Whether it was a sixth sense or an instinct for survival that made Lauren realize that Rex was overdue, she wasn't sure. Regardless, as she waited in the Fullerton Station, she just had the distinct idea that she needed to move on.

Now!

She hunched her shoulders and curled her spine, trying to make herself appear shorter than her five foot, ten inches. The mousy grey-brown wig and oversized summer raincoat with several layers of extra padding certainly helped to disguise her usually svelte physique, inherited from her mother. Her pallor and exhaustion did the rest, making her appear far older than her years. God knows she felt it, as she wondered what had happened to her friend while she headed towards the elevator.

She faltered as she spotted a white-haired crone standing directly in her path, shaking her head. There was something inscrutable about the elderly woman, something that gave her pause . . . so she veered off towards the Fullerton Avenue exit, tempering her urge to flee and acting as normally as possible.

Suddenly, as she reached the exit, an arm slipped through her own. She startled as the same old crone smiled at her by her side.

"Give an old woman a hand down the stairs, Dear Heart?"

Lauren let out a relieved breath, smiling tentatively. Well, as disguises went, it couldn't be better. She nodded, patting the old lady's hand for good measure, and feeling a strange tingle suffuse her as they started down the stairwell. She held her breath as two large goons in dark suits headed up towards them. One held his sat-phone in his hand, and their eyes picked over the commuters carefully. The old lady coughed beside her, drawing their attention as they brushed by her. They didn't even spare Lauren a glance.

"Watch it, ya big oafs!" the old crone cursed them.

Moments later they reached the bottom and the hand slipped out of her arm. The old woman could never know what a help she'd just been. Lauren turned to smile and offer her a friendly "good day" before she headed out in the pouring rain, but unbelievably . . . the old crone was gone.

xxxxx

"Colonel Apollo?" asked Cree on his right wing, as they began their descent through the thin Martian atmosphere. Usually they would be using key centurion terminology and their vocal modulators to make themselves appear as Cylon as possible, but in this instance, they didn't want the missing Earthmen to spend a single micron doubting their origin should they be picking up this frequency.

"Yes, we see it." Apollo glanced at Dietra beside him. Several thorough sweeps had ruled out that the Earthmen had headed out to some secondary controlled environment across the surface. At this point, the colonel had every intention of ensuring his commander's safety as his advance patrol reconnoitred the area while Dayton's shuttle stood by. "A power source, Ensign. Near the equator."

"We're not scanning anything in the way of human bio-signs, Apollo," Giles added from the left wing.

"Negative." Dietra shook her head at Apollo, shifting in her space suit. Unconventionally, the entire patrol was outfitted for the inhospitable Mars conditions, should it become necessary that they leave their Hybrid fighters. All that was needed was to put on their helmets.

"Nor are we, Giles," the colonel replied, "but if they are underground, the radion might be obscuring any life signs. At least at this distance."

"Right." Giles looked out his canopy. "Lords, what a desolate planet. Even Kobol didn't look this dead. Hard to imagine anyone settling here."

"Well, Kobol is more than twice the size and gravity, Giles. This place looks like it was blasted by asteroids or something like that." Beep. "Alright, we have the base on scanners. Some kind of transmitter is operating." Beep. Beep. "A navigational beacon, I think."

Dietra adjusted the instruments. "Yes. We have it."

"So do we, sir. Guiding us in, almost."

"Let's go."

They screamed across the empty deserts, making their way almost a third of the way around Mars until the base filled their scanners. At first, it seemed that there was nothing there.

"It's built into the side of the valley," said Cree, as they drew closer to the base. The planet's surface was deeply scoured by a long, winding valley that cut across a huge swath of the lower latitudes, reaching almost ten kilometrons below the mean surface elevation in places. As they drew closer, the navigation beacon grew stronger and the base came into view.

Built into the north side of a wide canyon and facing south, the base sported many solar processors, positioned to take advantage of the available sunlight. At various points along the cliff face were mounted cranes and other construction equipment, the surface above festooned with low buildings and an array of antennae. In the distance, several kilometrons from the installation, a huge conglomeration of machinery gave off a large heat signature and was slowly pumping vapours into the thin air. Projecting from the sheer cliffs below was a wide steel deck, supported by thick beams and about as wide as the Galactica's landing bay ports. Slowing, all three Hybrid ships drew close and flew by.

"It's a landing bay of some kind," said Apollo. "No sign of any force field. It's not pressurized."

"Maybe with the power down, it's off," ventured Cree. "We're reading minimal power indicators inside, sir."

"Affirmative. Well, let's go in."

Taking the lead, Apollo manoeuvred the ship to line up with the blinking lights on the steel deck. Deftly, he and Dietra brought her in, setting her down on the landing deck. Cree and Giles followed him in, doing the same. Apollo slowed, coming to a stop a few metrons from a metal wall.

"Ship secured, sir," said Cree.

"Here too," Giles announced.

"Same here. I'm not reading anything but the thin local atmosphere. Helmets on. Let's go."

xxxxx

Dickins' eyes snapped open and he sat up. They were back for him. Somehow he just knew it. Despite the dense Plexiglas walls on his "controlled habitat" which severely muffled sound, he still could imagine the ominous sound of the stockade doors opening, followed by the boots clapping their way down the concrete hallway, as the echoes radiated through his long-tortured mind. There would be no casual conversation between the soldiers, no sign of rations or supplies that needed to be delivered. Just the impending silence that inevitably foretold what would happen next.

Hummer looked at him curiously from the next habitat. The technician was a quick learner. Dick wasn't sure if the Colonial was learning to read him, but Hummer was abruptly on his feet, waiting to see what would happen next. Fortunately, for the kid's state of mind, the soldiers had finally realized that the garbled language he spoke wasn't actually a new variation of Pig Latin, meant to infuriate them, and they were leaving him alone for the most part. Unless they wanted to threaten Dickins.

The two gorillas stopped before the man-sized Habitrail. He noticed briefly that for the first time since he'd been moved there, that while gloved, they weren't dressed in Hazmat suits—apparently those were out of season. He let them wait for him, testing their mettle. Exactly long enough for the one on his right to turn his gaze on Hummer, a suggestive grin on his mug. Only then did Dick climb to his feet slowly but steadily, hands raised in front of him, and headed to the door. A small portal in the Plexiglas opened. He took a full ten seconds before putting his hands through the opening and letting them fasten the restraints, before he stepped back to wait for what happened next. God, it was demeaning . . .

"Dick . . ." Hummer mouthed agitatedly across from him.

Dickins just shrugged at the kid, letting him know that what would happen would happen, no matter the amount of bruises he earned between now and then. He was done.

"That's better, Old Man," one of the guards told him as he opened the habitat door and stepped inside with a satisfied nod. "Who said you can't teach an old dog new tricks, Larry. Huh?"

"Yeah, Vince," grinned Larry. "Even dumb animals can . . ."

A nano-second later, Dickins had leapt forward, clubbing the smart-assed McDonalds reject with his cuffed hands, and then kicking him in the gut as he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. Then he instinctively pivoted backwards and ducked to dodge the swing that Larry had clumsily thrown his way. His elbow led his charge as it connected with Larry's nose with a loud crack. The guard tumbled to the floor. He made sure he wasn't getting up again with a two-handed blow to the neck, then took a step back, nodding in satisfaction.

"Didn't ya know, Larry," he grinned maniacally, his gaze tracking up to the surveillance camera that watched him 24/7. He could already hear the outer doors open again as boots pounded down the hall towards him. "Trix are for kids!"

xxxxx

"I take it 'frack' is bad?" Jess Dayton asked anxiously from the Venture, her words abruptly translated through his implanted languaphone. As much as Starbuck hated the idea of another implant, he had to admit that this piece of "electronic felgercarb" was working quite well. Especially in conjunction with the "Conversational English" that Ryan had been drilling into him for the last couple sectars. He'd absorbed more than he'd thought.

He couldn't help but let out a short puff of ironic laughter. The coordinates of the Base Ship that he had just traded himself for were not that of the Ravager, but instead, the Endeavour. The Earthlings had spotted his base ship. It was not the best deal he had ever struck, to say the least, but at least Commander Dayton wouldn't have his hide for contacting his daughter, notwithstanding the fact that he'd saved her from becoming a Cylon prisoner. After all, Dayton had apparently blown his cover first. "Sufferin' Lord Sagan, what did I ever do to you?" he muttered darkly as he continued to work on the circuitry beneath the panel he had pried off, while sweat poured off of him. He'd cut power to the systems that had been lighting up his cockpit like the Caprican Summer Solstice Festival, but rerouting the more intrinsic ones was proving to be more difficult. Click went another breaker. At least he was no longer in danger of his pants catching on fire and he had navigation back. But life support was down seventy percent . . .

"Sorry? I didn't get that, Starbuck," Jess informed him. "Please repeat."

"That's the Endeavour you've spotted," Starbuck replied, wishing that Boomer or Apollo were on his wing right now, like in the old days. "Not the Cylons."

"The Endeavour's over Mars?" Jess verified.

"Thereabouts," he replied. His Base Ship should have been past the Red Planet by now, depending on what Apollo's patrol had picked up on that signal he'd detected.

"We have lost contact with our station on Mars, Starbuck. Did your people have something to do with that?"

He noted the suspicion in her tone of voice, as well as the underlying concern for the people that were ultimately her responsibility. After all, he hadn't missed the fact that she was apparently the director in charge of WASA now. "One of our patrols was checking out a signal that I picked up on my way here," he replied calmly. "If your people are in trouble, your father will help."

The mention of her father seemed to discombobulate her for the moment. He just didn't get it. Why wasn't she happier about the reappearance of her father? And why was she so damned suspicious, even though he'd already saved their astrums?

"We're here to help, Jess. We came halfway across the galaxy to do so and we don't have a lot of time . . ." he coaxed her, while his life support systems dropped another two percent. The system wouldn't reset. Damn!

"You really know my father," she murmured uncertainly.

Starbuck wracked his brain for a moment, trying to think of some little tidbit that Dayton had confided during his endless stories about Earth. He needed a capstone of some sort. Something that only Dayton's family would know. Something . . . "Your father told me that when you were little, he had a pet name . . . a . . . a nickname for you."

"Yes?" she asked, both anxiously and breathlessly.

"Sweetie-Ursus . . . uh . . ." He paused, realizing that he'd used the Colonial word. "No, that wasn't it . . . it was . . . Sweetie-Bear."

There was a sudden intake of breath on the line. "Alright. Follow us down. Match our re-entry window precisely."

"I'll do my best to keep up," he replied, trying and failing to send a Unicom short burst transmission to the Endeavour and then to Lu. He'd have to work on that on the way down.

"Interesting," Malus piped up. The IL had been conspicuously silent throughout the