THE LOST YEARS
by Soledad
INTERLUDE: THE LOST WARRIOR
Author's notes:
For disclaimer, rating, etc. see Chapter 01.
For visuals: Bridge Officer Kalliope Is "played" by Szilvia Naray, who'd have been Colonel Athena in the trailer of Richard Hatch's never realized movie "Battlestar Galactica – The Second Coming". The new personnel of the Galactica is generally borrowed from that trailer, in order to stay as close to canon as possible. Other such characters my appear later on in this story, or in the further episodes of the "Lost Years" series.
Lt. Commander Anderson comes from the unfilmed Star Trek script "Deadlock" and is "played" by actor Terence Knox (best known from "Tour of Duty"). He, too, will have important appearances in later stories.
Chapter 04 – Discrete Investigations
Omega rode the turbolift down to Operations – the discus-shaped centerpiece of the Starbase – in the exact middle of which Hunter's office was situated. Of course, Operations was a lot more than just the office of the Base commander. It was the heart and the brains of the entire station.
For starters, it had easily the size of a Cylon basestar's upper section, and it was divided in three levels. The lowest one served as the central shuttleport – the same one the Galactica shuttle had docked in mere centares earlier – the middle one as the so-called "battle bridge", from which the defence grid was operated, and the upper one as the actual operations centre – the most important part of all.
This was the level where Omega left the turbolift, and he was at once greeted by Hunter's secretary, a felinoid female with a reddish mane and a long, tufted tail. A Caitian, by the looks of her.
"The Commodorrre is alrrready waiting forrr you, Colonel," she purred, hurrying forward to show him the way. She wore the golden uniform of a yeoman from the command section, which matched her own fur nicely.
To Omega's mild surprise, Hunter wasn't alone in her office. Her executive officer, one Lieutenant Commander Anderson was occupying her, and Omega, who'd met the XO a few times before, was once again amazed by the differences between them, wondering how they had managed to work together for yahrens by now.
Hunter, a bronze-skinned, slim woman in her late forties, looked more like a space pirate than a proper Starfleet officer, with her blatant disregard of the dress code. She barely wore a uniform and was widely known as an independent spirit who considered regs as a useful but not necessarily binding rightline. She insisted on her right to bend them when necessary to get things gone.
Anderson, on the other hand, although more than a decade younger, was just as widely known as a sticker to the rules – a bit like Tigh in his time, but more on the bullish side. A heavily built, stocky man with huge shoulders, a broad back, a short neck, thick black hair and the typical mindset of a natural born grunt. Omega didn't know whether the Federation had infantry platoons or not, but if there were any, Lt. Cmdr. Anderson was certainly determined to lead one. It seemed a misunderstanding that someone like him would serve by Starfleet, but life was a bit strange sometimes. And having acquired the rank he could call his own proved that he must have been good at the job.
Hunter looked up from her viewscreen when Omega entered the office.
"Oh, Colonel, good, you're right on time," she gestured at one of the Starfleet-issue seats. "Do join us, please. I've just filled Commander Anderson in about our little… problem."
Omega frowned, not happy with other people getting involved. "Was that truly necessary, Commodore?"
"Of course it was," Hunter replied calmly. "Commander Anderson is my right-hand-men; he's responsible for the safety of this station and its five hundred thousand inhabitants. If our suspicions are justified, he needs to know of any possible dangers that might threaten us."
"Well," Omega said uncomfortably, "right now it's just a personal agenda, looking for a lost pilot of us. I don't want to make this a public issue."
"We won't," Hunter promised. "You can be sure that Commander Anderson would not spread any gossip on the station."
A glance at the stocky, laconic figure on Hunter's side would have reassured anyone about that. Lt. Cmdr. Anderson looked about as talkative as a solid limestone rock.
"Besides," Hunter added, "he was present when our constables found Lieutenant Doe."
"I see," Omega said. "Then perhaps you can tell me a few details about that, Commander?"
"We can do better than that," Hunter said. "The civilian constabulary patrols the lower levels of the station regularly, and they always make video records. This is the only way to keep track on the homeless people who live there – not a perfect method, I admit, but better than nothing."
Omega stared at her in surprise. "Are you telling me that you have an actual visual record about our man being found?" he asked.
"That's exactly what I'm telling you," Hunter acknowledged. "I had Yeoman M'Rroarh look up the record for you, but I must warn you: it's not a pleasant sight."
"Poverty and suffering never are," Omega said. "But I think I need to see this with my own eyes to put together the whole picture for myself. Do you also have records from the man's recovery?"
"Not in the form of a detailed report," Hunter replied, "but we do have medical logs, recorded debriefings, data from his flight tests… that sort of thing, yes. You'll have to spend a couple of hours here if you want to watch them all. I'd rather the records didn't leave my office."
"That's doable," Omega said. "Siress Athena has offered to look after my daughter on this afternoon, so I don't have to hurry. And while I'm at it, I can also arrange for Lieutenant Starbuck's file to be downloaded and transferred here."
"You can use the comm station over there," Hunter gestured towards a well-isolated comm cabin in the background that she used for debriefings with her Starfleet superiors. "It's the most secure one on the entire Base. Now, I've got a station to run – besides, I've already seen the material – but I'd appreciate if you shared with me the results."
"Of course," Omega nodded. "We're in this together."
"Good," Hunter said. "I'll be taking care of some station business then, Yeoman M'Rroarh is a Level One communications expert; she can assist you if necessary."
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
In a geosynchronous orbit above the planet New Caprica, Lt. Kalliope, a slim, quiet Sagittarian woman, enjoyed being in command of the Galactica's bridge enormously. During the last yahrens of the Cylon war as well as the flight, she had worked as a simple bridge technician, with little to no hope for promotion. She hadn't even attended to the Academy, after all, although she had graduated from the prestigious Sagittarian Institute of Applied Technologies, and as such counted as one of the best. Her excellent training had made her a real asset on the bridge, catching first Omega's attention, then that of Colonel Tigh, and so she had gradually risen to the rank of a field lieutenant.
After both Tigh and Athena had left the Galactica, she practically remained the only experienced bridge officer, aside from Omega himself. She'd been promoted to the rank of a full lieutenant and made the leader of First Watch, practically taking over Omega's job. She could have returned to her own people, help building up New Sagittara, but had chosen to remain with the Galactica instead. The bridge felt more like home to her than any other place in the entire Fleet.
Especially when Omega was on furlong and she got to have the bridge all for herself.
So far, it had been a fairly uneventful day. Giles' return with the overhauled shuttlecraft was the only thing that had broken the monotony, but Kalliope wasn't complaining. She'd had enough action and excitement for several lives during her yahrens of service – she could use a little peaceful boredom. Besides, she was one of those fortunate people who never really got bored. An overactive imagination like hers came handy in quiet duty centares.
She was understandably surprised when Colonel Omega contacted her from the Federation Starbase. And the fact that her commanding officer sounded grimmer than she'd heard him since their arrival here wasn't exactly comforting, either.
"Lieutenant, switch to a secured command channel and listen carefully," Omega ordered. "This is a Code Blue situation, do you understand me?"
"Yes, sir," she replied crisply, but her hand was shaking as she changed the channels. Code Blue meant that there wasn't immediate danger for the ship – yet! – but the flag officers had received some intel that could mean a lot of trouble, and they were about to check out all eventualities. During which the lower ranks – and especially the civilians – weren't supposed to know what was going on, in case it was a false alert. "You can speak now, Colonel."
"Very well," Omega chose his words very, very carefully. "Lieutenant, I need your help in a… delicate matter. You're the one with the best technical skills aboard the Galactica, so you have to do this."
"Do what, sir?" Kalliope all but whispered, her heart pounding and her hands getting icy cold. There was apparently something very wrong going on.
"I need you to hack into the medical database," Omega replied bluntly. Medical data were not accessible for anyone but the chief medical officer of the Life Centre. Not even commanding officers were an exception, unless ship's security was at serious risk. And he couldn't assume that. Not yet, anyway.
"Sir, I can be stripped from my rank for that and thrown out of Service completely!" Kalliope protested, shocked that the colonel, usually so by-the-book that it almost hurt, would demand something like that from her.
"Not if you follow orders under Code Blue conditions, you can't," Omega answered calmly. "The only one who can get into deep trouble for this is me. And I believe I can justify my actions, should it come to that."
"You believe, sir?" Kalliope repeated doubtfully.
"There are no guarantees for anything, you know that, Lieutenant," Omega's voice was coloured by his customary dry humour. "Let that be my concern. You won't be charged for this in any way, I vouch for that."
Kalliope shrugged, although Omega couldn't see that through their audio-only comm link, of course.
"It's your funeral, sir," she said. "What exactly do you want from the database? I'll try to find it for you."
"It would be better if you didn't know," Omega said, "so you won't have to lie in the unlikely case of an investigation. Just create for me an access to the database and patch it through to the comm station I'm calling you from. I'll find what I need myself."
Kalliope froze. Hacking into the medical files was one thing. Transferring sensitive data to an outside comm station was a very different case. One she wasn't sure she'd be comfortable to do.
"Colonel," she said slowly, "if this comes out… Dr. Salik won't be… happy. And the Fleet Commander…"
"I know," Omega said dryly; no one knew Apollo's sometimes volatile temper better than he. "Believe me, I know. So you better take care that nobody catches you."
"I'll try my best, sir," Kalliope paused for a micron, then she decided to ask anyway. "Colonel… is this really necessary?"
"I believe it is, Lieutenant," Omega replied. "But if it makes you feel better about the whole thing, I only need to look up one file – and the person whom it belongs is dead."
"Yeah, it does make me feel a bit better," Kalliope admitted. "But sir, if the person is dead, what do you need their file for?"
There was a lengthy pause on the other end of the connection. So long, indeed, that Kalliope began to doubt that she would get an answer at all. Strictly seen, it was none of her business, after all. She had her orders.
"Let's just say," Omega finally said, "that we've found some… evidence that might raise questions about the… the circumstances of this person's death. If it's just a hoax, a coincidence of unrelated events, no need for anyone else to know… or to tear old wounds open again."
"And if the evidence proves to be genuine?" Kalliope asked, her mind racing through possible scenarios, one more hair-raising than the other.
"In that case we'll be facing the biggest scandal since the Destruction," Omega said grimly. "So be very careful, Lieutenant, and don't get caught. We might be opening a can of crawlers that can't be closed easily again."
"Understood, sir," the whole thing smelled of politics really badly, and Kalliope had always made her first commandment to stay away from politics as far as humanly possible. She wasn't going to change that attitude now. "I'll call you when I'm in."
"No," Omega said. "A call from the Galactica can be traced back. I'll keep this channel open. It's equipped with a military strength scattering device; nobody will be able to find its location, perhaps not even you. I'll be here; just dispatch the link to me."
"Very well, sir," Kalliope sighed. "Good luck."
"Likewise," Omega replied, "and now hurry up!"
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Lieutenant Doe had finished the fizzbin game, having won a week's payment off the newbie pilot and even a few credits from Ilya Petrenko. Which was always a satisfaction, as the Russian was a shrewd and aggressive player. But, as it had been proven multiple times before, there was just no weapon of defence against the infamous Gabriel Doe luck. Not in combat situations, and even less at the card table.
He only wished his luck had worked half as well in other important areas of his life, too.
Being almost completely without memories was a strange way to exist. Logically, he knew that he must have had a life before. The biobeds in the Infirmary calculated her approximate age for thirty-two Standard years, plus-minus one or two. The extensive damage done to his body tissue by slow starvation and prolonged torture had made it impossible to make a more accurate estimate. Human tissue aged faster under extreme circumstances, one of the doctors had explained, and based on the damage done, the circumstances he'd spent at least half a year must have been truly extreme.
When he considered this, he was honestly glad that he couldn't remember. Those memories would have been very painful; he could live without them. But he must have had a life before that, according to his estimated age at east fifteen years or so, in which he must have acquired his technical and piloting skills and learned how to win in chancery against impossible odds. He must have had friends, lovers perhaps, or even a family.
How came that nobody ever missed him?
How had he ended up on the lower levels of the Base, half-starved and neglected, with infected wounds and barely capable of human speech?
The doctors had guessed that he might have been one of the Colonial refugees, as there were no records about him in Federation databases. But the only language he could more or less use when found was Standard, even though he did have a very faint Colonial accent. Besides, there were no people of his estimated age and with his name – well, his given name at least – missing from any of the Colonial ships. And those people kept tab on their own meticulously. So he must have picked up that accent somewhere accidentally. It was barely there, in any case.
Usually, he didn't ponder much about his possible past. His still visible scars – not even Starfleet-issue dermal regenerators could remove all traces, not after his wounds had been festering for months – spoke clearly about some very unpleasant experiences he preferred to remain forgotten. And since nobody had ever asked for him, he had to presume that his friends and his family, assuming he'd had any in the first place, were dead, too. They had probably died under terrible circumstances, which he preferred not to remember, either.
At least he'd landed on his feet, this time. He got to fly a Tennet-5 hunter, even though sometimes his hands, moving on their own, tried to grab for instruments that weren't there; instruments of a very different fighter, most likely. His border patrol uniform bought him respect by default, even though sometimes the colour felt all wrong, the phaser pistol – a heavy, old-fashioned model his comrades kept complaining about all the time – seemed way too light and hung on the wrong place: on his belt, not in a halfter fastened onto his thigh.
Sometimes he felt a little bewilderment when he snatched something with his left hand, as if he'd expected himself to be right-handed, which was ridiculous. People didn't switch their dominant hand just like that – it was somehow connected to the dominant half of the brain, someone had explained him once. It was genetic, not a matter of choice. So, why did he feel using his left hand so wrong sometimes?
He shook his head, trying to free it from the nagging thoughts. He hated thinking about these things – it always resulted in violent headaches. The doctors had warned him about that, which was part of the reason why he hadn't sought professional help with removing his memory blockade.
Your mind has protected itself from a severe emotional trauma by blocking those memories, they had said. Forcing them to the surface before you're ready to remember would be disastrous. There's a chance that they'll resurface on their own, eventually.
That had been two years ago, and the memories hadn't shown any indication to resurface, so far. Not that he really minded. But there were days when something triggered the nagging feeling that he should remember. That he had left some business unfinished that needed to be taken care of.
He wondered what the trigger might have been this time. Usually, it happened during patrol, as if flying – something that had apparently been an integral part of his former life, too – had brought the buried memories closer to the surface. But they hadn't even had a patrol in days. They'd been aboard the station, playing cards all the time.
He came to such an abrupt halt in the middle of the corridor that several people couldn't help but bump into him from behind. That was it! The card game! And that tall, elegant, dark-haired man who'd been sitting with Commodore Hunter at her usual table. Watching them – him! – during the entire game. He knew they'd been talking about him. He could always feel, and as the "man without memory", he was often the topic of curious conversations. He'd grown accustomed to it.
This time, though, it had been different, somehow. That man – who had it been anyway? – had been watching him with more than just the usual, fleeting interest. And yet he'd denied knowing him when asked.
There was definitely some weird crap going on. The man was one of the Colonial people, according to his accent, and one of the big shots, apparently, or the Commodore wouldn't waste her time on him. The first business of the day was to find out the guy's identity, then.
There were ways to do that. For example, Operations had a file on all the important Colonial folks. Those files were encoded and password-protected, of course. But such minor inconveniences never stopped Gabriel Doe when he wanted something.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Athena had enjoyed her visit in the Centaurian bath very much. Not only the hot, mineral-satiated water, the following massage with scented oil (she never knew she'd had so many kinks in her back!) and the soft music, but also the company of Carolyn Palamas, who proved to be intelligent, well-informed – and generally great fun to be with.
The two of them had quite a few things in common, besides being both daughters of patrician houses, military officers and diplomats. Their tastes in music seemed to run in similar directions, and as both were interested in history and sports, there was never a lack of topics to discuss.
They'd changed into more comfortable outfits after the visit in the bathhouse, collected Aggie from school and found a nice restaurant to have dinner. After having tried several specialities many adults wouldn't dare to touch, Aggie finally remembered to call her father and chatted with him excitedly for a few centons. It seemed that she felt confident about her first round of tests and was looking forward to go to school with children from many different planets.
"Perhaps I'll go to an art school later," she told the two women dreamily. "One of the teachers, an Andorian, liked my drawings a lot. Or I'll study journalism and become a TriVid star."
"Lords beware," Athena shuddered involuntarily.
"Why?" the girl asked. "Newspeople get to travel a lot, see things nobody else gets to se, and they are famous. Boxey's Mum was a newswoman, too, wasn't she?"
"Yes, she was," Athena replied gloomily. "A real star all right."
She wasn't going to say anything bad about her late sister-in-law. The woman was dead, for Sagan's sake, and her brother had loved her, but… The truth was, Serina had been a Celebrity, with a capital C, and behaved like the star she had been in every single micron during the short time Athena had known her. And while Athena had no reason to like Cassiopeia – there had been that little matter about Starbuck between the two of them – she had to admit that the blonde socialator's instincts had been deadly accurate concerning Serina, who'd been shrewd, manipulative and eminently determined to defend her own interests.
She'd nailed Apollo in the first micron they'd met, to ensure the safety of her son – and a much better position for herself than she could have gotten as a simple refugee, even if she'd managed to get acquaintanted to one of the Councillors. Perhaps she had loved Apollo, Athena didn't want to doubt that (for the sake of her own emotional comfort), but she'd sure as Hades used both her own undeniable beauty and the cuteness of Boxey to spin Apollo into an impenetrable cocoon like some sort of spider queen.
She'd charmed her way into the Viper squadron, despite barely being able to fly a shuttlecraft to begin with. She'd managed to take Starbuck's place as Apollo's wingman – Starbuck's, who'd been the best pilot of the whole Fleet, Apollo's best friend since their Academy yahrens and the best guarantee for Apollo's survival in battle. And yet the Commander never made a move against that change.
Serina had also gotten Apollo to Seal with her at a time when they all thought Starbuck dead and when Apollo had been grieving and vulnerable. At a time like that, when the Fleet had taken up the desperate task to cross the starless Void, just to escape their Cylon pursuers, Serina had insisted on the biggest, shiniest Sealing the Fleet had ever seen, before the eyes of everyone – and the IFB cameras – so that nobody could be in any doubt about her staking her territory.
About the dead, speak only good things, an old saying warned, but after three yahrens, Athena still couldn't think of a single good thing about Serina. So she usually wrapped herself in silence when her brother's late wife (Wife? What wife? They'd known each other for just a few sectons and were barely married for a couple of days!) came up. Like now.
Aggie, her heart and mind too full with exciting new things, hadn't noticed that Athena had fallen in silence. She chatted away happily about the tests she'd taken, the people she'd met and the thinks she'd be doing in the near future, while keeping half an eye on the vid screens broadcasting various sports events – she was generally having a grand time, after two yahrens of simplicity in their New Caprican home. The blue eyes of Carolyn Palamas, however, were measuring Athena with renewed curiosity.
"Boxey," she said. "Isn't he your brother's kid?"
Athena nodded. "His adopted son, yeah. He kept the boy after his wife died – a decision he never regretted. None of us ever did. Boxey can be annoying sometimes, but all in all, he's a nice kid. Even though my father does his best to spoil him rotten. Must have come after his father."
"And his mother… you said she was a newswoman?" Palamas asked.
"More than just that – she was a celebrity," Athena spoke the word as an insult. "One of those really big stars, before the Destruction, I mean. She was incredibly beautiful, I'll give her that, and she did vulnerable very convincingly. Most men fell for that performance in a micron."
"Not you, though," Palamas guessed with a smile. Athena shook her head.
"Nah, I could see clearly what she was up to. How well aware she was of her own beauty and how well she could use it as a weapon. And she had contacts, too, and was willing to use them any time they were needed. She never let go of anything she'd sunk her teeth in."
"You didn't like her, did you?" Palamas carefully pitched her voice so low that Aggie, watching the annual desert race patched through from Andor directly(x).
"I tried," Athena said honestly. "The Lords know I tried very hard to befriend her. Apollo was so besotted with her, and my father was delirious that his firstborn son finally got Sealed, and we all liked Boxey…"
"But?" Palamas nudged gently, because there definitely was a but somewhere.
"I never spoke about this to anyone – well, anyone except Omega, who's always been my friend, and I desperately needed to get this off my chest – and I have no proof, of course," Athena said slowly, "but I always had the sneaking suspicion that Serina had better connections to the new Quorum than she'd let us know. There were just too many coincidences."
"For example?" Palamas asked, getting more and more interested in the power struggles among the Colonies. This might prove useful for future negotiations, she justified her curiosity to herself, although she'd be willing to admit that she just might be nosy.
"Well, for starters, she was the one who orchestrated the big report about the Peace Treaty, although there were quite a few more experienced newspeople who'd forgotten more about the War than she could ever hope to learn," Athena said grimly. "She was the one to confront my father, standing amidst the smoking ruins of Caprica City about the inability of the military to defend our colonies. After that, she somehow ended up on the Rising Star, of all ships: the only surviving luxury liner, where Sire Uri held his court."
"Where there no other refugees aboard the Rising Star?" Palamas asked. Athena waved impatiently.
"Of course there were; all remaining ships were stuffed full with refugees. And Serina supposedly lived among them with Boxey on the lower levels. But she came directly from the Club Elite when she waylaid my brother in the corridor, dragging him to her poor, cute little son who was grieving for his lost daggit. And she had no bedding down there… only a mattress for Boxey."
"Is that certain?" Palamas pressed, her detective instincts awakened. Athena nodded.
"Oh, yes. Absolutely. I did a little private investigating when the Rising Star got reopened for everyone. Asked a few harmless questions. Batted my eyelashes at a the maitre'd and a few waiters. Put the pieces together – and didn't like the picture I got a bit."
"Have you ever told your brother what you found out?" Palamas asked. "Or your father?"
Athena shook her head with a bitter smile. "No. By then, Serina was dead already, and whatever scheme she might have been part of, it most likely died with her."
"I won't be so sure about that," Palamas said thoughtfully, "although I do understand why you're unwilling to discuss it with your family. However…"
"I've discussed it with Omega," Athena interrupted, "and with Colonel Tigh, on more than one occasion. I trusted those two; I still do. We haven't forgotten the issue. But we have no evidence, and guessing wildly would only hurt father and Apollo – and Boxey."
"The truth might still come out one day, when you're the least prepared for it," Palamas warned.
"I'm always prepared," Athena said. "That's why I accepted this job. There isn't much I could do from the bridge of the Galactica; the big games are played in politics now."
"I'm surprised that your father hasn't accepted," Palamas said. "Or your brother. Forgive me, but they are better known names than you are and might achieve more."
"Unlikely," Athena replied. "Apollo has such a straight military mindset, he expects everyone to fight honestly, although his experiences should have taught him better. Father is a lot shrewder, true, but he's an old man, too tired for any more big fights. He's fulfilled his destiny by leading our people to Earth already."
"You, on the other hand," Palamas trailed off encouragingly. Athena grinned.
"I've inherited mother's interest in politics – and her backbone," she said. "I like watching how the nets are spun behind the scenes, and I'm more ruthless than all the men of our family together. I keep my eyes open, gather my proofs… and prepare to give Sire Uri and his cronies the run of their lives for their money when the time is ripe. And I have the advantage that they keep underestimating me, as if I still were father's little girl."
Palamas grinned back at her. "I like your attitude. Hopefully, one day I'll get the chance to meet the rest of your family. They sound like an interesting bunch."
"Well, that's one way to put it," Athena pulled a funny face, "but I'm related to them, and therefore biased. Most people do find them intriguing. Just put on that dress from before and they'll be eating out of your hand in no time."
They both giggled, taking no notice whatsoever of the man in the black uniform of the border patrol who was watching them thoughtfully.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
So far, the inquiries of Lieutenant Doe hadn't come up with anything of significance. He'd managed to find out the identity of Hunter's company, thank to Ilya Petrenko, who had the useful ability to never forget a face he'd once seen, but neither the man's name, nor his current rank meant much to him. Although, to be perfectly honest, he did find it a bit ridiculous that a high-ranking member of the military would be named after the last letter of an old alphabet. But again, those Colonial folks tended to have weird names; and besides, someone who didn't even know his own full name, shouldn't criticize others.
He'd tried to find out more about this Omega character, but today was Yeoman M'Rhoarh's shift at Operations, and Miss Catwoman, as Ilya called her behind her back, was one of the very few female beings immune against the famous Gabriel Doe charm. Maybe if I had a tail, too, or orange hair, he grumbled silently to himself. Not that he'd have seriously considered to woo her, he definitely wasn't into felines, but getting his way with ladies was part of what he was – and he had the feeling that it must always have been so – therefore it made him nervous when it didn't work. Even by oversized housecats with orange manes.
But as things were going at the moment, he had to wait till next watch and then try to squeeze (or charm) some information out of the yeoman from Delta shift. He'd looked up the duty roster and found someone of a fleeting acquaintance whom he knew he could get to spill the bones with some careful nudging. Until then, he could do nothing but wait.
He'd discovered this cosy little restaurant shortly after the doctors had put him together. It was owned by a friendly, rotund matron from the Merak colony, who liked to experiment with rather… unusual dishes and was willing to feed unemployed people in exchange for small task, assumed those tasks were performed to her liking. Even after getting accepted by the border patrol, Lieutenant Doe kept returning for the food… and because the owner vaguely remembered him of someone from his buried past. He didn't know of whom, but he hoped that one day that particular memory would come back. It felt like it would be a pleasant one.
Besides, sitting at a small, lonely table, watching the clientele was fun. There always were some pretty ladies around, which was definitely a bonus, and he liked the children who came here with their families. They always were so happy and content, just like he had been as a small child, when he'd lived in that little house with his mother, near that dark, dim forest…
They'd been just the both of them, most of the time. Sometimes a man with a funny, animated face and with flamboyant clothes came to visit them, and those were good times. He thought the man must have been his father, but he couldn't be sure. His mother was always friendly to the visitor, but always held back a little. As if she'd known that the man would leave them again, soon, no matter what.
He shook his head and watched the excited, red-haired girl with a fond smile. She was happily chatting about school and other stuff kids generally found important, and the two women accompanying her listened with half an ear, while carrying on their own, low-voiced conversation undisturbed. Both were exquisite, he decided. The blue-eyed blonde had a positively angelic look about her (which was most likely a deceiving one), while the other one, pale and dark-haired and very beautiful, seemed to be a formidable personality.
Pictures of two other such women flashed his mind for fleeting second, clad in extravagant evening dresses, measuring each other with cold, angry eyes. He shook his head again. Where had he seen two such beauties before, and why did he have the feeling that they had been at least as mad with him as they had been with each other?
x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x x
In Hunter's office, Omega was being grateful that their midday meal lay centares back. He wasn't sure he could have kept his meal to him, watching the video records Hunter'd had selected for him, had he recently eaten. He'd thought Lieutenant Doe had just a touching likeness to Starbuck? Well, the miserable creature the constabulary had found in some fetid hole on the lower levels most certainly didn't show anything in common with either man. Omega couldn't remember having seen a person in such a horrible shape, ever.
The unfortunate wreck of a human being that he saw on the records was almost naked, save from some dirty rags wrapped around his hips. He'd lost his hair completely, while his bread looked like a filthy mop, covering his entire face. It seemed that he'd been malnourished for a long time, because every rib, every knob, each vertebra was clearly outlined his pallid skin, and his body obviously didn't have the resources to heal his open, festering wounds.
And some wounds those were! Whip marks. Burn marks. Knife wounds that went almost to the bone. Extensive bruises of savage beatings that covered practically every inch of that abused body. It seemed as if someone had tried to systematically beat the man to death. More than just one person, by the look of it.
And yet, the mere sight of the man's desolate state wasn't the worst thing of all. The worst was the almost animalistic fear in those dead eyes as the constables pulled him out of his hiding hole. As if he'd expected his tormentors to return for him.
He obviously wasn't willing to let himself be recaptured. Not without a fight, that is. And fight he did, with the desperate strength of a trapped animal, wringing the last strength of his broken body in an ultimate, savage effort. The constables had to call a med tech with a hypospray to sedate him, or he'd have caused himself even more damage, fighting them.
Omega watched the unfolding scene – and then the doctors' detached reports about the man's injuries, internal and external in same measure – with growing horror. Regardless of this poor devil's true identity, the thought that human beings would be willing to do this to another human, for whatever reason, made him sick. Hunter had been right: something really big (and really ugly) must have been at stake here. And Lieutenant Doe, whoever he might be, was still in grave danger. The ones who'd done this to him, might still find him and finish the job.
Whether he was Starbuck or not, Omega wasn't willing to allow that.
TBC
(x) Yes, I know that the Enterprise series established Andor as an icy cold world. I don't care. Enterprise has violated formerly established canon so many times that I just don't accept it as a true part of the Star Trek universe. Therefore, I follow the guidelines of "The Worlds of the Federation" by Shane Johnson, a time-honoured resource book, that describes Andor as a hot and arid world, much better suited for an insectoid species anyway.