Chapter One
Aboard the Colonial dreadnought Endeavour, Gamma Bay was abuzz with activity. Throughout the cavernous bay, full-fledged techs, trainees, flight crew, hangar crew, and cadets were all working on Hybrid fighters or parts thereof, creating a din that made Commander Mark Dayton want to plug his ears, yet at the same time filled him with excitement, anticipation, and a certain level of pride. At this rate, the Endeavour—a refitted Abaddon-class Cylon Base Ship turned Colonial Covert Operations Ship—would be embarking on her shakedown cruise later that day, as he had predicted almost three sectars ago, when they had come up with this grandiose scheme.
As planned, the decrepit Aptian Freighter—ramshackle home to over six-hundred people since fleeing the Colonies—had finally been scrapped, her passengers redistributed to the Seniors and Orphan Ships, while the isolated children and seniors had been reintegrated back into the Fleet in a social model that reunited their citizens, making the community responsible for the raising of the children, rather than the bureaucracy. It certainly had its growing pains, but by and large it was coming together, and the previously segregated children were now learning about what it was to contribute to society, instead of being set apart from it, while their seniors were sharing their experiences and knowledge instead of merely reminiscing about them in activity centres.
Rendering up a surprisingly large amount of hull and deck plating, the scrap from the second largest freighter in the Fleet was then primarily used to repair and refit the Pegasus, and the new Endeavour, as well as build desperately needed new Viper spaceframes, and repair an impressive amount of Cylon Raiders. All of this had been achieved while the Fleet continued on its exodus across the stars, with the Foundry Ship, Hephaestus, utilizing her Haulers to propel or pull the scavenged Aptian along, after her long-suffering engines had finally been powered down for the last time, and her remaining fuel off-loaded to the Pegasus. Until then, she had continued to move with the Fleet while being dismantled, becoming smaller and smaller by the day, until she looked like a bare metal "skeleton with a motor on it", as Ryan had quipped. Then, the Hephaestus had taken over, towing what remained behind her, as the metal workers set up mobile space docks to do their vital job.
Of course, the manpower required had been enormous. They had done a massive recruitment campaign not only for new Colonial Warriors, but also for apprenticing tradesmen within the Fleet. The response had been phenomenal. Young men and women had signed up in droves, as the energy of conclusively finding real, live Earthmen seven sectars before had accelerated when they had rediscovered the Juggernaut and his savaged Pegasus. Add to that a military victory over a Cylon Base Ship, the recapture of the hated Baltar, and then adding an additional battleship—the new Endeavour—to their Fleet, and morale was at an all-time high. Even the temporary inconvenience of cramped accommodations during the earliest sectars of the redistribution of the citizens hadn't quashed the mood.
Dayton walked through the usual disarray, finally arriving at the workstation where he could usually find Paddy Ryan. Sure enough, the familiar grey head was visible, but it was resting on the workbench, eyes closed, mouth open, snoring. How anybody could sleep in this racket was beyond Dayton. After all, it wasn't like Paddy had been exchanging swordplay with two junior officers that morning. Then again, they'd all been pulling ridiculous shifts for the last three months, and Paddy with his precious aeronautics and combat systems engineering background had worked harder than most of them, like Dayton, needing to get up to speed on Colonial technology before he could even begin to start co-designing what had become known as the Hybrid Fighter.
The former Abaddon-class Cylon Base Ship had been full of hundred yahren old Raiders of varying conditions, ranging from mostly destroyed to barely scratched, when they had found her adrift in space near the still-mysterious Planet "P". Determinedly, and in desperate need of resources, they had redesigned the fighter craft, keeping the basic Cylon fuselage, propulsion and weapons systems, but integrating more technically sophisticated Colonial navigation and communications gear. In addition, an improvement in electronic countermeasure technology —gained from the mysterious Wraith ships of unknown origin, which were recovered from Torg's Pirate Asteroid—seemed to effectively block any concentrated scans that would reveal that the "Cylon" Raiders in fact had Human pilots. In addition, the ECT was virtually undetectable, it was emitted at such a low frequency, below those the Cylons and Colonials usually scanned.
"Are you checking for light leaks?" Dayton asked, leaning down over the workbench and murmuring in Ryan's ear. "Or does the fuel system need purging?" He gently touched toed the other's foot.
A slight sigh and a flickering of his eyelids was Ryan's initial response to the teasing questions. Then, "Uh . . . yeah. So far, so good in here. Integrity is one hundred percent. Crap, it's pitch black." He opened his eyes, rubbing them like a child after his nap, and then stretched out his limbs with a noisy yawn.
"I see."
"And her wheel bearings are all packed." Ryan grinned
"Uh huh. I figured it was something like that," smiled Mark.
"Hey, does Paddy deliver, or what?"
"Well, in that case I could use a pizza with everything on it on the Bridge in say . . . an hour," grinned Mark, glancing at his Colonial timepiece. "Dorado will be landing any centon. I need to know, are we on schedule?" he asked, sitting on the corner of the desk.
"I have my own schedule," Ryan grinned, running his hands through hair that was once again growing out, the unruly curls now tamed beneath the additional weight, completing his scraggly "beach bum" look. "And I'm always on time."
Admittedly, at times like this Dayton questioned the rumour that Ryan had ever served in the Canadian military in any capacity. While his brilliance in aeronautics and flight systems engineering was unquestionable, he had seemingly long-since left behind any trace of discipline, conduct, or military decorum that had ever been pounded into his thick skull.
"Yeah? Well, my schedule has us leaving the Fleet behind in a matter of centars, for about six weeks. I need to know I have at least the two squadrons you promised me, fully checked out and ready to fly." Dayton crossed his arms over his chest. "Hmm. . .?"
"Actually," Ryan smiled, picking up a data pad off the table and handing it to his old CO, "I signed the last of the flight tested Hybrids out to your strike captain, as of about two hours and some change ago." He indicated the signature on the screen. "Starbuck told me that if you showed up looking for them, to tell you that the squadrons are his gig, and you're to get your 'astrum' back up to the Bridge where it belongs." An incredibly large grin and twinkling eyes accompanied the message.
"He did, did he?" Dayton growled. "Well, sounds like our resident espresso machine needs a bit of a talking to."
"I believe he added that you have 'control issues', and that you don't trust him to wipe his . . . uh, nose, without running it by you first," Paddy chuckled.
"Sounds like you had a real heart to heart with Café Amico," Dayton muttered. Sure, he'd been watching over Starbuck's progress with the squadrons, but only because the kid looked damned tired lately, constantly rubbing that shoulder that obviously was still bothering him, or rolling his fingers that were rumoured to be numb or tingling. Cassie had mentioned that if Starbuck overdid it with the swordplay, that he would probably make his other symptoms worse, even while increasing muscle mass. She had said that what he needed was rest . . . but getting any warrior to rest when he could be duelling with ancient weapons would be akin to a miracle.
"It was nothing that he hasn't already told you to your face, Mark," Ryan shrugged.
It reminded Dayton that the new chain of command hadn't altered the frank honestly between Starbuck and himself. If the commander had any illusions of his strike captain affecting the same respectful approach he had with Adama or Tigh, they were dashed in short order. The Ristretto Kid didn't pull any punches, which was exactly why Dayton wanted him in his line of command.
"So once Dorado is aboard, are we fully crewed?" Ryan asked.
"Apollo's on the Galactica. He's due back in a couple centars."
"Right. Saying goodbye to his kid, I imagine." Ryan nodded. "Do you want me to meet Dorado with you?" Ryan asked.
Dayton looked Paddy over for a moment, considering the first impression he wanted to make when his newest bridge officer and Academy tactics instructor stepped aboard his ship. Dorado had been through a lot, after all. "No. Not this time, Paddy."
"Ah c'mon, Mark, it could be fun," Paddy grinned, getting up to join him. "We'll crack open a few ales, and talk about the bad old days with Torg . . ."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
"Fraidy cat! Besides, I could use a little fun, you know." He waved a hand around the station. "All work and no play, makes Paddy a dull boy."
"It's not supposed to be fun, Paddy" Dayton reminded him, turning to go.
"And therein lies the problem . . ." Paddy explained, jogging to catch up, and then throwing a casual arm around his friend's shoulder, accompanying him regardless.
--
Starbuck had never worked this hard in his entire life, not even back in the orphanage, when Matron had caught him hacking into the computer to access card games and girlie holoptics when he was supposed to be at Worship. For the next couple sectars—after cleaning every turbo-flush in the place, twice—he'd been assigned to hard labour with the harvesters after his instruction periods were completed to teach him a lesson. And it had.
He'd learned to play pyramid.
Yeah, it made a guy second guess his decision that had turned the dashing, intrepid, and diabolis-may-care lieutenant of the Battlestar Galactica into the strike captain of the Covert Operations Ship Endeavour. His brain was so full of both extraneous and tediously detailed data that it was sure to explode if he had to absorb just one more piece of information . . .
"Captain Starbuck, apparently there's a funny smell coming from your quarters."
For a moment, he did not respond, still totally focused on trying to figure out how to marry the scanner circuits on the new Cylon/Colonial Hybrid fighters with those they had found in the Wraith seven sectars ago. It took a moment for the young man's words to penetrate his concentration.
"Captain? Excuse me?" the youngster repeated, glancing around the cluttered area that smelled like a mix of old degreaser, fuel, and stale fumarellos, despite an upgrade in the air recirculation.
Starbuck glanced upward at the trainee technician, the pimply-faced young man's name evading him for the moment, as he finally asked, "Come again?"
Maybe it had something to do with him being unable of late to complete just about any task without being interrupted by somebody with a question, a problem or a near disaster, but he had reached his limit. He had never claimed to be a patient man, let alone a saint, and directing this group of cadets, technical trainees, along with those that they had managed to resurrect from retirement, while simultaneously dealing with a clingy IL Cylon whose sole ambition was to please Starbuck, had him at his wits' end.
"There's a funny smell from the newly piped-in turbo-flush . . ." the trainee began, before clamping his mouth tight again, and biting his lip. His eyes darted back towards the relative safety of the landing bay.
"Since when was the strike captain of any ship in charge of . . . funny smells?" Starbuck growled, glancing at the mounting pile of felgercarb on his desk that had fallen victim to gravity and had slid onto the deck at some point. At least he thought there was a desk under there somewhere. There had to be at least eight or ten data pads, each loaded to capacity, and awaiting his careful consideration on any number of topics ranging from the squadron placement of the most recent recruits, to the latest progress—or setbacks—on the Hybrid fighters that made up his wing. Then there were duty rosters; greasy tools that looked like they probably had been brought from Kobol, and used every single day since then; a wad of old-fashioned aeronautic plans that Ryan had dumped there for the latest tweaks for tightening navigation and handling; an Academy-style course outline that Apollo had asked him to look over; some bolts and assorted engine parts, a cup of very dead java; a tome entitled Aeronautical Advancements; lists of various parts and supplies that needed to be begged, borrowed, scavenged or stolen; a sadly neglected triad helmet; an almost empty box of Empyrean fumarellos; and the most daggit-eared set of cards that he had ever owned . . . the tragedy being that they had never actually been used in a game.
"Well, sir," the trainee tech adjusted his cap so the rim covered his face a little more, before continuing nervously, "I'm only following orders."
Starbuck opened his mouth, ready to assign the young technician to the Waste Maintenance Department to get intimately familiar with the "funny smells" of the liberally used porta-flushes on the Endeavour, when the words sunk in.
"Whose orders?"
"Your wife's, sir," the cadet replied, pulling at the neck of his collar, as he flushed a bright red. "Ensign Luana's."
Starbuck raised an eyebrow. "Must be a pain in the astrum to be outranked by just about everybody else aboard, huh Cadet?"
"Most definitely, sir."
Starbuck smirked, sticking his feet one after the other atop an open drawer jutting out from his desk. He crossed his arms behind his head for good measure, insinuating that he wasn't going anywhere. "Dismissed."
"Sir!" The cadet replied, turning smartly on his heel and making himself scarce.
Only then did Starbuck climb hastily to his feet, and head for his quarters . . . to deal with the funny smell.
--
Boxey's head was downcast, his hand curled tightly into Muffit's fur as he stood there before his father. These last few sectars rivalled those right after losing Serina, while Boxey was supposedly groomed to face sectons, and eventually sectars, without his father, the executive officer of the Endeavour. There was no place for children or families on the Covert Operations Ship, partially because of its mission, partly because of its design, and also because it had been decided that Colonial Warriors and support personnel would routinely rotate through four sectar tours, after this preliminary six secton shakedown cruise, the sole exception being Commander Dayton. Despite this, Apollo had taken the position, knowing that the promotion was not only a necessary change and challenge career-wise, but that his participation in this newly developed Covert Operations Ship would be important to its success.
Translation: They needed someone to keep an eye on Dayton and Starbuck.
"Thank you," Apollo murmured to Sheba, as she gently, but persistently pushed Boxey across the threshold of Athena's quarters. The boy had made himself scarce, even knowing his father was coming to spend a few final centars with him before shipping out. It was Sheba who had finally found him, sulking in a storage cupboard in the Rejuvenation Centre, his trusty daggit at his side, a conspicuously timed mechanical yelp giving them away.
"Go easy on him," Sheba murmured, caressing Apollo's cheek lightly, at the same time smoothing Boxey's hair. Her eyes sparkled brightly with suppressed emotion, as she looked down at the boy tenderly. "I still remember how it feels . . ."
Apollo nodded, remembering the tale Sheba had told of a certain little girl who had hidden in the nearby orchard, refusing to say goodbye to her father, confident that Cain wouldn't leave on his tour of duty if he couldn't find her.
She'd been wrong.
"So do I," Apollo murmured, remembering more than one tearful goodbye to his own father while he was young. At least until he'd learned to "be a man". He leaned forward, and tenderly kissed her, not knowing if he would find the extra precious few centons to say goodbye to her properly before he had to return to the Endeavour.
She smiled sadly, not daring to say anything, as she turned to go.
Apollo sighed, hitting the control that closed the hatch as he turned to consider his son. He'd heard it all over the last few sectons, with Boxey alternating between bursting into tears, accusing Apollo of putting his career before him, and blatantly telling his father that he didn't care about him. Apollo's saving grace had been the childcare cooperative that he had belonged to for the last three sectars, which provided some consistency in a young life full of uncertainty. Apollo's was one of five military families, who had united their efforts and responsibilities in child rearing in order to provide unified parental guidance to children affected by the rigours of rotating parents, and demanding work schedules. In a Fleet already rife with single parents or guardians struggling to balance work and "home life", this model had taken off like sunbursts, especially with the recent recruitment drive for additional technical and military manpower, as well as the integration of orphans back into the general populace. As long as parents and guardians shared similar values, and met regularly to discuss issues, schedules and problems, the cooperative worked well, and had become a much-needed solution to Apollo's constant challenge of finding Boxey a childminder.
But a cooperative still couldn't replace a father.
"Boxey, come here," Apollo said quietly, turning to sit on a chair. The boy reluctantly moved to his father's side, stopping short of climbing up into Apollo's lap like he used to do at the tender age of six. At the ripe old and sagacious age of seven, he was far too old for such things now. "My father went away a lot too, Boxey, when I was young. Long missions, aboard the Galactica . . ." He brushed the boy's hair aside, barely able to see his eyes, but the tracks from Boxey's tears told the story. Apollo's throat constricted, and he briefly wondered if somehow, somewhere, Serina was now cursing him. But then Serina had a wisdom and understanding that far surpassed his own.
"I . . . I don't want you to go," Boxey admitted, throwing himself into Apollo's arms, and clinging to him as if he could stop his father's departure by sheer physical force. Hot tears coursed down his cheeks once again. "I . . . I . . ."
"I know. I know." Apollo murmured into his son's hair, pressing the small form against him, and feeling tears well up in his own eyes. He pulled Boxey into his lap, cradling him. "But it's only six sectons, son. Then I'll be back, and I'll either be assigned back to the Galactica or to the Pegasus."
"But . . . what if you don't come back?" Boxey asked, his words barely discernable over his sobs. "Talon said the Endeavour's job is to . . . to engage any Cylons before they get a chance to reach the Fleet." Talon was one of the kids in the cooperative.
"Yes, it is, but we haven't detected any Cylons since we found the Pegasus, Boxey."
"We hadn't seen them for a long time before you and Starbuck flew to that Base ship, the one Baltar told you all about." He looked up at Apollo, eyes wet. "We hadn't seen them for a long time when we found Planet 'P'."
Something in Boxey's voice sounded accusatory. It also sounded chastening, as if to remind Apollo of their most basic truth: until they knew differently, the Cylons would always be there.
"Well, I can't argue with you there," said Apollo, feeling almost like he was back in the middle of an Academy dressing down when he was a cadet, rather than talking to a child. "But, more than likely, this mission will just be to test out all the ship's new and repaired systems, all the Hybrid fighters we've built, and to work out any problems," he reassured the boy. "I'll be back. I promise."
"Warrior's honour?" Boxey asked, his eyes still holding that absolute trust that Apollo knew would run out eventually.
"Warrior's honour."
--
Starbuck stepped into his quarters, immediately grinning as he noticed the subdued lighting, and more importantly, the total absence of "funny smells". The tiny space was Spartan, even by Galactica command quarters standards, but for the first time that he could remember, he'd actually caught himself thinking of this four metron by four metron room aboard the Endeavour as "home".
"Hmm, not bad timing," Luana murmured throatily from their bed, which had been pushed into the furthest corner of the room for practicality. She was draped provocatively in a sheet and nothing else, as she glanced at the chrono at their bedside. "I figured that with the schedule you've been keeping, you're more than overdue for a java break . . . so I hope you don't mind my subterfuge."
"That depends," he grinned, doffing his jacket and boots, crossing the room quickly to stretch out on the bed next to her. He picked at the sheet, leaning forward to kiss the sensitive flesh of her throat.
"On what?" she purred teasingly, raking a hand through her silky brown hair, and letting it cascade over a bare shoulder.
"Hmm . . ." he murmured, breathing in her scent. "Well, I'm guessing I'm not here to repair the turbo flush."
"Most definitely not," she chuckled, running her hands through his hair as he pushed her onto her back. "Though some servicing of another kind might be in order."
"I was hoping . . ."
"Eventually," she inserted, teasing his bottom lip with her fingertip. "I have some news."
"Oh?" he asked, his heart immediately fluttering with hope as he wondered for the third time in three sectars if this would be the time that she would tell him . . .
"It's finally official. We're sealed."
He dredged up a smile, remembering the bureaucratic felgercarb they had to go through to have their wedding ceremonies—one by Ama, and the other by Dayton—recognized by the paper-pushing borays of the Colonial State. "That's great."
It was weird how you could not even realize that you wanted to be a father, until an endless number of medical personnel began to tell you that it just wasn't possible, due to Luana's exposure to some Cylon chemical warfare while on Planet 'P'. And the further away the likelihood of parenthood withdrew, the more Starbuck found, to his surprise, that he wanted it. So much so that successive disappointments, as they listened to Ama telling them to "have faith", became more and more crushing. You always want most what you cannot have . . .
"And that's not all," she smiled, her eyes sparkling with happiness.
"Lu . . ." he breathed expectantly. Could it be? Despite all the medical gobbledygook...
"I got the assignment, Starbuck! I'm going to be flying the Wraiths, and acting as liaison between the Battlestars and the Endeavour!"
"Lu, that's fantastic!" he grinned, pulling her into his arms, swallowing any disappointment, knowing how much this meant to her. There had been a lot riding on this, given the fact that his wife was forbidden to work in Starbuck's line of command with the strictly enforced fraternization rules, which had been exhumed from the regulation manual with the addition of another Battlestar and Covert Operations Ship to the military Fleet. He hadn't wanted to think about Lu considering taking a position on one of the Battlestars because she couldn't fly while assigned to the Endeavour. At the same time, he knew she had the right temperament and skill set to pilot the unarmed Wraith, relying on speed, cunning, and the amazing electronic countermeasures that jammed the average Colonial or Cylon scanners, leaving her all but undetectable as she acted as a silent messenger between capital ships, preventing accidental interception of long-range transmissions that could reveal positions and other critical data. And the fact that Colonel Apollo was the commanding officer of the Wraiths, kept her out of Starbuck's direct line of command, exactly the way the strike captain had planned it from its inception three sectars ago. "When did Apollo tell you?"
"Just before he left for the Galactica," she replied, giggling with unrepressed joy. Flying had become as important to her, as roaming the countryside of her native planet Empyrean had once been.
"Well then," he kissed her tenderly, grinning as she nipped playfully at his bottom lip. "I think a celebration is in order."
"Only one thing could make me happier, Starbuck . . ." her words trailed off, as a fleeting shadow of pain crossed her features. They'd discussed it a few times, and she too had been dreaming of having a family, even more so now that it had been denied them. She smiled at him again, putting her arms around his neck. "Love me, Innamorato."
"Always, Lu," he rasped, claiming her lips once again.
--
Dayton stood erect as the boarding platform was put in place next to the shuttle, and he waited for the hatch to open. For a moment he regretted that he hadn't heeded Apollo's suggestion of a little pomp and ceremony for the initial boarding of a senior officer, but time was short, manpower was precious, and he was going to be kicking the tires and lighting the fires later that day, come Hell or high water.
"Should I button up my shirt?" asked Ryan, next to him.
"Your mouth, more like," returned Dayton. "Tom Selleck would sue if he could see you."
"I'm going more for the Mike Love look." He struck a surfer pose, balancing precariously on some imaginary board. "Catch a wave, Mark."
"Hey Paddy, you look like you're sitting on top of the world," Baker inserted, coming to join them with Porter at his side.
"Well, sometimes you have to get away from the shady turf, Bob," Ryan returned, tilting over to the right, one leg coming off his "board", as he compensated to regain his balance. Or imbalance.
"And catch some rays on the sunny surf?" Porter asked, as he glanced nervously in the shuttle's direction.
"Ooh, yeah," Dayton replied. It just felt right that they were all here to meet Dorado. Porter wouldn't have missed it. Not after the warrior had saved his butt down on Planet 'P'. He still harboured feelings of guilt about it.
"Yo, Dayton!" Starbuck's voice echoed through the bay.
As Dayton glanced back over his shoulder at his approaching strike captain, he realized that perhaps there was a place for decorum, after all. "Yo, Dayton? Man alive, Skinny Latte, did you ever hear of addressing your commanding officer by rank? Especially when a senior bridge officer is about to disembark and get his first look around the Endeavour since it was a derelict Cylon Base Ship." Then a glance at Luana's beatific smile reminded him that Starbuck's wife had been assigned to the Wraiths, and the young man's informal greeting probably had more to do with the weight that had just been lifted from his shoulders, rather than any intentional disrespect.
Starbuck pulled his fumarello out of his mouth, while throwing an arm around his wife. "Aye, Commander, sir." Then he grinned. "Did you hear the news?"
"Yes, of course I did." Dayton returned. "Congratulations, Luana. I hear the fight for this position was fierce, and that Apollo finally had to leave it up to the computer to tabulate the final scores from the sims, and pick the most qualified and skilful candidate." Dayton was well aware that what little spare time Starbuck had had lately, he had spent it putting his wife through the paces in the sims, giving her the personal training it would take to rise above the rest of the field of pilots, who had more experience, but were also considered less malleable due to their centars logged. Command needed a pilot who could stay out of sight, and lose a tail, rather than confront an adversary, should the situation arise. Dayton had also heard that Starbuck had been a hard taskmaster, not cutting Lu any slack at all just because they shared the same bed.
"Thanks, Commander," Luana smiled. "I'm looking forward to actually climbing in that bird, and getting acquainted with my new ship."
"That will be up to Apollo," Dayton reminded her. "He's in charge of the Wraiths, and by extension of that, you."
"I know. Apollo briefed me." She glanced up at the platform as a familiar figure appeared.
"Dorado!" greeted Dayton, striding forward to meet him. Horribly injured on Planet 'P' in the aftermath of the comet's impact, Dorado had almost died, losing both legs, part of one arm, and an eye in the process. Then, with resolve, sheer determination, and the amazing skills of the medical staff on the Galactica, the young captain had unexpectedly pulled through. But it would have been a bleak sort of existence, facing life in a hoverchair.
Then Starbuck had an idea.
If they could design a neural implant to save Commander Cain from permanent disability following considerable brain damage, then surely they could come up with some kind of prosthetic devices that could also be neurologically "wired" into Dorado, giving him a second chance at life, and eradicating an inevitable medical discharge from the service. The kid had pitched it to Malus, the IL Cylon that had taken a shine to Starbuck, to put it mildly. From early on, the warrior instinctively knew that Malus would be a real asset to the Colonials if his defection to their side was on the level. The IL had already proven it in battle. This time, Malus came up with ideas so radical, that the physicians couldn't help but stand up and take notice.
Malus, who had also managed to successfully modify the original neural implant on Commander Cain, was once again conscripted to a new medical project in league with Dr's Salik and Sobek. Dorado had been fitted, first with a new arm, and then later with new legs, courtesy of the very same Cylon technology that Malus had incorporated with Cain. A glass eye completed the missing parts, but Malus was working on a cybernetic eye to replace that. Dayton reckoned that they had made the Colonial Fleet's first Bionic Man. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster . . .
"Commander Dayton," Dorado said, dropping his kit bag, grasping Dayton's hand and shaking it, somewhat perfunctorily.
It felt a little cool to the touch, but Salik's cosmetic touches made it look as real as the original. Actually, Mark suddenly realized, it was the original . . . The prosthetic arm was his left limb. "Welcome aboard, Captain."
"Thank you, sir." Dorado nodded at his former prison mates, and then his old Academy friend, and the wife. "Quite the greeting committee." He smiled a little uncomfortably.
"Good to see you, Dorado," Ryan smiled.
"Really good," Porter added a little awkwardly.
"Wait till you see what we've done to the place," Starbuck fanned a hand, encompassing the landing bay.
"How are you doing?" asked Dayton, sensing a noticeable distance in the other man since they had spent time under Torg's reign of terror. But then almost losing your life, your career, and having your world turned upside down more than once generally did that to a man. How long had it taken Dayton and his friends to begin to feel Human again?
"Better than any of us expected three sectars ago, Commander," replied the other after a cursory glance around the bay, and a nod. He held out a data chip to Dayton. "Captain Dorado reporting for duty, sir. Permission to come aboard."
"Granted," said Dayton.
"You are aboard," Starbuck reminded the captain.
Dorado took a moment to meet his glance, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Same old Starbuck. You never let up."
"As long as I'm breathing . . ." Starbuck shrugged.
"Well then, don't stop breathing, Bucko," Dorado smiled, the warmth in his dark, brown eyes genuine, before returning his attention to Dayton. "Here are my orders, sir. My transfer to the Endeavour, effective immediately."
"Accepted."
"If I may be shown to my quarters, sir," requested Dorado.
"Of course," said Dayton, casting a brief glance at Starbuck.
"Yeah, I'll take you," Starbuck immediately inserted, slapping the other on the shoulder fondly. "The crew deck is this way." He started to lead the warrior away. "Then I'll run you by the Bridge, since Apollo and Dayton want you spending at least half your time up there, and then for old times sake . . . "
"A moment please!"
An all too familiar woman with wild white hair framing her face, starkly contrasting her tidy Councilwoman robes, disembarked the same shuttle with another woman. Dayton wasn't sure he'd met the other woman.
"Oh, frack . . ." Starbuck breathed, taking a step back, his hand reflexively moving to massage his right shoulder in a sign of anxiety. He glanced at Dorado accusingly. "You could have warned me . . ."
"She threatened to turn me into a putrid . . . not that I know what that is, but it sounded bad," Dorado replied with a shrug.
"Coward," Starbuck returned. He glanced back at the others. "Which one of you set this up?"
"I did," a feminine voice came from behind them, as Cassiopeia joined them.
"With my help," added Luana. "Welcome to the Endeavour, Rhiamon. Ama."
"Face it, Starbuck," said Ryan. "You're doomed. Doomed, I tells ya!"
Dayton couldn't help but laugh as Starbuck abruptly affected that trapped look, with females surrounding him from all sides, Ama and Rhiamon on one side, and Luana and Cassiopeia on the other. Yeah, the kid would be bolting for the nearest exit in nano-seconds. He had managed to avoid Ama for almost a sectar by getting timely tips from Chameleon, who was constantly at the necromancer's side, but his luck had obviously run out. Dayton placed a reassuring, but restraining hand on Starbuck's shoulder as the four women drew nearer.
"Med Tech Rhiamon, reporting for duty," the elderly Empyrean Healer stated, her long grey hair tied back neatly off her face. She smiled at Starbuck, "I understand you're in need of my services. Again."
"Med tech?" Starbuck repeated disbelievingly, his voice strained. Oh, sure she had possibly saved his leg with a poultice when he had been bitten by a venomous Crawlon on the planet Empyrean, but that was after she had opened up one of his veins and bled him to "balance his humours" while he was in four-point restraints.
"When the recruitment call sounded throughout the Fleet, I decided to answer it," Rhiamon replied. "I've taken the intensive introductory med tech course, and Cassiopeia has agreed to preceptor me through my levels. I'm now officially part of the crew." She smiled, and Starbuck visibly shuddered.
"Yes, Rhiamon's already proven herself gifted with natural remedies, and Ama was telling me she also practices the ancient art of neural stimulation by penetrating the nerve meridians with fine needles . . ." Cassiopeia explained, her interest in the practice apparent, as she moved to Dayton's side, tucking her hand into his elbow.
"Needles?" Starbuck gasped, his mouth gaping like a piscon out of water as he shrugged out of Dayton's grip and took another step back. "Look, I'm fine . . ." he shook his head, raising his hands before him protectively, as though they could magically defend him against three Empyreans and a Gemonese med tech . . . the kid didn't have a prayer.
"Oh, stop your fussing," Ama admonished him. "We're going to need you in top shape for this mission, son of my heart. You've been avoiding me, and the entire medical profession long enough, Starbuck. We had to take matters into our own hands. Tsk tsk."
"Commander Dayton, I'd appreciate it if you would order Captain Starbuck into my care." Cassiopeia told him, smiling like a Cheshire cat. "According to my records, he's overdue by a sectar for his sectonly treatments that Dr. Salik recommended on his release from the Galactica's Life Station."
"Naughty, naughty!" Ryan waved a finger at him while Baker clucked his tongue and shook his head in disapproval.
"Well, I'm sure Porter would be more than happy to escort Dorado to his quarters. Hmm?" Dayton replied.
"Happy as a turkey the day before Thanksgiving," Porter smiled tremulously, guiding Dorado towards the Core. "See you around, Starbuck. And good luck."
"Seems you're a tad tardy with your medical follow-up, Lightnote," Dayton grinned at the blond warrior, getting a perverse joy out of Starbuck's obvious discomfiture. "He's all yours, ladies."
"That's Captain Lightnote to you, Dayton" Starbuck returned with a growl as three of the four women whisked him away towards the Life Station.
"By the way, Commander Mark-Dayton," Ama took the Earthman's arm, "Tell me about the spiritual representative for my Empyrean godchildren and my dear warrior friend, Kella, while you're away from the Fleet for the next six sectons."
"Uh . . . er . . . well . . ." Dayton sputtered. He wracked his brain. Certainly they had spiritual advisors in a variety of positions, much as the military had back home, but none that he could think of at the moment that were Empyrean. Doubtless, Ama had an opinion on that.
As she did with most things.
"That's what I thought. Fortunately, the Council is out of session for the present, and I find myself at loose ends . . ."
"Ama . . ." Dayton breathed, feeling as though he was the one now being set up. None-too-pleasant memories of his first employer flashed across his memory.
"Oh, don't thank me. I'm happy to do my part," she chuckled through her gap-toothed grin. "After all, I know my responsibilities, and you don't know it yet, but you need me."
"Well, I don't know about that . . ."
"How could you? I haven't explained it yet." She patted his cheek tolerantly. "And please, Mark-Dayton. . . " She smiled a smile that made him feel as if he'd just been snookered. Again. "Please, don't concern yourself about quarters. I'll join the other women in the billet."
"But . . ." he struggled for an argument, "You're a member of the Council of the Twelve and the spiritual leader of your people, I can't billet you . . . like a common warrior."
"I did used to live in a cave, Dear Heart," she reminded him with a smile. "With all the comforts and amenities that implies."
"Like some feline predators in the wild . . ." he mentioned aside.
"Exactly," she purred.