Another Way: Chapter 14

BANKABILITY

The Cylons had found them.

Again.

The call for Alert Fighters to be scrambled had pilots and E.C.O.'s racing to their ships and taking their cues from Cally as to who was launching in what sequence to defend the Fleet and see that everyone jumped to safety.

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Standing in CIC, Captain Adama was stoic. This was not the first time he wasn't on the launch deck when Raiders jumped in-system and it wouldn't be the last.

Flicking his gaze from the overhead screen to Captain Kelly, Lee issued an order that didn't need the Commander's approval.

"Spread the word through-out the Fleet that any ship with recording capability and line-of-sight is to tape whatever they can before jumping away. All footage is to be sealed and expedited to Galactica for analysis and processing once all vessels have re-convened at the rendezvous point."

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"Ready, Chief."

The words were a statement, not a question or an answer.

Warning lights flashed as the seal fell, separating himself from the pilot inside the Blackbird as the blackness of space yawned beyond the tailfins.

Pulling a remote control from his pocket, he made eye contact with Sharon one last time before remote triggering the release chucks that braced the stealth ship against the makeshift ramp where 'Laura' rested. Pressing a second button activated the hydraulic lift, raising the nose of the craft to an angle that passed the responsibility of launching the plane to gravity.

Sharon's nod of acknowledgement lasted as long as it took for 'Laura' to free-fall into space and kick on 'her' burners.

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Coming out of a FTL jump, the BaseStar saw the Fleet arrayed in front of them and accessible on almost any attack trajectory they chose to deploy.

Crouching down and bringing his mouth even to where the fluid lapped against her hairline, Zak spoke to the Instrument God gave him. The prophecy alluded to the one who, having experienced all suffering mankind can afflict on its brothers and sisters, would bring the Grace of God to Humanity. During his seclusion, the Leoben Model had made convincing arguments that love and inter-species procreation was the only way to secure the future of the Cylon race, to push their evolution to the next level. He did not understand, like Zak did, that God had made the Cylons in His image through Humanity's Hands. The Cylons were exactly as they were meant to be, no more – no less. To believe so otherwise would be committing the ultimate sin which could lead to his people being expelled from their Eden and scattered like the humans who knew only war, pain, grief and jealousy: vanity. No. The Grace of God is the peace that He passes to those who entrust themselves into His love and care. The only way to bring that peace to mankind is the deliver them unto God, lifted up on the victories made in His name, on the Wings of a Broken Dove.

"Move all fighters into position, Starbuck. You have the board."

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"Sirs; Flight Deck reports that all Alert Fighters are in the air." Dee's fingers pressed against her headset as even more information was relayed. "SAR is also in position and confirms readiness."

"Captain Adama – you're to tell your pilots that they're not to cross the recovery line." Adama's eyes stayed fixed on the radar scopes as he watched two stacks of six Raiders, each trailed by a separate pair of Raiders – moving as one and coming in behind the two sets of six – closed in on the Fleet. "Mr. Gaeta, start the calculations for an emergency jump."

Adjusting the mouthpiece on his headset, Lee waited for the almost imperceptible nod from Dee – telling him that he was now connected to the fighters in the air – before relaying the command. "All craft – you are to stay in the yard. Repeat. Fire at will but do not go out into the street."

"Affirmative, Galactica." Coda answered for the pilots who had been scrambled into action. Speaking to the whole air group, he conveyed their orders. "Stick close to home people; weapons free."

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It was a proverbial mine field.

Colonial fighters, Cylon Raiders, munitions rounds, pieces of ships and vessels waiting for jump co-ordinates filled the expanse of space between where she was and where she needed to go.

Being inside a stealth ship meant that no one could see her to get out if her way, and she couldn't tell anyone she was there so that they could stay out of her flight path.

There was going to be only one way to this: hard and fast.

A fresh grip on the throttle, a firm leg pressed against the pedals and a ramrod straight posture were the only allowances she made before ploughing into the fray.

Sharon thought about saying a prayer, but a glancing blow from a decimated Raider off her port side chased all words not having to do with keeping her bird on the planned trajectory out of her mind.

The sensation of all eyes suddenly on her wasn't paranoia – not by a long shot if the way Raiders and Vipers radically changed vectors was any indication of her current situation.

The concept of needing one more thing to contend with was something she didn't want to dangle in front of Fate's sense of humour.

Now, she understood what it meant to have to think 'outside the box'.

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The Raiders were mopping the Combat Zone with Colonial asses.

From his position in the Search and Rescue raptor, Helo counted the number of kills the Vipers made but it didn't match the amount of damage the Raiders were inflicting.

Keeping to his station as Racetrack tacked to where Hot Dog was floating – sans a starboard wing – he watched as the Raiders circled, re-formed and made for another pass. Twelve out of the initial sixteen Cylon ships were left.

The rest of the Fleet was blinking out around them even as a towline was fired and magnetically attached to the damaged Viper. Hot Dog's reassurance that he was fine and that his oxygen supply was intact became background noise as an unidentified blip suddenly appeared on his scopes.

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The battle was going well. Colonial forces were being beaten by one of their own.

Zak perched on the edge of Starbuck's tank as he gazed down on her. The green of her eyes was corrupted by the harsh chemical compounds injected into her body and the electrical impulses that re-directed her synapses as she focused on things that were taking place far beyond where the BaseStar took its offensive position. Her fingers clenched and released despite the bindings that kept her in place. The limited twisting of her body matched some of the more extreme dives and banking that the Raiders under her control performed.

All around her, the opaque viscous fluid was beginning to darken into a pale-blush colour. The exertions of her body, the increase in her blood pressure and heightened heart rate had opened up the deeper lash marks left by Number Three and tore at the skin already punctured by the imbedded electrodes.

Taking one finger, Zak dipped it into her bath and then pulled it back out. Holding it up to the light and rubbing it between his other fingers, a sense of humbleness overcame him. Charisma and the willingness to follow a leader who put her life on the line as much as she gambled with those under her command galvanized Cylon and human forces alike. She bled for Colonies and she was now shedding blood for the Cylon cause. No wonder God had called her into His service.

Recalling thoughts that he hadn't indulged in for more than two years, the pink pearlescent sheen that clung to his skin made him nostalgic at the same time. He had always known that she would look lovely in pink. It was the perfect colour for someone of her pale complexion and innate sensuality.

Turning to Simon with the thought of offering a prayer of thanks to God, supplicant words fell away as the other model looked at him with an expression of surprise at what was being relayed to their section of the ship from the Command Centre.

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Lee kept his face impassive as his people intercepted the incoming attack force. Focusing on the groupings, the formation was the usual-unusual. Unusual based on what was on file since the escape from Ragnar Anchorage; usual because it was consistent with what Colonial forces had been defending themselves against over the last six weeks. In the past forty-two days, every time Colonial and Cylon forces skirmished, not once did the same attack pattern appear. Machines were supposed to be predictable and follow-through with a particular type of programming which would eventually repeat itself. Not now. Today, Raiders were flying in a triangular formation: three fighters in the back, two fighters in the middle and a lead ship in front. The wild cards in the mix were the two remaining enemy crafts that trailed the initial six, one each off of the back end of the formation. Not only were they flying at a different velocity then the other ships, but the sensation of needing to pay special attention to the two Raiders hanging back had him a half a second behind Captain Kelly in demanding to know what just appeared on the radar.

Leaving the FTL console, Gaeta quickly accessed the DRAEDIS program and had the answer that had dread coiling in bellies of everyone in CIC.

"Sir – it's the Blackbird. The pilot is trying to make contact with the Cylon attack force."

His next heartbeat thumped in time with his father's command.

"Find that frequency, Lieutenant. Find it and drown it. That's an order." Adama ground out. "Captain Adama – I want that ship."

Looking at the attack forces, Lee triggered his headset and spoke to his pilots, "All craft. Convene on heading Delta. The Blackbird is on the board and your orders are to go and get it."

"Copy that, Galactica." Coda, the lead pilot, sounded exasperated. Lee could understand – his people were not only fighting for their lives and running against the FTL clock but now they had orders to fetch a traitor.

Reading from her monitor, Dee looked up at the command personnel as Gaeta went back to his post at the FTL computer. "Sixty-five percent of the fleet is away, Sirs."

"ETA ninety-three seconds before Galactica is due to jump." Gaeta announced.

On the DRAEDIS screen, the two opposing forces split up – each focused on the solitary signal that was on-course for the BaseStar that loomed on the outer edge of the scopes.

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"Repeat. This is Sharon Valerii, Cylon Model Number Eight requesting clearance for an emergency docking."

The sound of the other Model's voice coming through the comms was enough to pull Zak's attention away from his Persephone and share a quizzical look with Simon.

"It is up to you, Number Two – what do you want to do?" Simon deferred to his brother.

Stepping away from Starbuck, Zak angled his head towards the communications panel and spoke loud enough for the sensors to carry his words to the bridge. "Number Six, Eight, Three and Five – what is the consensus?"

Aaron Doral, Number Five, answered for the command crew. "We are in agreement. The prodigal daughter is to be returned to the fold. As well as the hybrid life she carries."

"I agree." Zak nodded his head.

"Cylon BaseStar, I am being pursued by Colonial forces. Repeat. This is Sharon Valerii, Cylon Model Number Eight requesting emergency assistance. There are Colonial Vipers closing in on me and I am in an unarmed, un-armoured vessel." The desperation that crept around the edges of Sharon's plea for help was unmistakable.

A silent question passed between him and Simon, specifically in regards to the mauve hue that had diffused throughout the tank.

"Her heart-rate is fast and her blood pressure is rising to a dangerous level – that's why she is bleeding more heavily than before." Simon stated Starbuck's medical status as a matter of fact, devoid of any interpersonal connection. "Dehydration is starting to be a factor. We may have to do a hard disconnect if her vital signs suddenly spike or crash."

A feral glint sparked his eyes and underscored his decision. A hard disconnect, the equivalent of pulling the plug on an electrical device, would kill any other subject in her situation. Not even Simon completely understood just how much resiliency his Kara possessed. She wouldn't fail – she didn't know how too.

"Prepare another dosage and administer it to her immediately." Striding back to her side, Zak lowered his face once again. He could feel the radiant warmth of the stained fluid wafting up and across his cheeks. "There's a secondary mission you need to accomplish, Starbuck. You're to protect and escort Sharon back to the safety of this BaseStar at all costs. Do you understand?"

A hoarse scream forced out from a pair of rapidly cracking lips gave him his answer as the electrodes fed more current into her nervous system and a fresh round of chemical compounds enslaved her mind and body.

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Colonial Vipers versus Cylon Raiders; it was a race to see who would get her first. Each competitor was wickedly fast, equally armed and hell-bent on capturing the pilot of the Blackbird.

On DRAEDIS, Lee, Adama, Kelly and the rest of CIC watched as the stealth ship streaked towards the recovery line. Coming in on an intercept course, the Raiders were closing in at breakneck speeds.

Over the comms, Coda's voice was heard above all the other battle-chatter.

"Galactica – Coda; we are coming up on the recovery line. What are your instructions? I can get a lock on the Blackbird guaranteeing that the Cylons won't get it."

It was all Lee could do not to swivel his head and look at his father. He could, though, feel the expectant stare that bounced off the back of Gaeta's head and ricocheted around CIC as the Tactical Officer read the latest information from the FTL read-out.

"Thirty-seven seconds until we jump, Commander," Gaeta answered Adama's question.

"Sir – still unable to trace the frequency over which the Blackbird is transmitting," Dee reported. "All pilots and E.C.O.'s have been accounted for; still no idea who is behind the stick."

On screen, the Cylon forces split and took up a new formation.

On screen, the Colonial forces were closing the gap between it and the Blackbird.

"Galactica – what are your orders?" Coda sounded slightly stressed. It was something any pilot could understand; keeping a Viper at maximum velocity while maintaining weapons-lock required a level of concentration that was hard to maintain for any length of time.

Behind Captain Kelly, a Marine rushed into CIC and snapped to attention.

"Coda – stand by." Adama advised. Looking at the Marine he ordered, "Report."

"Sir – report from Corporal Venner. Cylon Model Sharon overpowered her escort, as they were en-route from Sickbay and making their way back to The Cage. She is loose, somewhere on the ship."

"No she isn't." Adama snapped.

Mirroring his father's vexation, Lee pursed his lips, "So much for our mystery pilot."

"Eighty-six percent of the Fleet is away." Dee blurted out the most recent numbers of ships that had reached safety.

"Galactica will jump in seventeen seconds." Gaeta fine-tuned their timetable. If anything was going to be done, it was going to have to be now.

Lee felt Captain Kelly trying to catch his eye, but he kept his gaze fixed on the DRAEDIS scopes even as he spoke out loud to his father. "What do you want to do, Sir?"

A long three seconds stretched around CIC as everyone held their breath waiting on whether or not Adama would give the order to destroy the Blackbird and the woman – machine – who flew it.

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"Holy frak! All craft – evasive manoeuvres – now, now, now!" Helo's commands broke the silence between SAR, Vipers and Galactica with a thunderclap.

He didn't need the scopes to see what was happening. On screen the two trailing Raiders had slipped underneath the stack of six that were still on a collision course and seconds from crossing into the recovery area, accelerated, and had burst up – and through – Coda's tight pursuit formation.

Vipers scattered on whatever vectors they could tumble and burn to as they scrambled to avoid mid-air collisions. The race for the Blackbird was forfeited by the need for survival. The attacking raiders – numbering eight – were firing at his squadron even as the remaining four spread out and moved into position to take up a protective diamond formation around the rogue stealth craft.

The first to recover and re-direct his bird towards the original mission, Coda's breathless voice came through the comms.

"Galactica – Coda; I've re-established lock-and-tone on the Blackbird but it won't last long. What'd you want to do?"

Helo felt his eyes widen in surprise as he had never heard Adama hesitate to make a tough call. For her part, Racetrack cursed under her breath for Command to either tell the pilot to fire or to get out of there.

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The radar in CIC could barely keep up with the frantic pace that the dogfights between Vipers and Raiders set.

"FTL co-ordinates set and jump drives are powered up, Commander." Gaeta reported from his station.

Across the room, Dee piped up, "Sir – all civilian ships are away."

Caught up in the moment, Kelly took his captain bars in his own hands as he stated the obvious.

"Flight or fight; it's either now or never, Sir."

A hooded scowl from his father put the other officer in his place but it didn't erase the comment from where it hung in the air.

Seeing his father nod to Gaeta, Lee saw the Lieutenant pick up the handset even as his father spoke into the comms.

"Galactica Actual to all craft; back to the barn. Combat landings."

"All hands, prepare to jump."

On the scopes, Lee saw the Raiders solidifying their diamond formation even as Colonial signals retreated back to the flight pods. There was no way to get to the Blackbird now. They had waited too long to make a decision and missed their window to re-acquire the escaped prisoner and the stealth ship.

"Flight Deck confirms that all birds are in and accounted for, Sir." Dee relayed from across the room.

"Jump," Adama ordered.

The lurch of FTL wrenched his stomach but it was the whitening of his father's knuckles that made him feel like a cat that had been stroked the wrong way.

The fleet was safe. All crafts – flight worthy and battle damaged – were on board Galactica. Why did the Old Man suddenly look older as Galactica re-materialized in a Cylon-free sector of space?

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To say that she was welcomed back with open arms into the Cylon fold would be an understatement.

After docking 'Laura' in the hanger bay under the scrutiny of a four Raider escort, she was marched to the bridge flanked by two Centurions.

Being among so many individuals on Galactica, it was surreal to see so many copies of the same body come and go out of the Command Centre.

In the personas of Helo, Apollo and Starbuck, she had seen each of them take on their various roles by becoming different aspects of the same person. In the example of Apollo, he was also Captain Adama, Galactica's by-the-book CAG. But he was also, in slightly more private settings, the man who answered when Kara – Starbuck and Captain Thrace – called out to him using the name 'Lee'.

For her, she knew who she was. She was Sharon – the Raptor pilot who fell in love with Karl Agathon. Standing ten feet away at the opposite end of the console was Boomer, the Raptor pilot who fell in love with Chief Tyrol and was 'killed' by a member of the deck crew.

She and Boomer were two completely different entities shaped by two different life experiences that happened to share the same genetic blue prints. Around them, in the corridors performing their tasks, were other Number Eights that never had exposure to the human world or the opportunity to interact with such a volatile species. Dwelling on those concepts would only distract her from following what was going on around her, but at the same time, it was a reality that was deeply disturbing.

Mentally rewinding the bits of debate she had missed, she snapped a look at Doral.

"I have no problem interfacing with the Hybrid and allowing her to scan me."

The looks of surprise and appreciation were interchangeable between D'Anna, Six, Boomer, and the rest of the Models standing in judgement over her acceptance back into Cylon society.

"Place your hands in the Living Water, Number Eight." Always the sceptical one, the tone that came from Number Three – D'Anna – was all but a sneer.

Schooling her face to be placid, she stepped up to The Basin and felt the cool-warm water rise up to her wrists as she submerged her hands. The presence of another mind – not quite mechanical but not quite organic either – was comforting. If she had a mother, this is what she imagined it would feel like to be embraced by a parental figure. This was one thing she did miss in the isolation that accompanied the status of individuality.

The Hybrid – the humanoid 'pilot' of the BaseStar – had barely delved past her primary programming when Sharon felt waves of indescribable pain ripple up from somewhere deep within the ship. Every humanoid Cylon clutched at their bodies and cried out in an agony conveyed through the bio-mechanical conduits that interconnected every Cylon – including Centurions and Raiders – to one another. The never ceasing red 'eye' of the metal soldiers stopped in mid-movement and flared to three times their normal brightness.

For herself, she had barely enough time to break her fall before the blackness over came her as the sensations – felt by her and her unborn child – robbed her of consciousness.

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"Her vitals are spiking."

The fluid in the tank had graduated from mauve to a brown-pink hue. Starbuck's breathing was coming in gasps; she couldn't get enough air into her lungs due her throat being constricted. Her rapid-fire heartbeat could be seen pulsing in the generous outlines of her lips. Dehydration from the second round of drugs, electrical stimuli and prolonged exertion darkened the hollows of her eyes and receded her gums. Her electrolytes were imbalanced and true exhaustion slackened every muscle.

Leaning over the tank, looking into eyes that couldn't see him, he smiled down at her.

"Well done, Persephone." Craning his neck and speaking over his shoulder at his fellow brother, Zak gave the command. "Hard disconnect – NOW!"

Three things happened at once: a gurgling sound came from the bottom of the tank as the fluid began to drain; one by one the electrodes pulled were extracted from where they were imbedded deep within her muscles and Kara screamed as the most intense agony she had ever experienced careened freely between her body, mind and soul and radiated throughout the ship.

Grasping onto the sides of the rapidly emptying tank for support as Zak rode out Kara's externalised, projected pain; a rueful look crossed his face.

God's Broken Dove was intact. He knew because he read her lips as she forced air out of her chest to form four words.

"My. Name. Is. Starbuck."

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It was the pain. Pain was what kept the moral compass that Captain Thrace carried and passed it along to the Starbuck that the Cylon controlled.

Pain from the lash marks, the pain from blood loss, and the pain from the deeply penetrating electrodes was what she used to prevent the Raiders from annihilating members of her squadron. Not that she didn't feel the blood lust that came with battle, the thrill of the hunt and the triumph of a brilliantly executed play. That was unavoidable. Those reactions were based in her more primal instincts and sprang from the darker parts of her psyche. Long ago she had reconciled herself to the fact that if her destiny was to hand out flowers and teddy bears, she wouldn't be craving the cold beauty of space or the sense of rightness that came with settling into the cockpit of a Viper. The stars were her standard; the attack fighter was her weapon of choice. The ability to use the two in tandem and synchronize them with her mind and heart was what validated her identity as a Colonial Warrior.

Not that she knew it growing up. Not that she wanted to be pilot from the get go. Her mother had been in the service and the Gods knew she never wanted to be like her. Kara knew she was a warrior – but one who did battle on the Pyramid courts. More than once, the tag 'unnaturally gifted' had been applied to her skill with a ball and strategy. The long hours spent on the courts, ostensibly to practice but really as a means to avoid being home, paid off. She had been given a full scholarship when she had been signed to play for the Academy. Sure, she had to agree to six-weeks of Basic Training. But really, getting up at the crack of dawn for a run, classroom and field training all day, and having people scream in your face from sun-up to sun-down was no different from her normal self-imposed training program while she was in school. She was always pissing someone authority figure off and bucking the system; Basic was no different. The way she saw it, Basic instructors got paid to scream at cadets so why not let them earn their money? Pointing a gun at a target was a lot like shooting a Pyramid ball at a goal-hole, and the obstacle course was a lot like dodging members of an opposing team. Needless to say, she excelled at both. A vicious injury, inflicted by some faceless second-stringer during an exhibition game at the start of her second year, turned her world on its head.

Her arm had been thrown back, the ball in a perfect position in her palm to make the winning shot, when she felt a large foot come down and crash at an angle across her right knee. She had a split second to decide what to do even as an explosion of pain travelled up from her knee to every part of her body. Should she try to make the shot or hand it off to a team-mate? Her arm snapped the ball to nearest player wearing the same colours that she was even as she felt her self fall to the ground. A wicked smirk – her trade mark smirk – spread across her face as she watched the ball be deftly plucked from the air and smoothly swished into goal-hole. After that, things became relatively blurry except for two pairs of eyes – one brown and the other blue. The blue eyes locked onto her and stayed with her as team-mates and medics rushed to her side.

She remembered peering through legs and knees, always keeping contact with the bluest eyes she had ever seen that somehow gave her the strength not to cry out when her knee was probed and simply nod in agreement when she was told to keep still as a gurney was on its way. The brown eyes – she had noticed them before when the same guy attended almost every single one of her home games – became furious and locked onto the opposing team. The shouts of foul play and unsportsmanlike behaviour were reaching a fever pitch. Despite the fervour, those blue eyes stayed with her. In the end, it wasn't the passion of the brown eyes that got her to her feet; it was the concern she saw in the blue eyes as she saw him flit his gaze around the perimeter of the indoor facility. It was from him she learned that the crowd was two steps from rioting. Hell, she was a popular player who was the victim of an illegal assault. If she were in the stands, and saw someone do that to another player, she would be demanding blood as well.

Her green eyes stayed with his – whoever he was - blue eyes and she remembered exchanging nearly imperceptible nods between them as she beckoned the team coach and the referee to her side.

"Get me up," she gasped. Grasping each of their wrists and swallowing the pain that came from feeling the components of her knee float on a raft of swollen tissue she got her feet.

Keeping the blue eyes in her peripheral vision, and managing to find some semblance of balance, the crowd was still on the cusp of rioting but the outrage had quieted to a dull roar as she stood tall and proud. She had the perfect plan to galvanise the crowd without having the crowd tear itself apart.

Letting go of the two men, she pointed to the man who mangled her knee and crooked her finger at him, beckoning him to come closer to where she slightly swayed on her feet.

Pain obscured the man's face and muted everything around her except the owner of the two blue eyes that bolstered her from their place in the stands, fifty-five feet away.

Favouring her knee, she propped her left hand on the frakker's shoulder and swept the arena with her hazy vision.

"My knee will heal!" Her defiant words were for those who had seen her go down, not the nimrod standing in front of her.

A fervent cheer went up the crowd.

"But you will always have a glass jaw!" She turned her head and focused squarely on the man in front of her. Dropping her hand, she hauled back her arm and put every ounce of energy she had into nailing him with a right hook that landed with enough force to send him sprawling backwards and knocked out cold.

With that, she felt – rather than saw – the crowd leap to their feet and rally behind the star player that would be remembered for laying out a frakker who shouldn't have been on the court to begin with in a blaze of vindicating glory instead of being the subject of pity over a career that had been cut short before it had a chance to really begin.

Within seconds, the crowd was clapping as one, clapping for her.

Riding high on the adrenaline of punching out the other guy's lights and curtailing a potentially ugly situation, she turned her head with the intention of thanking the owner of the owner of those blue eyes for what he did for her, only to be denied finding him by those standing, clapping and cheering blocking her line of sight.

Hobbling off the court, she made one more impassioned cry to the crowd, which was immediately echoed back, before disappearing out of sight.

Only when there were medics and the team doctor by her side did she allow herself to embrace the pain that she had kept at bay. Collapsing onto to the awaiting gurney and curling up into a foetal position as safety straps were secured across her hips and shoulders; she felt every bump and roll as she was moved down the long corridor and towards the bay doors. Beyond those doors, an Emergency Medical Transport was waiting to take her to the nearest orthopaedic facility.

Pain and curiosity competed for her attention when she saw the medic pulling her gurney tilt his chin left and then right as he thanked someone she couldn't see from where she was strapped down.

A random thought about how this side of the building didn't have automatic doors had her lifting her head and straightening out her body enough to look past her feet and back over the way she came.

Holding the double bay doors ajar were two men. One had brown eyes; those she recognized from seeing him in stands and rising to add his voice to the outrage over the cruel blow that moron inflicted. The other was the blue-eyed man; the one who gave her the strength to own the court that could have just as easily destroyed her. The brown-eyed man, the younger of the two, she gave a smile and a cocky head nod that told him that she was down but not out. To the blue-eyed man, she gave her eyes and her thanks – something that was special as much as it was unique. She rarely let the few people she kept in her life do anything for her, let alone a complete stranger. It was he who gave her a nod in return, accepting her gift.

Memory gave way to reality as her eyes fluttered open. The blue eyes that gave her so much strength became brown. Dark hair changed from being closely cropped to shoulder length and flowing. A masculine physique became a softly muscled feminine form.

It wasn't Lee Kara was looking at – it was a Number Eight. A Sharon model had her arms underneath Kara's aching shoulder, which stopped and didn't say a word as she turned face and wretched bile over the corridor of the BaseStar.

Pain had been Kara's friend that night when her world changed and pain was going to be the steel she was going to use to fight whatever the next thing was that Zak was going to do to her. She might not have Lee within her line of sight to keep her grounded, but he was no further than her memories.

"Where are you taking me?" The croaked question was trite, but she needed to buy some time to figure out what her next step was going to be – literally. The walls kept shifting and the floor was moving as she looked down and put one foot in front of the other. The fact that she was naked and tacky to the touch wasn't lost to her either.

"You've been given permission to get cleaned up. You've been too unstable to move for several hours but Simon said that now was an okay time get you rinsed off and that there would be a garment waiting for you when we got you back to your room."

"You aren't going to win, you know. I'm not going to let you." Syllables slurred together but her words were distinguishable because she spoke them so slowly.

Sharon knew that there was no way that Starbuck could be seeing clearly, much less being in any shape to form coherent thoughts. Nevertheless, the conviction behind her declaration challenged the betrayal she was sent to accomplish and had her thinking of another way to do what had to be done.

Pausing in the corridor, Sharon gave a measured, sidelong look at the bloodied and battered warrior.

"I'm counting on that, Starbuck."

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