Chapter Six
"Starbuck!" Dietra cried, her stomach twisting in knots.
One moment he was beside her in the pilot's seat, talking to her, and the next he had disappeared! It was . . . unbelievable.
Especially since she was abruptly down a pilot!
The fighter lurched to port, and she leapt from one seat to the other, grabbing the more Human-friendly yoke—another improvement on the original design—and correcting their course. She could get by without a co-pilot and navigator. In fact, Starbuck had purposely drilled them all on this eventuality, taking a "nap" in the rear command centurion's seat one day while putting them through this exercise.
"All right, Dee, you can do this . . ." she murmured, mentally calculating the correction, and confirming her course, before turning the ship around one hundred and eighty degrees. She didn't have Starbuck's experience in fighters or the same confidence in her own piloting instincts, but regardless, she was the squadron leader now, and she was determined to get them out of there before anybody else disappeared! A glance across at the scanner told her that the others were following, but she wouldn't be able to tell them that they were down a strike captain until they cleared the void.
The microns seemed to take twice as long to pass in this space anomaly. Mentally, she chastised herself for not paying more attention to how much time had elapsed since they had entered. She huffed disparagingly, realizing that she thought Starbuck was doing that. And he wasn't supposed to disappear into thin, although electro-magnetically charged, air. Just like Baltar had.
"Damn you, Bucko. If you think I'm going to let you get away with this, you've got another thing coming. This is Dereliction of Duty! Not even the strike captain can get away with this . . ." she muttered heatedly, blinking back hot tears that pricked the backs of her eyes. He was gone . . . Right out from under her nose, without even a warning. The realization scared the pogees out of her. How on Kobol was she going to tell Luana? Her stomach flip-flipped and she could discern the acrid taste of fear in her mouth, since they were still in the man-eating void that bedazzled the senses with alluring blues and greens, while monstrously ingesting Colonial Warriors without a trace.
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"Apollo! What happened?" Cassie motioned to a biostretcher as Dayton supported the warrior into the Life Station. The colonel had stopped by briefly earlier, after the mysterious incident in Beta Bay, but had been cleared from a medical point of view for duty.
"Headache . . ." Apollo murmured, not daring to speak above a whisper for fear of his head splitting open. "Like a vice, Cassie. Like a pulsar inside." He gingerly sat down on the stretcher, closing his eyes against the brightness of the harsh Life Station lighting. It had gradually become worse, and had gone from a niggling pain at the front of his skull, to a crushing pressure throughout, which he was sure would force his grey matter out of his ears at any moment.
"Well, let's get a full scan here," she said, looking at Dayton. "He had a headache when he left here, but it certainly wasn't debilitating. He didn't even want to take anything for it," she murmured, running her biomonitor over Apollo, and pausing to examine the results. "Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Except the headache from Hell," Dayton pointed out. "Starbuck looked just like this when he left the Bridge earlier today . . ."
Cassie smiled in amusement. "Two incidences related to Bridge duty. I hope it's not an epidemic, Commander."
Dayton raised his eyebrows. "You know as well as I do that Starbuck felt that way before he hit the Bridge. He blamed it on the acupuncture. Not me." He winked at her, knowing she was teasing, before glancing around. "Where's the Doc?"
Cassie raised her eyebrows. "What Doc?"
"Our Doc. The Chief Medical Officer assigned to the Endeavour. The one I requested be assigned."
"Dr. Sala?"
"Yes, that's it. Dr. Sala. I thought he boarded," Dayton inserted, looking around again expectantly. "The roster said everybody was aboard."
"Oh, he did board," said Cassie, not even trying to hide the disdain in her voice. "And when he finally arrived here after settling in to his quarters, and I gave him the full tour of the Life Station, including the surgical suite, he informed me that a mistake had been made."
"What mistake?" Dayton asked, his brow furrowing.
"Dr. Sala has a doctorate in psychology. He's not a surgeon, and doesn't even hold a medical degree."
"A shrink? How the bloody hell could the computer make that kind of mistake?" Dayton exploded, watching Apollo turn a ghostly shade of white. "Sorry, Apollo."
"Maybe he could shrink my headache . . ." Apollo whispered, rubbing his temples. "Or my whole head?"
"Apparently, the records of him and his older brother—killed in the Destruction— were somehow confused. Combined. According to our Fleet personnel file, he once ran a Piscon Life Station, as well as held the head Psychologist position in the President Timon Health Centre on Gemon," Cassie continued. "Chief clinician in residence."
"Is that supposed to be suspicious?" Dayton asked. "Couldn't he do both?"
"At the same time?" Cassie inserted, handing over a datapad with Dr. Sala's credentials. "On two different planets?"
"I . . . see." Somehow, Dayton found a sort of cold comfort in learning that the U.S. Air Force, or NASA, weren't the only organizations that could royally screw things up in the personnel department.
"I think you do. As of our official launch, we are down a Chief Medical Officer, Mark." Cassie looked as if she'd like to go and shoot someone right about now. Possibly, someone in personnel . . .
"Bloody hell . . ." Dayton murmured at the revelation, once again marvelling at how many things could go wrong in this man's military, just as Ama walked through the door. She was now wearing what he understood to be the traditional garments of her people. The long brown tunic and pants looked like crude suede, and were obviously authentic animal skins. Her high boots could have come from the pages of Vanity Fair, and her wild hair had that familiar windswept eighties look that really couldn't be explained aboard a spaceship. "Hey, Ama. Nice. Early Gucci?"
"Have you heard from Starbuck's patrol, Mark-Dayton?" she demanded, ignoring his flip comment, and crossing swiftly to them, pausing in front of Apollo. "Not immune either, my boy? Poor lad."
"I . . .uh . . ." Apollo waved a hand instinctively in front of himself as she reached for him.
Ama smiled, pulling back slightly. "Have I ever done you harm, Apollo?"
It seemed rhetorical, but she waited patiently for an answer, as if she was speaking to a sensitive child. "No, Ama. Of course not." Apollo replied, chagrined.
"Do I not love your best friend—he who considers you as a brother—as if he was my own son?"
Apollo nodded. How many times had she been there for Starbuck, both as a friend and mentor? And hadn't she extended that same affection and protection to many others?
"Then know without doubt that I only mean to help, although at times it may seem otherwise." Ama raised her hands, holding them a hand's breath from his face. "Starbuck was similarly affected when the Hag probed him. I can ease your pain, Apollo, if you will allow me?"
"Starbuck . . . she went after Starbuck too?" Apollo asked, jerking his head back, and immediately regretting it as it throbbed violently.
"She did," Ama replied, nodding.
She pressed her fingers to Apollo's head, and closed her eyes. Though nothing was visible, an energy seemed to pass between them. Within moments, Apollo opened his eyes, and took a deep breath. Ama opened hers as well, and looked at him. He nodded, and she smiled.
"Better?" asked Cassie, scanning his skull.
"Very much so. Like it was never there."
"I don't know how you . . ." Cassie began, looking from the instrument to the necromancer.
"All that matters is I do," replied Ama. She looked from the med tech, to Dayton. "I'm not sure if Starbuck was aware of the Hag's presence, as he was most likely dreaming at the time."
"Dreaming?" asked Apollo.
"Yes. When one sleeps and dreams, the mind becomes vulnerable on certain levels. The Hag knows this, and sought to exploit it."
"Okay, Baltar, Apollo, Starbuck . . . what's the connection?" Dayton asked.
"The Hag," Ama returned ruefully. She looked at Dayton as if he really needed a remedial First Grade class for a moment.
"Well, thanks for clearing that up," Dayton grumbled.
"My pleasure Mark-Dayton, but I believe that we have bigger troubles now," Ama informed them.
"Oh?"
"She has gone after Starbuck again, and I believe that this time she snagged him."
Just then the overhead comm crackled to life. "Commander Dayton, report to the Control Centre! I repeat, Commander Dayton, report to the Control Centre!"
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"Come on, Malus. Lu has to be running out of time. This is Starbuck's wife we're talking about. Our-fair haired boy's one and only. The kid's going to be devastated if we don't find the access code to an automatic landing sequence in the next ten seconds!" Ryan insisted as long streams of algorithms raced by on the monitor too quickly for the Human eye to comprehend, while he, Jenny and the IL watched and waited.
"Devastated?" Malus enquired, while speeding up the process even more, the lights in his 'head' flashing in sync. "I fail to understand how physical harm can come to Starbuck, Dr. Ryan, if something happens concurrently to his wife, in a different location."
"Emotional devastation, Malus. Aren't you supposed to be studying up on us? If I was your teacher I'd put you in the corner with the Dunce Cap on, and have the kids blow spit balls at you." He glanced at Jenny. "Ah, takes me back to Kindergarten with Mrs. Stewart." He knocked on the IL's chestplate. "Malus, Don't you realize yet that the physical impact on a Human is only part of the equation?"
"No, actually."
"Think of it like . . . having part of your programming scrambled. Unable to properly process certain kinds of data."
"Ah," said the IL. "Like corrupted algorithms. And an emotional impact can be just as debilitating to a Human?"
"Or uplifting," Jenny added, drawn into the conversation. "Emotions can take us either way."
"The cup is half empty, or half full," Ryan inserted with a smile.
"And it would be my responsibility?" Malus asked, trying to understand.
"Darn right," Ryan nodded vehemently. "You would have failed Luana. And Starbuck. And by extension, the entire Colonial . . . Oww!" he cried, as Jenny cuffed him in the head.
"Don't tell him that!" Jenny snapped. "Ya want him to crash?"
"You're telling me that he's got Microsoft in there?" Ryan returned as Jenny stared at him balefully. "I'm just trying to motivate him!"
"Then encourage him. Don't fill his head with misconceptions!"
"What? And stop a tradition in the Ryan family that has worked for centuries?" His voice changed in both pitch and tone, as he mimicked his mother. "If you sneak a spoonful of cookie dough, Paddy Ryan, you'll get worms! If you steal change off your father's bureau, you'll grow hair on your palms! If your scowl, your face will freeze that way! If you don't stop touching it, it will fall off!"
Jenny raised her eyebrows and sniffed. "That explains a lot about you, actually."
"Well, Old Mother Ryan ruled her house with a wooden spoon, don't you know. In fact, all the way back to the Great Potato Chip Famine—circa Granddad's diet—the Ryan women . . ."
"Dr. Ryan, I believe I've found it," Malus interrupted, as he isolated the code, locking it in to the handheld monitor.
"Look, it worked," Ryan grinned at Jenny triumphantly. "Now get that code up to the Control Centre, Malus, before you short-circuit from inactivity!"
"On my way," the IL replied.
"Hope to God it's in time," said Jenny. "Lu could eject, but I'd hate to lose that ship, Ryan . . ."
"He'll make it. Oh, and Jenny?"
"Yeah?"
"Why the hell is Malus hopping?"
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Utter darkness blanketed Starbuck, like a drug-induced fog, and for a long, unnerving moment, nothing penetrated the stillness and the numbness. It was a blessed relief. Hmm. Actually, it left a guy wondering, not for the first time in his life, if he was dead. Then a gradual chill and dampness began to creep over him, as he shivered involuntarily, and with it the pain and the misery slowly returned. It was a sure sign he was still alive, at least in his limited experience. His senses seemed to fade back into functionality, as the gruff murmuring of voices and the dimness of light bit by bit became more detectable, along with a powerful musky scent. Rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders, turning him over onto his back, and jerking something from his hands. Only then did he become aware that he was lying, curled into a fetal position, on the damp, smelly ground. Suddenly, there was light. The light shone directly into his eyes, shot straight through his skull, and he groaned in response, trying to roll over again and escape it, fighting against the determined resistance futilely.
"By Llyr, it's the Prince! It's Llewelyn!" Caradoc cried, his voice a mix of shock and joy. Other voices behind him echoed his cry.
"Oh, no! Not him!" Baltar groused even louder. "Why? By all the Lords, why is it always him?"
"Nay, it's not our prince, Caradoc, but it is his Doublewalker," Eirys stated, panting, her voice sounding tired. "Give him some air, General. He fought me all the way, and no doubt he's feeling the effects. I certainly am."
The hands released him, allowing Starbuck to roll back onto his side, curling up into a ball, and shutting out the light. His palm pressed against his skull, as if he could dull the incessant hammering that had become the centre of his existence. Waves of nausea bombarded him, and he retched uncontrollably, despite a woefully empty stomach. His stomach convulsed repeatedly, and he shuddered with the exertion, biting his lip as each spasm caused a correlating agony in his head. Finally, he lay spent, the cold and dampness seeping into his bones, as his body, slick with sweat, began to cool.
"Sagan sakes . . ." he gasped. The cold surface felt good against his face. "What in Hades Hole is . . ." His eyes focused, and he made out the features of Baltar. Idly he searched for his weapon, but his holster was woefully empty .He groaned loudly before muttering, "I go through all that, and yours is the first face I see . . ." Fleeting memories of the ethereal siren that had tricked him filtered through his mind.
"Can you carry him, Caradoc?" Eirys asked. "We need to get him to Mt. Cadoc."
The derisive snort was almost humorous. "He's a bit on the big side for me," the general chuckled. "If I put him over my shoulder, his head would be bouncing off the ground."
"Might make for an improvement," muttered Baltar.
"Eh? What was that?" asked Eirys.
"What exactly do you need him for?" Baltar asked, pointing at the Viper pilot.
"We need his blood."
Baltar smiled brightly. Things were suddenly looking up. "Oh? Then I'll carry him."
"Hey, can we talk about this?" groaned Starbuck, startling as an incredibly short, ugly creature suddenly appeared before him, pulling his upper body upright, while others surrounded him, trying to prop him up. Instinctively, he moved to defend himself, but at the first hint of resistance, they swarmed him, pressing a blade to his throat threateningly. A foul, musky odour assaulted his senses, and he gasped as his stomach convulsed again while stabbing pains shot through his skull. It was like a living nightmare!
"We'll talk after they take your blood," retorted Baltar, leaning down and grasping the younger man by the flight jacket while the troll people pushed and prodded him. With a grunt, he hefted the warrior over his shoulders, the trolls following.
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What would Starbuck do?
Something intuitive. Something crazy. Something borderline deranged that would never make it into the manual, but would work anyway . . . like cutting power and taking his chances. She wracked her mind, trying to sift through her library of Starbuck stories—both real and apocryphal—desperately trying to come up with an idea that involved something more useful than cursing the Wraith, and calling it by every profane phrase she had learned since joining the Fleet. Frackin' mong-raking snitradious Sagan's socks sucking piece of automated felgercarb . . .
As she heard her landing repulsors automatically firing up, and saw the enormous pile of rubble barely a kilometron ahead, Luana realized she was quickly running out of time. Not to mention epithets. Probably somewhere beneath that pile of debris used to be a spaceport, and her ship was following some long ago pre-programmed flight path to take her in without incident. She was in a beautiful green valley, following a winding river with snow-capped peaks on the far horizon, and in any other situation, she'd be enjoying the scenery. But in this case, she knew she was about to slam into a mountainside of felgercarb at almost eight thousand kilometrons per centar.
"Wraith One to Endeavour. Any luck up there, Core Command? I've almost reached my destination, and I've got to say that I've seen nicer looking landing bays between the crushers on the Hephaestus."
"Luana, this is Dorado. We just heard from Dr. Ryan. They fired up the other Wraith's computer, and Malus is on his way to the Control Centre with the code to disengage your auto-pilot."
"How long, Dorado?" Lu asked, swallowing as she watched the pile of rubble loom nearer. Even as she waited, her engines began to throttle back, no doubt following their long-ago instructions. Still, if she didn't . . .
"Not sure exactly, Luana, but not long. How long do you need?"
"I'd say I have about thirty microns . . ." She paused, glancing at the controls. "I'd hate to eject, Dorado. We'd lose the Wraith, plus all the data I scanned . . . tell Malus to get a move on."
"Luana! Apollo here!" He sounded out of breath. "What's your altitude? And what's the landscape like?"
"It's frackin' gorgeous, Colonel, if boulder-strewn mountainsides are your thing. Nice impenetrable forest too. But I'd rather leave my sightseeing for another time, if you don't mind!"
"If you cut power totally—I mean a complete engine power down—could you land?" he rejoined insistently. "Altitude, lift and terrain! Think about it!"
"Where the Hell's Chrome Dome?" Dayton hollered in the background.
"I'd drop like a tylinium ball, Apollo . . ." Luana muttered, nevertheless checking her altimetron and speed. Mentally, she did the calculations, factoring in how much glide she could count on from the aerodynamic spacecraft. Its control stick and surfaces were not dependant on a functioning power source to operate, thankfully, and it occurred to her that Dayton had once deduced there had to be a very good reason for that. She might be able to glide, if she did this right. The dang ship was possibly even designed for it! It was significantly lighter than a Colonial craft . . . it might just be possible . . . if luck was on her side.
"No, you wouldn't, Lu. Trust me on this. As long as the terrain is okay . . ." Apollo coaxed her. "C'mon . . ."
"Luana!" A brisk voice interrupted. "Dayton here! We're uploading the code, and transmitting . . . now!"
Luana shook her head, her stomach tightening into knots as her proximity alert sounded. "I'm out of time, Commander. I can't wait! Cutting power!"
She reached for the controls, but the transmission from above was faster. Just as her finger touched the switch, there was a beep, and the craft bucked slightly. Her interface screen informed her that she was once more on manual control. Letting out the breath she had been holding, she pulled back on the stick, and hit the power. The Wraith roared with new speed, and she screamed over the rocky ridge, banking to the right.
"Yeehawwwww!"
"Luana?"
"Control restored, Commander," reported Luana, realizing that Pierus in communications was probably cursing her right now. "Instructions?"
"Excellent, Ensign. Alright, fly up and down the valley, scanning for whatever installation had acquired you. We'll focus on the area when we pass over in . . .seventeen and a half centons."
"Understood, Commander," said Lu. "Tell Malus he gets an extra shot of joint lube for his natal day, this yahren."
"He doesn't have a birthday, Luana. He's a Cylon."
"Starbuck gave him one to ease his transition into Colonial life" Being assigned a designated date as a registered orphan that he could celebrate each yahren, Starbuck wasn't exactly known as a stickler on such trivial details. Ironically, he was almost torn over conceding his 'familiar' natal date, as he called it, in preference to his 'official' one that Chameleon had revealed. The last she'd heard, he was considering keeping them both in the interest of Fleet morale. After all, two parties for Starbuck were better than one. "And Malus prefers to think of himself as 'patiently waiting for his citizenship', rather than as a 'Cylon'."
"I'll . . . uh, try to remember that, Luana. Dayton out."
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"You didn't tell her," Ama accused him.
Right now, somehow, she managed to sound like his Aunt Lena.
"Tell her what?" Dayton returned, looking at her. They had been on their way to the Control Centre from the Life Station when Luana's crisis had superseded the report he knew was waiting for him from Lieutenant Dietra. "I'm not going to get Luana all riled up about something I don't know anything about, Ama. I need to talk to Dietra first. Pierus?"
"Lieutenant Dietra, sir," Pierus nodded, switching channels.
"This is Commander Dayton. Report, Lieutenant."
"Commander, Starbuck's gone!" came the voice, after a few seconds. It was scratchy, but intelligible. "Vanished into thin air right out of the cockpit, after we penetrated some kind of void. I don't know what happened, sir. I . . . I can't find any trace of him . . ." Her usually dispassionate voice held an edge of disbelief. " All scans are negative."
"Forward your telemetry now, Lieutenant."
"Forwarding telemetry, Commander."
Dayton glanced at Ama, who merely nodded that the incoming data confirmed her suspicions as they both watched the transmitted telemetry displayed on the monitor.
"Triquetra!" Ama muttered, watching the data.
"Sir?" asked Dietra.
"Telemetry received. What's the condition of the rest of the squadron, Lieutenant?"
"Safe," Dietra returned. "All ships functioning, no damage, all remaining personnel accounted for. Energy readings from the void have diminished since we left it."
"All right. Get your tails back here, full power. It appears that all we've achieved is the loss of our strike captain."
"Yes, sir," Dietra replied.
Dayton turned around, looking at the people amassed there. "Vesta, full scanner sweep, maximum range, of the area. I want to know if the space dust outside burps."
"Sir."
"Pierus, scan all frequencies for any sign of anything. Ships, stations, whatever. Maximum boost on all channels." Dayton looked at the board, and frowned, then looked at the rest. They looked as bewildered as he felt. With one notable exception . . . "Well, people. I'm open to suggestions."
Apollo let out a short breath, shaking his head. "Normally, I'd say we go get him back, especially in light of the fact that we don't have a Fleet to protect . . . "
"But this isn't exactly normal," Dorado finished the unsaid words, glancing at the others. "How in Hades Hole are we supposed to know if he's even alive?"
"I can assure you, he's alive," Ama inserted. Her voice was slow, and even, and had that ring of authority that communicated total conviction. "I'd know if he wasn't." She glanced at Apollo for confirmation. More than once she'd made such a prediction about Starbuck's well-being when others had given up hope, and her track record thus far was impeccable.
Apollo nodded briefly. "I have to admit, I believe her. I don't begin to understand how all . . . that works, Commander. But . . . if Ama says Starbuck's alive, then he is."
"Then I'd say that isn't our biggest problem," Dayton inserted. "Finding him is."
"Leave that to me, Mark-Dayton," Ama replied. Something in her face and tone reminded Dayton of a Special Forces sniper, about to take out an enemy target. "You choose a task force, and I'll get them to Starbuck."