almost out of sight, before the flash of a blade cutting mere millimetrons before his face regained his immediate attention. He reared back, sucking in a breath as the chair rocked on its rear legs.
Dayton ducked a swipe from the Councilman, and then slipped behind him. Dracus retreated, drawing closer to Starbuck again. He grinned menacingly for a micron at the restrained warrior, and looked meaningfully at the Commander.
"Enough!" Dayton hollered in fury. "He's harmless, Dracus. Leave him alone."
"Harmless!" Dracus scoffed, his face a mask of hatred. "Like a Black-Hooded Borellian Serpens, he's harmless."
"Sounds like one of your relatives to me, buster."
"Even without the control box, I still have plans for him."
"So Siress Rea said. Hey, you agreed. If I win, he's part of the package. We're out of here." Dayton reminded the other.
"I never planned on you winning." Dracus snarled. "He's mine!"
"Well, here's something that's not yours any more," hissed Dayton
The Earthman turned, a brief look of regret in his grey eyes, before his blade crashed into a highly polished vase. It shattered as it smashed into pieces on the deck, fragments flying every which way.
"No!" Dracus yelled, watching in horror as the crockery flew to bits. "NO! NO, YOU CANNOT . . .!"
Dayton looked back to him briefly, then away. Dracus howled again as the astronaut's weapon executed three more pieces of beautiful antique pottery in an encompassing sweep. "Then leave him out of this!" Dayton hollered back. "This is between you and I, Bub. To the death."
The bureautician seemed to hesitate a few moments, breathing heavily, eyes rapidly darting from Starbuck, to his ruined treasures, then back to Dayton. With a slight nod, he raised his sword to the other almost mockingly. "Very well." Then he rushed the Earthman again.
It was like a battle between knights of yore . . . except they were only centons into it and they were both obviously tiring. The moves became slower, the recoveries longer, the attacks further apart. Then, when Starbuck thought someone might collapse from exhaustion, Dayton raised his sword, rushing Dracus once again. The Councilman met the challenge, his sword countering each strike, sparks flying, as he steadily backed up. . . straight towards Starbuck.
"Whoa . . ." The lieutenant resisted the compelling urge to close his eyes just before impact.
Dracus' cried out in surprise, obviously not as aware of his surroundings as a trained warrior would have been as he collided with the incapacitated Colonial Warrior. They crashed into the deck, the Sire's limbs entangling with the immobilized lieutenant's as the noblemen twisted to free himself. Starbuck's restrained arms wrenched tortuously behind him as his full weight and the bureautician's slammed into them, wedging them beneath chair back and deck. He cried out in agony, his face twisted and eyes shut. He was certain he had dislocated something. Finally, he opened his eyes to see Dracus glaring down at him in frustration and anger. Starbuck met the gaze steadily, and then froze as he spied Dayton looming over them, his sword raised for the kill.
If was as if Dracus could see the attack reflected in Starbuck's eyes. Abruptly, the nobleman's position shifted until the blade was at the lieutenant's throat in a single-handed grip.
"Back off, Commander! Or I'll cut his bloody throat!" Dracus challenged.
"And if you do, what hold do you have over me, asshole?" breathed Dayton. "He dies, you die!"
My hero, Starbuck mused silently, even knowing the Earthman was trying to maintain his advantage. Still Dracus stared malevolently down at him. The warrior kept watch over the bureautician's shoulder as Dayton hesitated, his reluctance to proceed clear despite his words. The warrior shook his head slightly from side to side, his glare conveying what his words couldn't with an antique blade pressed against his neck, each movement causing it to saw into fragile flesh. All it would take was one quick lethal blow from Dayton to end this. Besides, his arms and right shoulder were killing him and he'd sure as Hades rather die from something a little more threatening than a dislocated shoulder.
"I wouldn't move if I were you, Lieutenant," Dracus growled, watching the blood begin to seep around his blade.
"You're not," he rasped at the bureautician, seeing the reluctance in Dayton's eyes just before the astronaut backed off. Jerking his right leg free of a broken chair leg, he drove it into the man's ribcage.
"Umphh!"
Miraculously—though Starbuck would never admit it—the pressure of the blade released against his throat as Dracus' balance was upset and he tumbled across the lieutenant's shoulder.
"Dayton!!"
Starbuck followed the sound of his father's voice to see Chameleon and Guidobaldo grappling for the laser, the injured killer on top of the elderly conman. He groaned in dismay as his father's bloodied face starred back briefly while the assassin repeatedly smashed his hand into the deck, both men maintaining a grip on the weapon as Guidobaldo's knee pressed into Chameleon's chest. It was amazing that the thug was still functional, given his serious wound. As if in response to that very thought, Chameleon grabbed the mutilated arm, twisting it. The killer's eyes went wide, crying out in pain, but he otherwise he pressed on, determined to regain the advantage. His capacity for pain was inhuman.
Dayton leapt into action.
Lords, if anyone had ever told Starbuck that he would be entrusting his life and his father's to a man who had clearly intended to destroy the entire Fleet, he would have bought them, not to mention himself, another drink . . . afterdecking them first, of course. Yet here he was watching, powerlessly watching, as Dayton was the one trying to save them both with some prehistoric weapon.
Dayton roared, "Get off of him, you slimy, sociopathic bastard!" He ran towards the assassin, his blade extended before him.
Chameleon released the weapon as his hand pummeled yet again into the hard surface. For the second time, the laser skittered across the floor. Guidobaldo dived for it, rolling across the deck and again landing on his feet, the blaster in his hand. He turned on a cubit . . . straight into Dayton's fist.
It must have been a powerful blow, more powerful than Starbuck recalled being on the receiving end of, since the killer dropped like a stone. After all the swordplay, the blow seemed almost ordinary . . . but was nonetheless damned effective.
Starbuck glanced back at his father who was slowly sitting up, wiping the blood from a gash over his eye. The conman's eyes met his for an instant, before glancing behind him and seemingly above him in absolute horror. Starbuck turned his head . . .
Dracus was looming over him, his blade raising as he readied for a killing blow. Starbuck sucked in a lungful of air, preparing himself for the final stroke. It briefly entered his head that when he had enlisted, he had always expected to die violently. Exploding into space dust, blasted into charred flesh, maybe even mutilated in some unholy Cylon experimental laboratory. But never had he expected to be sliced and diced into cutlets by another Human, and one, that as a member of the illustrious Council of Twelve, he had many a time fought to protect. Talk about a frackin' kick in the head! Still, he refused to close his eyes. He would look death in the face and call it by name.
"Fracking piece of mong . . ." he spat, even as his guts twisted in preparation for the end.
"Ahhhhh!!!!" screamed Dracus, suddenly flailing backwards, his face a rictus of pain.
Starbuck startled as he saw the Councilman staggering, blood running down his once-immaculate tunic. A knife was visible beneath his left collarbone, before the bureautician pulled it out reflexively, but where the frack had it . . .?
As if shot by a cannon, Dayton was upon the other, attacking again. Dracus struggled to block Dayton's attacks, but he was obviously weakening, his blade barely managing to do the job with injuries on either side. Dayton seemed to roar, like a mad beast, his sword strokes ripping chunks out of the massive wooden carving behind the other when his wild strikes went wide. Another blow sent a stone carving crashing to the floor in chunks. Then, having backed Dracus up against another sculpture, he landed a stunning blow. Dracus slammed into the stone, and this time did not block. Dayton brought his blade down on the other's collarbone, just a few inches from the neck, and blood spewed from the wound as the tempered tylinium bit deep.
Dracus screamed in agony as the sword ripped into him, feebly trying to raise his own weapon in response. Dayton struck again, sending the other's sword flying from his grip, a couple of Dracus' fingers still wrapped around the grip. Hammered by pain, desperately seeking escape, Dracus tried to run, but there was no way out. He retreated, his eyes wide with fear, backing up a spiral staircase that Starbuck could barely see in the shadows. His hand somehow found the illumination switch along the way, revealing an upper gallery. Starbuck gasped when he saw it was also filled with treasures. Abruptly, the room broke into further chaos when the main chamber began to fill with more people.
"What the . . .? Where . . . ?"
"Starbuck . . ."
"Captain!"
"Dayton?"
"Holy frack! I'll call the med team!"
"Mark? Where is he. . .?"
Apollo, Boomer, Ryan, Baker, Dickins and Porter, assorted Security personnel including Reece and Willem. All yelling questions at him, staring in wonder at the scene around them. Porter and Dickins running to Chameleon's side, Boomer to Starbuck's, Willem shouting into his communicator, Apollo turning in a circle, taking it all in.
"Help me!" Dracus begged, his voice hoarse.
"No! Stop!" Apollo yelled as he caught sight of the unarmed bureautician being pursued by the Earthman up the spiral staircase.
"Apollo, wait!" Starbuck yelled at his friend, hoping to curtail any ridiculous notion that the captain might entertain about intervening. Besides, his shoulder was screaming in agony, and if someone didn't do something about it soon, he might just humiliate himself by passing out again. Apollo turned towards him uncertainly, pausing in indecision. In retrospect, it probably saved his life.
Dracus stumbled on the stairs, catching himself on the railing, but Dayton was relentless, as Starbuck knew he would be. The Earthman had that cold, determined look on his face that Starbuck had briefly seen in the Control Center on the pirate base just before the Commander snapped the attendant's neck. There was no going back now, and God help anyone who accidentally got in the way. Gripping the ricasso, Dayton back-slashed Dracus, ripping into his gut, the blood spattering as stood there. Dracus screamed in agony, as Dayton's sword came down, ripping his chest apart from shoulder to belly. With a convulsive vomiting of blood, the murderous Councilman toppled over the railing . . .
And shrieked like a soul, damned for eternity in the Underworld. Starbuck watched Dayton's impassive features as he looked down to see the other, face upwards, body skewered on one of his precious treasures. Impaled upon a metal obelisk, it almost seemed poetic justice considering what the Councilman had done to try and ensure the secrecy of his precious collection of art. Dracus' body continued to contort for a few microns, as Starbuck heard him gasp futilely for a breath. The newly arrived men stood around him uselessly, mouths agape, staring in abject horror. The bureautician seemed to raise his head to consider Dayton, then with a soft gurgle fell still.
"Book 'em, Danno." Dayton rasped down to Apollo before he collapsed onto the railing, gasping for breath and dropping his sword. Starbuck was worried that the man's heart would give out any moment. Dayton vaguely looked behind him, seemingly unaware of why feet were trampling up the stairs. Then he turned, looking down at Starbuck through the finely sculpted tylinium railing, his head resting against a crossbar.
"Old, grey and slow, huh, Caffeine Kid?" he called down to the warrior.
"Maybe there's still some life in you, after all." Starbuck returned, grimacing as Boomer began to laser his way through the shackle restraining his other ankle. He glanced over to see Dickins and Porter pulling his father to his feet, and Willem checking over the unconscious Guidobaldo. It all seemed to be happening in a blur.
"Not a hell of a lot," replied Dayton, when Ryan and Baker appeared behind him, catching him as he slumped into their awaiting arms. "Could use an Iced Decaf Triple Grande Vanilla Non-fat with whip Latte, Starbuck," he smiled blearily. "Maybe." He blinked as Ryan came into view. "Eh, Paddy?"
"Yeah, right. I'd love to see the day come that you're sitting your lazy ass in one of those big ole armchairs sipping on any coffee that you need a team of Pacific Northwesters to interpret for you." Ryan replied, his eyes running over his best friend critically, his hands following their path as he assessed each and every knick, cut or gash even knowing a medic was on the way. Old habits died hard. His gaze flickered over Dracus. As did old Councilmen, apparently. "You're gonna live, you raving lunatic." He smiled down at Dayton before returning his attention to Dracus' body. "Looks like a cut and dried case of self-defense to me."
Baker snorted his agreement as they began to lift their commanding officer.
"Frack, Starbuck . . ." Apollo murmured, leaning over his friend, ignoring the remark for the moment. Bloody, beaten, restrained, tiny pads all over his body that had been doing God-only-knows-what. He shook his head in disbelief as he looked around again at the carnage, his eyes irresistibly drawn to Dracus' hideous corpse as Ryan's words came back to him. Self-defense? "Where's that med team?"
"Get me up." Starbuck insisted through gritted teeth, his shoulder pulsating in pain. "And if anyone finds a black control box, for Sagan's sake, don't push the red button."
"What the frack happened?" Apollo asked.
"Dayton and Chameleon saved my astrum, that's what happened." Starbuck averred. If anyone had any intention of pressing charges against the Earthman for his apparent savagery, he wanted it imminently clear that Dayton had acted out of necessity. It was self-defense, as Ryan had said. "Get me up. I think my shoulder's dislocated . . . It's frackin' killing me."
"Boomer." Apollo nodded at the lieutenant, and together they pulled the three-legged chair upwards.
Starbuck's head swam at the abrupt jolt of pain as his shoulder shifted when the pressure was released. Then when they pulled him upright . . . "Oh, Lord . . ." The dizziness was almost as bad as the sudden urge to vomit.
"Easy, buddy. We've got you." Apollo's voice reassured him.
It was a short moment later his arms were released and his head was between his knees. He could hear further voices entering the scene, med techs by the sound of it. Starbuck's right arm was still twisted painfully behind him, and he was sure if anyone touched it that he would scream like a banshee. But at least the pain drew him back from the edge of oblivion. He gingerly sat up, blinking as Apollo faded in and out in front of him.
"I almost thought we'd lost you." Apollo mused, shaking his head ruefully as he pushed Starbuck's hair from his eyes.
"The transceiver . . . died?" Starbuck asked.
"Yeah." He frowned at the choice of words, and at the trail of blood from where the transceiver had been implanted on his wingman.
"Thought so."
"Sorry I let you down." Apollo winced, his obvious guilt weighing heavily on his mind. "When we found your trail in the secret passageway, we couldn't get through the hatch. Then we had to retrace our steps and contact Komma to find out whose quarters you'd been dragged into. Ryan and Baker basically drew the same conclusion by a different set of circumstances." Though those were a little suspicious, the captain reminded himself.
Starbuck considered the words. It was taking him a bit too long to process the information now that the adrenaline had stopped pumping through his system. "Secret passageway?"
"He was unconscious when Guidobaldo dragged him through there." Boomer reminded Apollo, looking over to see the savaged Guidobaldo being hefted to his feet. Barely conscious, the former hit man and thug was being restrained by two Security Officers. "There are secret passageways in the infrastructure of the ship leading to most of the larger suites."
Starbuck nodded slowly, realizing there was still a sizable chunk of the holoptic he was missing. Speaking of . . . "Where's Chameleon?"
"Right here, son." Chameleon replied, leaning over him in concern. Bruising was already setting in on the old conman's face, and the jagged cut over his eye was still oozing blood. He looked at Dracus and added to Apollo, "Self-defense, Captain. I'll gladly swear to it on my honour if it comes to it."
"So will I." Starbuck agreed.
Apollo nodded, as Boomer raised his eyebrows. The Strike Captain was getting the idea that Dracus had deserved the violent death, at least as far as Starbuck, Chameleon and obviously Dayton were concerned. Sire Solon would be there soon enough to decide from the Colonial Jurisprudence point of view.
"Are you all right?" Starbuck asked his father, again feeling dizzy and looking over blearily to see Ryan and Baker supporting a semi-conscious Dayton down the staircase. The Earthman was covered in blood, but how much of it was his own, and how much was Dracus', the lieutenant wasn't sure. The chair rocked as he leaned in that direction over the broken chair leg and instantly three sets of hands were on him, preventing him from tumbling over.
"I'm fine, Starbuck. Just a little banged up. I held my own." Chameleon reassured him stoically, tugging at the high lace collar of his Empyrean gown and scratching his neck with seemingly enormous bloody knuckles peeking out beneath a dainty, frilled cuff.
Starbuck looked at the conman again. Really looked at him. His father's gown was black and lacey, of an antiquated style, but of good quality. While a bit tattered, it generally flowed loosely over the conman's thin frame, but alternatively hugged his voluptuous bosom . . .
Starbuck gulped in a breath, his eyes rolling back as the deck abruptly pitched, trying to throw him from the chair. Then arms and hands were cradling him, gently lowering him to the deck, careful to support his right arm and shoulder. He found himself leaning back against Apollo, his vision blurry and his stomach again reeling uncomfortably. A med tech was suddenly there, running a biomonitor over him.
"Apollo?" he murmured, having trouble focusing as the med tech conferred with a peer, using a wide array of medical vernacular that Dr. Salik would be proud of.
"Yeah, buddy?"
"Why is my father . . . wearing a . . . a dress?" A encroaching black void seemed to be obscuring the edges of his vision. Never a good sign. He blinked his eyes, willing himself to stay awake for the answer.
"I don't know, Bucko." His voice amused. "I'll be sure to ask him though. Okay?" Apollo waited a moment. "Starbuck?"
But he'd already surrendered to the comfort of the immuring void.