Despite his homecoming being far from what Mark Dayton had once dreamed—the Cylons on Earth's doorstep; cities laid waste and millions dead; discovering he'd been labelled a traitor; finding out his wife had Alzheimer's Disease; being told one of his sisters had died of breast cancer; his other sister saying Yvonne had miscarried a baby son after Mark had gone missing; realizing the ancient astronauts that von Däniken and others had theorized about were in fact an elite, secretive group known as the Anakim, with a master plan of dominating the world both financially and politically; ferreting out that Randy's Steakhouse Restaurant in Frisco, Texas had been closed for nigh on twenty years—two months into his new life, he had to say that he was fairly content. Overall, they had crippled, if not decapitated the old Anakimconspiracy, and had put a serious dent in rebuilding crumbling infrastructures, as well as easing worldwide political tensions, and instilling the idea of the Colonials as an ally, albeit light years away. On a personal note, while he'd been devastated that Yvonne didn't know him and that he'd lost a child he'd never even realized they'd conceived, he'd been thrilled to get to know his daughters all over again, and couldn't be prouder of the women they'd grown to be. In general, life was good. The question was did he want that to change? As to the answer, well he'd known for some time now.
He sighed, perching himself on the corner of the desk in his father's study, watching Starbuck stand in front of the dark mahogany bookshelf, picking up and examining old antiquities that Dayton's father had collected over a lifetime. Amongst them were Roman and Greek coins, a small clay lingam from Chola period India, pre-Columbian figurines from Guatemala, an Egyptian ushabti, a tablet from ancient Ur, and a tattered old flag, ripped and faded, that an ancestor had carried at Gettysburg.
The younger man seemed to be waiting patiently for him to say something, which admittedly unsettled the old NASA astronaut. It was as if the kid already knew what was coming or that he'd known it all along. He wondered if Starbuck was finding a way to delay the inevitable words, finding their fateful parting to be as difficult as Dayton did. It was one of those times that he just couldn't read Starbuck, unable to see past his own turbulent emotions.
"I never meant for it to happen this way," Dayton blurted out. Hadn't Cain inferred more than once that it might be selfish motivation that drove Dayton's ambitions of command? At the time it had seemed like so much malarkey, but all that had changed once he'd rediscovered his daughters' love and had rebuilt his reputation and standing on Earth. "But the situation was what it was, and we dealt with it as we found it. I'm certain Adama will understand."
Starbuck turned around, holding a Castello wooden pipe that had once belonged to Great-Grandfather Dayton. His fingers caressed the smooth old wood, his attention seemingly fixed on the fine Italian craftsmanship. It had been a couple weeks back when he had actually smoked the pipe, he and Dayton sitting alone on the back veranda on a starlit night, puffing away in companionable silence. It was one of the rare times that Dayton indulged, finding it more of a social ritual befitting an occasion than any kind of habit. Starbuck nodded briefly, before lifting his gaze to meet Dayton's eye.
"He'll understand," the younger man agreed, his gaze sweeping the room once again. "If any of us were given the option to go back to our lives before the Destruction . . . I guess that most of us would."
"Would you?" Dayton asked him, suddenly doubting just that.
Starbuck smiled, dropping his chin for a moment, his thumb stroking the back of a chestnut brown leather armchair. "No," he said softly.
"Why not?"
"I was a . . ." He shrugged. "I guess you could say I was a bit self-absorbed back then."
Dayton chuckled. "So what's changed, Cappuccino Cowpoke?"
Starbuck laughed aloud at the comment, recognizing the jest for what it was. He took a moment before answering, and Dayton waited patiently. A reflective Starbuck was a rarity.
"I have a family now, Dayton. Maybe it's not the classic Colonial family, and more the kind that they'd want to feature for the comedy centar on Interfleet Broadcasting, but all the same, it's mine."
"Take care of them, kid. You're right; there's nothing so precious as family, whether they're blood . . . or honorary members." His gaze drifted to the window as he heard the loud ring of Ryan's laughter out back. He adjusted the shutters, letting rays of sunlight beam into the room.
"Speaking of which . . . I'm going to miss having you around, Old Man."
When Dayton looked back, Starbuck's eyes were startlingly bright, like two sunlit pools of aquamarine amidst this gentleman's den of dark wood and leather.
"Take care of Cassiopeia," Starbuck rambled, covering his labile emotions with his effusive nature. "And don't let Lauren make you too crazy. Underneath all that risk taking, she has a surprising amount of common sense, and remember that Jess keeps tabs on her constantly. Actually, Jess is the one you should worry about. She inherited all the responsibility genes in the family, taking care of every living soul within arm's reach, and never putting herself first. She's just like you, Old Man. Watch her." He took a step closer, hand outreached
Somehow over the last couple of months the warrior had situated himself into the "kid brother" role in Dayton's family. It had occurred naturally, and considering Starbuck's usual role as "God's gift to women", the transition was a blessed relief. Dayton gripped the young man's hand, holding his gaze for a moment before pulling the kid into a tight embrace, slapping him on the back. Despite his capabilities as a warrior and leader, Starbuck had a tendency to be somewhat emotionally immature with both abandonment and commitment issues, obviously as a result of being orphaned at a young age. There were some things that simply needed to be said aloud with him.
"If a man could choose his kin, well . . . despite all the crap I've given you since we've met, despite your real father, I want you to know that I . . . well, I think of you like a son, Starbuck."
Starbuck drew in a deep steadying breath, belying his own feelings, as he pulled back from the embrace. "Thanks, Dayton. That means a lot." It was brief and concise, and probably all he could manage just now. He took a step towards the bookshelf, efficiently extracting himself, presumably to return the pipe to its usual place.
"I want you to keep that." Dayton nodded as Starbuck looked at him uncertainly. "Great-Grandfather would be proud to know who was smoking his pipe. And he'd be twice as pleased to know it wasn't just gathering dust in my Dad's den. I can still hear him telling my father that 'a pipe is meant to be smoked, not admired'."
A faint nod and a more typical smile of pleasure was Starbuck's unspoken reply, before he slipped the pipe into his flight jacket pocket. Then he added, "Well, since it would make Great-Grandfather Dayton happy . . ."
"It would me happy, Smart Ass," Dayton laughed.
"Dad! Starbuck!" a voice hollered through the house. "Jess, Mom and Aunt Sally are here! Come and join the party!"
"You'll come and say goodbye, at least?" Dayton asked. "Maybe have a quick bite before you go?"
Starbuck glanced at his chrono, before nodding. "Wouldn't miss it."
xxxxx
"Six hundred and sixty-six," Apollo mused in the Endeavour's Control Centre. "Dayton said that in their holy book that particular number was associated with Diabolis."
"Which is why you are surmising that Captain Dorado receiving six hundred and sixty-six messages from Starbuck's fan club is a foretelling of doom?" Malus asked. "It sounds more like a successful Internet social network to me. I apologize for stating the obvious, Colonel Apollo, but your theory is simply . . .illogical."
"You think I'm reading too much into it?" Apollo said, looking at the others. After his recent discussion with Dorado about the Beings of Light, maybe he was overreacting. However, the truth was they really knew very little about them for certain, and that was due in part to vague and evasive answers upon questioning.
"Well, after everything we went through with Count Iblis, I can understand why. Still, everything is reading as nominal on both Barstow Station and the Phobos Space Dock," Jolly pointed out.
The reports scrolling across the board were encouraging. All the contaminated parts of the base had been vented to the surface; Cylon and Colonial decon technology had scrubbed virtually all of the released radion from the resealed and pressurized facility. Five of the base's crew had returned along with a Colonial contingent to both help in the repairs and study the ruins below. With power restored, the base would be ready for her full compliment within a couple of sectons.
As to Phobos, the discoveries had been nothing short of staggering. Of the thousands of rooms discovered inside the Martian moon, several had been found still sealed and intact. Others had been resealed and pressurized and were now housing the crews investigating both the moon and the ancient ships inside. From a distance, Malus had applied his cybernetic brain as well as the Endeavour's mainframe to working out a plan for eventually stabilizing the moon's orbit, eliminating the stress on its ancient hull. The news crews from Earth that had been permitted inside to view the mysterious moon and artificial world had been largely speechless.
"I know, but I can't shake this feeling," Apollo said, reaching across the console, lightly touching Lia's hand. The abdicated Empyrean princess seemed to be deep inside her own little world, a tiny crease of concern between her eyes. At his touch, startled brown eyes looked at him a little guiltily. "Lia?"
"Sorry. I feel it too, Apollo," she said after a moment. "A general sense of unease and expectation, like just before lightning strikes . . ."
"A sense of unease, huh? I feel it too, but I thought it was the Vindaloo I had for lunch," Jolly ventured, rubbing his stomach as a loud gurgle punctuated his words.
Lia frowned at him. "I feel more like someone is leaning over my shoulder, trying to tell me something." She shivered involuntarily, wrapping her arms around herself, closing her eyes briefly. "Warning me."
"What's the latest on the Clavis?" Jolly asked.
"Currently pulsing at about thirty centon intervals, increasing at a rate of forty percent per centar," Apollo said, indicating the readout before him.
"Rounding it off to the nearest tenth," Malus inserted.
"That leaves us a little over two centars?" Jolly asked. "That's not much time, Skipper."
"If the current rate of acceleration does not deviate," Malus said, "the Clavis will self-initiate in two centars, twenty-three centons and four point six six six microns."
"Will the Mars and Phobos teams get back in time?" asked Lia.
"At full turbos, it'll be close," Apollo admitted, checking their identity beacons on the navigation console. The flashing dots were drawing ever closer to Earth. "They know to push it to the limit."
"What was it Baker said?" Lia asked. "Don't spare the equines."
"Something like that. It was a good thing Dorado sent them in the Hybrids," Jolly said.
"He doesn't leave much to chance," Apollo agreed. "That's what makes him such a good officer."
"So . . . what are we leaving to chance?" Jolly inserted. "Count Iblis is supposed to be far away in another dimension. Can he hurt us from there?"
"Lia, tell me what you think," Apollo coaxed her.
"My gut is telling me what my head doesn't want to believe," she replied.
"Go on."
"After what I've gleaned from Ama over the last couple sectars, I don't think Count Iblis is trying to hurt us . . . I think, well . . . I get the feeling that he's trying to warn us."
"What?" Jolly blurted out. "Iblis, giving us a warning? What's next? The Imperious Leader inviting us to Cylon for mushies?"
"The way I understand it, the last thing Iblis did before being exiled was to restore Ama's powers," Lia added. "John and the rest weren't happy about it, Ama told me."
"Yes, she told us that before she left for Earth. Yet Ama has avoided using her restored powers," Apollo replied. "Starbuck said she hasn't done any of her usual Empyrean mystical tricks in some time. Coming up here and checking out the Clavis was apparently an exception."
"Ama did that? What did she say?" Lia asked.
"That the Beings of Light are behind the Clavis self-initiating this time around. They're manipulating us into leaving."
"Why?" Malus asked. "Surely, coming here and saving Earth from the Alliance was part of their design. To now force us to leave . . . I do not see the logic in this."
"She claimed to not know, Malus," Apollo said. "Starbuck tried to get her to find out more, but she was reluctant, to say the least. She said each time she used her powers that she connected with them on some level. Clearly, she was trying to avoid that."
"It sounds like the Beings of Light are trying to stifle her powers, while Count Iblis is trying to nurture them," Lia said.
"Too bizarre for words," Jolly inserted. "I wonder . . . do the Beings of Light fear Ama for some reason?"
"Because of her powers, inherited from Count Iblis?" Lia guessed.
"And we're in danger because of our association with her?" Apollo ventured.
"Ama is fiercely independent, even for a human, and her abilities are fearsome. The Great Powers cannot control her, thus they unite to oppress her, re-establishing the balance in the universe," Malus inserted, his oscillating blue 'eyes' freezing in place for a moment, his cranial lights dimming, indicating that huge amounts of processor function were being diverted. "Millennia ago her father was on a similar path. He was special: the One. The strength of his powers had never been witnessed before by those you refer to as the Beings of Light. It is rare when one such as he comes to be. A gift from the Almighty, a child to be awed and admired, instead he became the target of envy, contempt and fear. Even the most benevolent and sagacious of beings sought to control him. It was fate, the nature of the universe. Count Iblis was ostracized by his kind for not adhering to their rules and their ways. Shunned, he became the demon incarnate, embracing evil and creating chaos. Some say his journey into darkness was his destiny as the One, re-establishing a cosmic equilibrium that had been disturbed, much like our current day situation. And now that Count Iblis has been exiled, if the balance of the universe is not restored, the cycle may repeat itself with Ama."
The IL's optical sensors began oscillating again.
For a long moment, they looked at each other in unease, stunned at what they had just heard from the IL. Apollo shivered involuntarily at the sensation of a fateful shadow passing over him, watching as Lia once again wrapped her arms around herself and Jolly swallowed nervously.
"Mal?" Apollo said, watching familiar lights return to a more normal pattern. "Where the frack did that come from?"
"Excuse me?" Malus replied. "Where did what come from, Colonel?"
"You phased out, Mal," Apollo replied. "Self-diagnostic now."
"Yes, Colonel."
"I think that . . . something just took control of Malus," Lia whispered, awaiting the IL's report. "But who? Or what?"
"I am afraid that I cannot answer that," the IL replied.
"It was rhetorical, Malus," Jolly said.
"I see. In any event, my internal log indicates I powered down temporarily. I can find no internal malfunction, but I am still trying to determine why."
"You didn't lose power, Mal," said Jolly. "All your lights were still flashing and we could hear your voice."
"I . . . I have no knowledge of that, Jolly, sadly," replied the Cylon. "My data banks contain no information on any activity during that time."
"Well, you were talking, but what you said you couldn't have known," said Apollo. He replayed the Control Centre flight recorder for Mal. The IL was stunned.
"I . . . I must find out who or what is manipulating me. I feel so . . . used."
"Good luck with that," Apollo said, before looking back at Jolly and Lia. "So who exactly was speaking through Malus? Iblis?"
"The One, Malus called him," Jolly reminded them. "The one what?"
Apollo shook his head, not understanding.
"Whoever or whatever it was . . . was speaking about Iblis," Jolly said after a pause, "not as though he or it was Iblis."
"Well, who would care enough to warn us?" Lia pondered. After a moment: "Baltar?"
"Baltar?" Apollo and Jolly echoed in surprise. Even Mal turned his head at the mention of the one-time human traitor.
"Didn't Starbuck say that he appeared as a Being of Light and helped him?" Lia explained her rationale.
"Still . . . Baltar is one of them, which at this point somehow doesn't seem all that surprising. I don't know . . . with Baltar, I never know. He has a habit of falling in with the wrong crowd," Apollo mentioned.
"That's the understatement of the centi-yahren," Lia added, scowling.
Apollo smiled slightly, looking thoughtful.
"You really think that the Beings of Light are the evil ones?" Jolly asked. "That's . . . that's awfully hard to believe, Skipper."
"Maybe evil is too strong a word, Jolly," Apollo amended.
"But is it really so hard to believe that they're in the wrong? Is it really?" Lia asked. "Jolly, didn't you say you have no recollection of the time you spent away from the Galactica when the Beings of Light first made contact with the Fleet, making an entire squadron vanish? A part of your life was erased and you aren't in the least bit disturbed by that?"
"Yes, well . . . I, uh . . ." By his reaction, it was the first time he'd considered it in that context. He frowned.
"Exactly," she finished.
"But they brought us back unharmed," replied the other. "They seemed to help us, not harm us." He looked at Apollo. "What do you think, Colonel?"
"Jolly, at this point I'm not sure what to think anymore." He shook his head. "What's this balance in the universe that Malus talked about?" Apollo pondered. "Lords, but I wish my father were here. He'd know what to do . . . what to believe."
"Well, with that in mind, maybe all we can do right now is put our trust in faith," Lia inserted, her hand dropping down to ritualistically stroke her Empyrean talisman which rested on top of her tunic.
"May I?" Apollo asked, holding out a hand.
Idly, Lia nodded, slipping the leather band over her head and handing him the silver amulet. Apollo frowned, surprised at the warmth of what should be cool silver. There seemed to be a strange energy to the talisman that he couldn't define, a sensation in his fingers that was unfamiliar to him. It was almost as though it was humming silently in his hand . . . but that didn't make any sense.
"I'm all for faith, but usually I like to back it up with some tactical planning and firepower," Jolly inserted. "A couple of Viper squadrons wouldn't be amiss."
"I'm with you on that, Jolly," Apollo agreed, holding the talisman up before him, starring into the elongated eye that Earthmen referred to as the Eye of Horus and Empyreans revered as their sacred talisman.
Since first seeing it, the amulet had put him in mind of the Seal of Kobol that his father and even Baltar had once worn, gaining them access to the tomb of Kobol's ninth lord. As with the Empyrean talisman, in the depths of the pyramid on Kobol, Baltar had presumed the amulet gave Adama some kind of power that the former traitor obviously didn't possess. But other than those somewhat rusty powers of telekinesis that he had once inadvertently witnessed, Apollo had never been aware of his father having any kind of supernatural powers, certainly nothing akin to Ama's. Did Adama possess a raw, undeveloped ability that had never fulfilled its potential? Why had Apollo's father abandoned those particular studies at the Academy, and had those studies ever progressed beyond him bending cutlery and moving small objects? Upon reflection, Adama's statement that Ila had "made me stop the practice" seemed somehow unconvincing. Did Baltar know something that Apollo didn't? Was that what the traitor had referred to at Kobol?
"Apollo?" Lia asked.
"It has a kind of . . . vitality, doesn't it?" Apollo asked, picking the amulet up this time by the leather thong, watching it begin a slow spin, independent of any movement on his part. "I wasn't expecting it to be warm."
"I've always interpreted that as a warning. A foretelling of danger," Lia told him. "Many people can't detect its spiritual energy. It speaks well of you."
"Spiritual energy," Apollo repeated, the semblance of an idea coming into his head. It was more than a long shot, it was completely crazy . . . " Jolly's right. We need something more than faith. We need someone on the inside."
"Come again?" Jolly said. "Someone on the inside?"
"On the inside of what, Colonel?" Malus asked.
Apollo smiled enigmatically, watching the talisman begin to slow its spin, then stop, before it slowly began to spin back the other way. "If there was only some way I could call in a favour . . ."
"From whom?" Lia asked.
Apollo sighed. "From the one best situated to tell us what's happening. I wonder where his loyalties lie now."
"You don't mean . . ." Jolly gagged.
The colonel nodded.
"Baltar."
xxxxx
Mark Dayton walked out into the dappled sun of the warm September evening, pausing on the porch and taking a big lungful of suburban Chicago air, Starbuck at his side. All around him was laughter, sunshine and the sizzle and luscious scent of barbeque, making a man wonder if life could get any better than this. As he looked about, he wondered which direction to take as he joined the casually assembled group of family and friends that had congregated in his backyard. Who did he tell first that he was electing to stay on Earth instead of continuing on with the Colonial Fleet: his daughters, his demented wife, his lover, or everybody present at one fell swoop, getting it out in the open and mitigating any individual reaction that might overshadow the rest. He reached into an overflowing cooler on the table, hefting first one cold beer, then a second.
"You'd better tell Cassie," Starbuck said quietly, taking the proffered bottle. He opened it, and pointed with it towards her, subtly but effectively steering Dayton towards the top-notch med tech.
Dayton couldn't help but smile as Starbuck summed it up so succinctly, putting to rest any lingering doubts about etiquette. His daughters would always be his daughters; his wife really wouldn't be impacted whatsoever; however, his lover . . .
"When the hell did you get so wise about women, Drip Grind?" he asked his young friend as they clinked bottles. "You?" he said again, pointedly, taking a swig, then finally: "You!"
"I'm far from wise, Dayton," Starbuck admitted with a laugh. "I'm just a matrimonial survivor who picked up a tip or two along the way. Someone once told me that marriage is hard work. But that in the long run, it's worth all of the effort you put into it."
"I told you that back on Planet 'P', Barista Buckaroo."
"Seems like a long time ago. Doesn't it?"
"It sure does."
Cassiopeia looked radiant, the evening sun shining off her golden hair, making her look like an angel, as she shared a smile and a few words with Bruce Johnson and his father, Frank. Since coming planetside, Dayton had spent a few evenings with Frank Johnson, sorting through a shipload of emotional baggage for both of them and re-establishing an old friendship that had once centred around the university relationship between Marilyn and Mark, two old university classmates.
Dayton and his men had also had the opportunity to look up Lynn Bond and Benjamin Zuskin's families. The book had to be closed on the two Endeavour crewmembers that hadn't made it home. In Zuskin's case, they had opted to tell his family that he'd been killed on the pirate asteroid, rather than tell them that he'd escaped and had eventually lost his mind in Proteus Prison, becoming known as the Silent One.
Cassiopeia looked over at them, arching her fine eyebrows and looking for some indication from Dayton as she took a sip of red wine. He smiled at her, crooking a finger and beckoning her towards him. She nodded, turning her attention back to the Johnsons for a few more minutes before making her excuses and making her way over.
"Are those sirloin burgers?" Starbuck asked, lifting his chin as the sumptuous aroma wafted towards them across the yard in a wispy trail of smoke.
"And country ribs with my Grandma's famous home-made barbeque sauce."
"Sagan's sake, that smells good!"
"Only the best, kid," Dayton replied, giving him a slap on the back and a push off in that direction where Porter was now manning the brick barbeque, flipping burgers, grilling vegetables and tending steak and ribs. Dickins and Baker were standing there, plates in hand, by this time probably on their second helpings. For the first time in years, Dickins was filling out, looking loads healthier and less like a muscular skeleton subsisting on koivee root and Asteroid Whiskey, probably due to Anna's unwavering attention, support and never-ending understanding and patience since they'd been reunited.
"It's good to see everybody could make it," Cassiopeia said as she drew near him. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm, letting him escort her across the yard towards the garden that she had helped nurture during some of her downtime. Roses, hydrangeas and a variety of other blooms that he could never remember the names of poked out subtly in a sea of lush green. The woman was a natural gardener, and he couldn't help but wonder if every living thing she had touched during her lifetime had flourished the way both he and his garden had, while under her care.
"Dad, Mom's here," Jess called out, her voice following them. "So is Aunt Sally."
Dayton turned guiltily, the emotion short-lived as his deaf sister signed at him to go ahead, while Yvonne stared mutely at the group of people. His wife was impeccably dressed, her hair immaculate, but her vacuous expression and a frame that was far too thin reinforced that it was her caregivers at the home decking her out for her daytrip, not the woman he had once shared his life with.
"I know, sweetheart. I'll be there in a few minutes. I just need to talk to Cassiopeia for a moment."
Then Starbuck and Lu stepped in, passing Jess a drink and engaging Yvonne, getting a spark of interest from her that Dayton could never seem to manage. Then again, more than once Yvonne had at a distance mistaken Starbuck for a young Mark Dayton. Ryan had said it was something in the way the kid "swashed a buckle" and Porter, Dickins and Baker had all laughed in agreement, the joke apparently on Mark. Meanwhile, each time Yvonne gazed upon her husband, her crippled mind insisted that her Mark Dayton was long dead; this come-back-from-the-dead-variety was an obvious impostor. Unfortunately, challenging any preconceptions that a lifetime had etched in her psyche was never a pretty scene.
"You're staying," Cassie said.
It was a statement, not a question. Her beautiful face showed nothing but a calm acceptance.
Dayton nodded, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. He kissed it tenderly.
"Nothing would make me happier than you saying that you'll stay with me, Cassiopeia. I want to wake up every morning with you beside me. I want to walk into my house at the end of every day, knowing you'll be there. I want to share my life, my home, my aspirations . . ."
Uproarious laughter abruptly filled the air, almost rudely. At the din, they turned towards those gathered around the barbeque, witness to a good-natured, free-spirited battle over the cooking utensils. Ryan was threatening Baker with a skewer loaded with mushrooms and Baker, in kind, was warding him off with squirt bottle of marinade.
Cassie smiled mischievously. "What about your barbeque?"
Dayton chuckled down at her. "Yes, even my barbeque." He clinked his bottle against her wine glass. "I love you, Cassiopeia, and I want you with me, always."
Cassie smiled softly, her gaze swinging back towards Jess, Sally, Yvonne, Starbuck and Lu. "You have a wonder family, Mark, and a beautiful home. I can understand why you can't bear to leave it behind."
He put a finger beneath her chin, redirecting her gaze, meeting her eyes.
"Yes, I do have a wonderful family, of which you're very much a part. And this house is nothing more than a dusty old box of memories if you aren't here to share it with me. If it weren't for you, Cassiopeia, I'd be a bitter, old ex-astronaut, still looking for a nemesis around every corner. Hell's Bells, I might even be dead."
"Mark . . ."
"Yes?" he said expectantly.
Twirling the stem of her wine glass, she studied him through lowered lashes that veiled her thoughts, as the breeze softly blew her hair off her face. Between the bouquet of the garden, the warmth of the sunshine, and the radiant beauty of his ladylove, there was something so surreal about the moment that made him want to capture it in his memory forevermore.
"Mark, I'm staying with the Fleet."
"What?"
It was like getting kicked in the gut. In a universe where good battled evil, machines hunted men, and warriors fought day to day not knowing whether they'd survive, Cassiopeia had been an unwavering constant in his life. She'd never let her career or anything else, for that matter, stand in the way of their relationship, always willing to be there for him when he needed her. Not once in the last couple of months had she so much as hinted that she was doubting their relationship or that she was anything other than happy. Not once had she indicated that at some point in time they would part ways, abandoning a love that he'd been so sure would take them both into old age.
"Mark, the Fleet needs me," she said quietly, her gaze again drifting over to Starbuck and Luana before she looked back at him. "You know as well as I do how short we are on competent medical officers. Sagan's sake, we had a psychologist assigned to us for our last mission."
Dayton winced as recent memories of Dr. Sala came back to him. The Galactica's main computer had confused the shrink with his brother, a celebrated surgeon, and assigned him as the Chief Medical Officer for the Endeavour. Since then, Cassiopeia had been in charge of their Life Station, albeit in an unofficial capacity. Everyone knew she was studying to become a full-fledged MD, and trial by fire seemed to be a part of her training.
"But Cassi . . ."
"Mark, what about the next time Starbuck, Apollo, or one of the rest of our warriors gets shot up? Who's going to help? I couldn't live with the idea that someone on the Endeavour might die just because of my selfishness." She hesitated a moment, taking a long look around the garden and then back up at the house. "Could you?" she finally asked quietly.
"But what about us?" he replied.
"I love you, Mark, I truly do. But I have to stop defining my life based on my relationships." She smiled sadly, her attention once again drawn back to Starbuck as he made his way through the group, laughing and making idle conversation, waiting for his commander to tell those gathered that this was goodbye. "Starbuck, Cain, you . . . each of you assumed that when you came back from winning your battle that I would be there, waiting for you." She smiled again, but this time it appeared forced. "And you were right." She swallowed, shaking her head. "But not anymore."
"Cassiopeia, I . . ."
She reached over, touching his arm, forestalling the argument that was going to burble out of him. "Please don't. For once in your life, Mark Dayton, just accept that you can't change this." She turned, clearing her throat loudly, her hand on his arm applying a gentle pressure, guiding him back to the party. "Everybody? Can I have your attention, please? Mark has something he needs to tell you."
It effectively concluded their conversation as heads turned their way. Cassiopiea actually took a step away from him, her body language telling him that this was it. He half expected her to wrap an arm protectively around herself, retreating into a familiar stance that he had seen time and time again when he had hurt her. Instead she nodded at him, appearing as confident and comfortable with her decision as he had ever seen her.
"Thank you, Cassiopeia," he said aloud, his voice surprisingly steady as he began to close the distance between him and his guests, leaving his lady behind in the garden. "I suppose all of us knew that this day would come . . ."
xxxxx
Obligation.
At the moment there was nothing that Baltar despised more than being beholden to someone, especially the likes of Adama's son. It reminded him of a basic duty to humanity that he had adopted in his new life, which at times like this opposed his basic duty to Anshargal and the Great Powers. All the same, he would never forget that Apollo had once inadvertently saved his miserable life, pulling him from the suffocating surf on Planet 'P', giving him an inopportune chance to make amends for his sins against the Colonial nation. After all, dead men weren't generally considered eligible for redemption.
"Baltar," Eirys whispered, her long blonde hair cascading over a slender shoulder as the power of the Oculus delivered Apollo's message as though the Colonial Warrior was standing beside them. "You dare not, Beloved."
Defying protocol, Baltar had persuaded her to use the Oculus thus. He'd needed to know the truth, but dared not find it out himself, lest he be consumed by its immortal power. Elevated being he might be, but Baltar well remembered his own defects of character and the lure of power. His wife, its Keeper, with her gentle, decent and peaceable nature, was immune to its dark lure.
Ah, Eirys. If he hadn't met Eirys on Morlais, Baltar would still be lingering in a Colonial brig, instead of being miraculously re-embodied as a Being of Light. There were times when he reasoned that the only reason his spirit had made it to this dimension and not another less pleasant one was because the Great Powers had deemed that he would be useful to them. Largely, since he had first awakened on an altar in a shimmering evanescent light, he had felt like a fraud. It was only a matter of time before it occurred to somebody else . . .
He smiled indulgently.
No one knew better than Baltar that while he had improved his standing amongst his people after Planet 'P' and certainly after Morlais, that he wasn't exactly what he once would have considered "angel material". Starbuck wasn't so far off when he'd proclaimed the Piscon to be his "guardian weevil". As much as Baltar could put together a somewhat convincing resume as to why he was here, instinctively he knew that it had more to do with circumstance than sainthood. Oh, he knew the correct words and had bumbled through his assignment on Earth adequately enough, inspiring Starbuck when necessary and berating and taunting him—his personal favourite approach, and perhaps reflective of Baltar's doubts as to why he was here—at every other opportunity.
"I haven't done anything," Baltar told his wife, a wicked smile creeping over his features as he gave it a little more thought. John had counselled that they let the Elders dictate what would happen next; but John was a celestial flunky, not in a position of any authority. Baltar had never been a man who was content to sit still. He made things happen, he didn't wait for them to happen. "Although I can't rule it out entirely."
"We cannot interfere," Eirys reminded him, looking regrettably at the Oculus. The first time she had used it for her own designs, she had unintentionally unleashed Count Iblis on Morlais, ultimately resulting in the transformation of a race of Angylions into Odreds. It had taken a fair amount of cajoling on Baltar's part to convince her to do it again now, but her husband was nothing if not persuasive.
"We were content enough to 'interfere' when we thought we were championing humanoids against the Cylons, destroying Count Iblis' mechanical scourge both in Morlais and over Earth," Baltar reminded her. "Why should we sit idly by now awaiting Anshargal's pleasure?"
"Because we abide by Celestial Law."
"And submit," Baltar added, reminded of the words during Ama's humiliation at the will of Anshargal and the Great Powers.
Eirys smiled slightly, worry etched in her features. "Submission was never your forte, my husband."
"Only to you, my Eirys," Baltar replied with a smile, well aware the only reason he had his wife with him now was because Ama had used the Oculus to free his wife's Angylion soul, reuniting them. As the Keeper of the Oculus, apparently hers was a soul worth perpetuating. There were many unclear and enigmatic rules in this realm, and it was only somewhat recently that Baltar had began to realize that not all of them made a great deal of sense, nor did they follow any particular religious text that he was familiar with. "Has it ever occurred to you that it seems far too important to Anshargal that Ama submits to his will. Especially now that Count Iblis is defeated?"
"Perhaps it is because Iblis is gone. Ama retaining her powers is a reminder that Iblis was defiant until the end. Even in defeat, he would still not submit to Anshargal's authority, actually flouting it by redefining Celestial Law to rationalize his return of Ama's powers."
"Yes," Baltar replied, smiling at the memory. It was Iblis' finest moment, at least as far as Ama's friends were concerned. "But the fact remains that Iblis is gone. Anshargal's actions seem more based on pride and spite than on the advancement of goodness and light. The more time that passes since Iblis' exile, the more it seems to be so."
"Baltar!" Eirys hushed him, touching his hand in alarm as she looked about their mystical realm in concern.
He smiled. "I merely speak the truth, Dear One. Surely, there can be no penalty for speaking the truth here, of all places."
"Anshargal's will . . ."
"Yes, I know," Baltar interrupted her. "But there are greater energies at play in the universe than Anshargal and his bullies. We must stand ready, prepared to intervene on Ama's behalf."
"Anshargal will only intrude if Ama uses her powers."
"An inevitability," Baltar commented.
"Ama suspects this though," Eirys replied. "She may repress her instincts . . ."
"I suspect that Ama will repress those particular instincts when planets stop rotating and suns stop burning," Baltar replied. "We must be prepared to come to her aid. We owe her that, Eirys. We certainly owe her that."
"But we dare not use the Oculus for our own selfish desires again, Baltar," Eirys interrupted, almost writhing with guilt. "We dare not."
"Selfish desires." Baltar smiled unctuously, a familiar pleasure at defying the establishment creeping through his bones, filling places that had been long empty, as well as somewhat discontented and a little horrified at his completely unnatural transformation from Evil Genius to Being of Light. "Nothing could be further from my mind, Dearest. My concern lies only with Ama's best interests. I swear."
xxxxx
There had been a two-seater Adirondack style swing in Dayton's backyard for generations, and Mark couldn't help but wonder if Yvonne subconsciously still recalled that as she sat there, a bemused smile on her face, as she gently swung back and forth. Along the top beam, a climbing yellow rose bush had claimed the structure as its own, and he recalled fondly that the roses had been a favourite with all the Dayton women, from his great-grandmother all the way through the generations to his wife. He found himself drawn there, perhaps because he now knew that his relationship with Cassiopeia had no future, or perhaps from some selfish instinct to seek female comfort and refuge, in a safe nostalgic setting. Regardless, he shoved off from where Baker and Porter were deliberating about their own futures—Ryan and Dickins indubitably deciding to stay with Mark on Earth—and slowly wandered towards his wife, sipping on a cold beer as he came to a stop beside her. Idly, he picked a rose from the bush, setting down his empty beer bottle to carefully remove the thorns from the stem.
Yvonne didn't even acknowledge him, seemingly lost in her own little world as she rocked back and forth, her wizened hands folded in her lap, eyes staring into nothingness. Dayton couldn't help but think of that moment so many years ago when, sitting side by side, his arm around her, she'd told him she was expecting their first child. A year later he recalled taking a fussy Jessica out there, rocking her to sleep, the lulling motion a comfort to his precious baby.
"May I join you, Yvonne?" he asked his wife.
Startled, she looked up at him, seeming to deliberate for a moment. She looked him up and down, frowning, apparently not at all impressed with what she saw. It made him want to check himself over for defects.
"Suit yourself."
He smiled at that. There were moments when his wife's ingrained personality definitely reared itself. "Thank you."
All the same, he had to grab the wooden swing to slow its motion before he could settle himself back in the seat beside her. She seemed so tiny there next to him, like a fragile little bird fallen from its nest. Gradually, they began to swing again, an awkward silence falling between them.
"Come here often, Yvonne?" he asked, the words coming naturally. In the past he'd traditionally asked her the same thing as they sat there together, whether alone or with babies and toddlers in tow. By rote, she would always reply "not as often as I'd like".
"I . . . I don't know," she murmured instead, looking around at her surroundings, confusion written on her features. Then she glanced up at him almost irritably. "Who are you?"
Dayton let out a jagged breath, feeling warm tears prick his eyes as he looked at the rose he still held. The edges of the bloom grew diffuse as his eyes welled up against his control. "I'm your husband. I'm Mark."
She regarded him rather sceptically. "No, you're not. You're an old man."
"I'm that too," he replied grudgingly.
Restlessly, she leaned forward, as though she had abruptly decided to get up and end this discussion. Fortunately, she didn't do anything quickly, and Dayton hastily stopped the rocking motion of the swing, concerned for her safety. At the same time an unexpected and unseasonably cool breeze swirled up around them, making them both pause, Mark looking around in an uneasy anticipation. It reminded him of one of those weird Mother Nature moments in the movies that would herald the likes of Mary Poppins or Nanny McPhee.
"Oh, go 'way with ya," said a voice behind him.
As Dayton started to turn, a pair of hands appeared from behind Yvonne, and an Empyrean talisman was suddenly placed around her neck. The newly made over Ama leaned forward, lightly embracing his skittish wife, murmuring soothing words into her ear that Dayton couldn't pick out. Suddenly, there was a rumble from the air above, almost like that of a jet passing overhead. Dayton briefly looked up at the clear sky before the necromancer drew his attention back. Her murmuring was almost hypnotic. Yvonne relaxed and sat back, now at ease.
"God forgive me, but we all knew this was inevitable. Besides, you need to know the truth before he goes, and only your wife can convince you of it. You don't have long, Mark-Dayton," Ama said before turning to go.
"How do you mean?" Dayton asked, turning to watch the Empyrean witch's retreat with a sudden sense of unease. "Ama?"
"You look pretty good for an old bugger," Yvonne suddenly said beside him. Unlike a few moments ago, her voice was strong. Clear. "What's your secret?"
Mouth agape, he gawked back at her. Was his wife actually back with him? "Yvonne?" he whispered.
She looked down at the rose in his hands. "Is that for me? It's been a long time since you gave me roses, Mark."
Shakily, he raised his hand, giving the flower to her. Tears welled in his eyes, one spilling down a cheek before another followed. Somehow Ama had used her powers to grant Yvonne lucidity. But the Empyrean wise woman had also warned him it was temporary.
"Cat got your tongue, Mark?" Yvonne asked, smiling gently at him, her eyes alert and alive. She smelled the rose, wrinkling her nose and shaking her head slightly. "So beautiful, but almost scentless. It never seemed right, somehow. I always thought the perfect rose should smell as beautiful as it looked." She smiled. "Your mother always said that I spent too much time looking for perfection, whether I was working, decorating or gardening. I wanted it all, I suppose. After all we built together, after our beautiful children, I guess I expected it."
"How . . .?"
"Look at our children, Mark," Yvonne continued, glancing over at Jess and Lauren who were chatting with Starbuck. All three faces were so animated as they joked together, his daughters obviously ganging up on his young friend, and Starbuck apparently loving every second of it. "I'm so proud of them. All of them."
And then it hit him.
"All of them?"
"Yes, all of them." She smiled, an animation in her face and voice that he hadn't heard since she was young. "I knew it as soon as I saw him, Mark. You brought our boy back to me. I thought he was lost forever, but somehow you found him."
"But Yvonne, honey . . ."
"Don't you see, Mark, it was his body that died here on Earth, not his spirit. His spirit found a home elsewhere, thank God. And now he's home. It's truly a miracle, isn't it?" She looked over at Starbuck, lovingly. "He's a man now, and so much like his father that it's hard to believe . . ."
"Yvonne, that's Starbuck . . ." he tried to explain.
She turned towards him, taking his hand, laughing softly. "Starbuck? No, no, don't be silly. I christened him Mark, after you. About forty-five years ago, I buried him and you together, at least in my mind. And now both of you are home. What a crazy, wonderful world we live in."
He shook his head slowly, realizing that he'd been mistaken. Obviously, Yvonne was babbling incoherently, although he'd never seen her quite like this before . . .
"Time is slipping away too quickly, Mark." She leaned towards him, her forehead touching his ever so slightly as her fingers stroked his hand. "If only I could have prepared for this moment, but I didn't know . . ." Her voice broke. "I couldn't have known I'd have this chance," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "It's almost cruel . . ."
"Yvonne . . ."
"I love you, Mark," she whispered adamantly. "I never lost faith in you . . . I never believed the things they told me you did. I knew you weren't a terrorist . . . that you didn't blow up the station and kill everyone. I defended you with every breath . . ."
"I didn't . . ." he choked out.
"I know that," she reassured him, raising a hand, touching his face tenderly. "But time hasn't been kind to me, Mark. I spend less and less time here with our family, and more time moving on . . ."
"Moving on?"
"It's not as bad as you think, my love," she soothed him, as his free hand gripped hers. "And if I couldn't pass between those realms, I wouldn't have recognized our son. Tell me, did you bring him home to me or was it the other way around? I must admit, that technicality evades me."
"Our son! I . . .uh . . ."
Overwhelmed, he couldn't help but do the math. In his existence, it had been thirty-one years and four months since he'd left Earth. With the variance in the Colonial calendar, Starbuck was around that age . . . but was it possible that Starbuck shared the same spirit as his miscarried son . . . some kind of doublewalker like Prince Llewelyn in Morlais? Could it be true? Was the spirit of his tiny baby boy really rekindled on the other side of the galaxy, embodied in a baby born to another man and woman on Caprica? It seemed so far fetched. Was it even possible? And was his wife's illness, her dementia, actually a . . . a miracle in disguise? Did her spirit now walk between worlds, while her physical being gradually wasted away on Earth, biding its time? In those seemingly vacuous moments, was she actually communing on a celestial level, free from the limitations of her body. A gift from God, completely unknown to those around her, and not some tortured form of damnation, after all?
"Poor bewildered Mark," she smiled, patting his hand. "You always want to know how things work. You need to spend less time making sense of things and more time believing. Give me a kiss, sweetheart. I must go now." She lifted the talisman, pulling the cord over her head, holding it between thumb and forefinger.
"No . . . don't . . ." he choked out, unable to accept that the magical moment was already fading away. "Please stay! The Colonials . . . they can cure a lot of diseases. Maybe . . ."
"Shush, this isn't my choice, Mark, surely you realize that," she said, leaning across and kissing him tenderly, tears now spilling down her cheeks. When she spoke again, her voice was shaky, thick with emotion. "Take care of yourself. I release you from any obligation to me. Our time—precious though it was—is long over, Mark."
He groaned aloud in protest.
She put a finger to his lips, hushing him. "And take care of our children for me. All of them."
"I will," he managed, nodding. "I promise."
"Of course, you do. Only my Mark would cross the galaxy to find our lost son, and then come back to sit on a swing with me. I love you more than I can say, more than you would believe, more . . . more than even . . . chocolate." She grinned mischievously, her eyes sparkling.
"That's a lot," he replied, falling into the old pattern of a game they once played, inspired by a children's book. "I love you too, Yvonne," he said, a maelstrom of emotions rising up around him, sobs threatening to overcome him. "I'm so sorry . . ."
"Don't be. There's no going back . . .and at least now you know the truth. God bless, Mark."
Then the sudden lucidity in her clear blue eyes slowly retreated, fading to a dull and listless disinterest as her gaze settled on the talisman. She frowned, setting it aside between them, then looked back at the rose in her lap. Picking it up, she smelled it, wrinkling her nose in disappointment.
"It never seemed right," Yvonne murmured quietly, her hands fumbling for a moment as the flower dropped onto the ground. The loud noise of joyous laughter drew her attention and she looked over to where Starbuck was talking to Ryan. "Mark!" she called. "Come here, Mark. I need your help!" She pointed to the rose resting on the ground.
Starbuck looked up, at this point used to the old woman's confusion. He grinned good-naturedly, looking at Dayton uncertainly for a moment before strolling over.
"Go ahead," Dayton said hoarsely, wiping tears from his face. All this time, his wife hadn't confused Starbuck with him at all. Instead, she had recognized him as their son. As impossible as it appeared on the surface, down deep it just seemed right. Besides, it would go a long way to explaining why he'd instinctively been so hard on the younger man, verbally lambasting him for personal or professional decisions made that Dayton hadn't agree with at the time. However, if he ever told Starbuck, the kid would think he was as nutty as the proverbial fruitcake. The young man just didn't have the kind of faith that could make that mental leap to realize that perhaps biology only played a small part in the gift of life.
Starbuck leaned down, picking up the rose, bowing regally before handing it to Yvonne. "Your rosa, Milady." He favoured her with a rakish grin. "Although next to your beauty, it pales by comparison."
"I smell better too," Yvonne replied with a nod, smiling beatifically. She took the blossom from him and gripped his hand briefly before releasing it. "You're a good boy, Mark. Off you go now." Then, unexpectedly, she reached over and took Mark Dayton's hand.
"We, uh . . . we need to leave soon, Dayton," Starbuck told him.
"I know," Dayton replied, his voice close to breaking. He picked up the Empyrean talisman, passing it to his son and nodding towards Ama, its rightful owner. "Just give me a minute, kid, and I'll see you off. Okay?"
"Sure."
Dayton stroked his wife's hand tenderly as Starbuck headed back towards the others. Together, Mark and Yvonne began a gentle rocking motion as they sat there on the old family swing. "Do you come here often, Yvonne?" he asked her quietly, putting an arm around her.
"Not as often as I'd like," she replied, resting her head on his shoulder.
"Then we'll do it more often," he said, tightness in his chest as he realized that her short-term lucidity had facilitated her recognition of him through the haze of her dementia. Once again they had a bond. "Would you like that?"
"Suit yourself," she replied, then she snuggled a little closer. "Suit yourself."
xxxxx
In a dimension apart, a timeless serenity and tranquillity was being insidiously but subtly altered. The realm was a little less resplendent, the energy less divine. An exalted and inspirational bliss was evanescing with each passing moment, eroding the serenity, and tarnishing the infinite love that swelled within and around all that dwelled there. Almost undetectable to the immortals that watched over the universe, a malignant element slowly infected their domain in a design of sustainability. Unbeknownst to the Great Powers, a cosmic imbalance was correcting itself.
Count Iblis had been exiled, his evil influence finally vanquished, his own blood used as an instrument against him in a brilliant strategy orchestrated by Anshargal. It was a victorious end to a seemingly eternal crusade, and the prestige and deference bestowed upon the Elder was well deserved in the eyes of his peers. It gave him a measure of respect and reverence, setting him apart from the others. Meanwhile, Iblis' obstinate daughter's unwillingness to submit to Celestial dominion had seeded an exuding discontent, which furtively, almost imperceptibly, affected the once pure and incorruptible ever-watchful beings.
"Ama has broken Celestial Law once again, stepping in where she has no business treading, imparting information that the primitive humans have not the capacity to conceive. Iblis' spawn continues to defy us!" Anshargal seethed, his spiritual energy like a resplendent beacon of righteousness to all who heeded the Elder. "She must be taught her place!"
"But at the cost of yet more human lives, Anshargal?" Apsu replied, her life force exuding an eternal venerability.
"Humanity reseeds itself," one suggested.
"As it did once before," another inserted. "They have proven themselves to be resilient."
"Physical and spiritual regeneration. It is the natural order of the universe," a third agreed.
"Did we not warn them, Apsu?" Anshargal stated. "And did they not ignore our warning? Above all else, we must uphold Celestial Law."
"Above all else, we must uphold our virtues," Apsu corrected. "Do you not sense it? Do you not feel the shift in the balance? Behold what we are contemplating now that Iblis is vanquished. We are not permitted to directly interfere; Anshargal, only our messengers may interact with lesser beings under the strictest of guidelines. Remember what befell Earth before we created our Celestial Law. Remember why we created Celestial Law. Do you presume to defy it, following in Count Iblis' rebellion? Would you replace him? Or wouldanother even greater force have you replace the Evil One?"
A chill stillness stole over the Great Powers as Apsu's words reverberated through the realm.
"Are you suggesting that by finally triumphing over Count Iblis that we have disrupted the natural flow of the universe? That through our constant diligence and stewardship, we have done more harm than good?" Anshargal demanded.
"No. But in our eternal crusade to fight evil, we overlooked one very important axiom. Evil must exist in some form to inspire greatness and goodness. It is that simple, Anshargal. Goodness and light cannot exist in their purest form without evil. They would be meaningless."
"Perhaps it was presumed we couldn't best Count Iblis . . ." another suggested.
"Perhaps it was presumed that the natural order would go on in perpetuity . . ." said yet another.
"Perhaps it just is as it is."
Those present reflected quietly for a long moment.
"What is to be done, Apsu?" Anshargal asked, subdued. "What lies next?"
"Before we deviate from our righteous path, abandoning the very virtues that united us and made us champions for light and truth, we must restore the balance. Otherwise little by little, evil will overpower truth and light."
"You're not suggesting we free Count Iblis?" one asked the Elder.
"Iblis' release is out of the question," Anshargal argued. "If we release him we undermine our authority."
"There may be another way," Apsu replied. "Summon the Keeper of the Oculus."