Chapter Seven

Lu flew up and down the valley, as instructed, uploading all her scans to the Endeavour. Yes, it was beautiful. A wide river blazed golden below her, bordered on both sides by deep green vegetation, and what scanned as slow-moving grazers. Above, she could see two moons in the sky, one large, the other much smaller. For a moment, she was powerfully reminded of her homeworld, so far behind. The trees, the wildflowers, the birds and free-running streams. The beautiful azure vault above. As she completed her fourth pass, her scanner bleeped.

"Well, well, well," she said to herself.

"Wraith One, this is Endeavour. Come in." came a voice from above.

"Wraith One, here. I'm scanning something that looks interesting, Endeavour. I'm going to land, and check it out."

"Gonna have to wait, Luana," Dayton replied, coming on the line. "Something happened on Starbuck's patrol . . . he's missing. Get back into orbit, and rendezvous with the Endeavour. You'll be part of the landing party. Meet me in the War Room for immediate debriefing."

"Affirmative, Commander," she replied, her stomach turning over as she hit the turbos.

----------

Every step was agony, every stumble was torture!

"Oh, stop your moaning!" Baltar snapped irritably, his breathing ragged, as he shifted Starbuck's weight on his shoulders, then stumbled again, as he momentarily lost his balance in the damp, dank cave.

"Put . . . me . . . down . . ." Starbuck gasped, at the end of his tolerance. His head was about to explode like Carillon, and instinctively he knew that if he could just get upright, or at least get the world to stop spinning around him, he'd feel better. Meagrely. He clawed at the back of Baltar's belt, as the traitor stumbled into the wall of the tunnel for what had to be the fifth or sixth time. The bastard was doing it intentionally! He had to be, no doubt getting a bang out of grinding the battered, much-abused warrior into the craggy surface repeatedly, while he excused his clumsiness, and rationalised aloud that he was long-unaccustomed to such physical toil.

"Gladly," Baltar returned, stopping short, abruptly releasing his grip, and letting the warrior drop to the hard ground with a thud. As he rolled his neck and shoulders in relief, Baltar turned to look at his burden in distaste. "Perhaps we could take a . . . a short break," he rasped, leaning against the opposite wall of the tunnel, and sliding down it himself wearily.

"Have some sustenance, Baltar," Eirys squatted down beside him, handing him a round bread-like substance no bigger than the palm of his hand, which he noticed the other trolls were also eating. Then she pulled a cord over her neck, and handed him the canteen attached to it. "Eat. Drink. You will feel refreshed."

"I . . . thank you, Eirys," Baltar nodded, controlling his features as he examined the other close up. While repulsive to gaze upon, she was . . . well, repulsive to gaze upon, actually. He nodded at her and nibbled at the hard substance that wasn't as repugnant as he would have thought. Actually, it was kind of tasty. "What is it?" he asked, holding it up. His stomach was almost completely settled, and with the first swallow of the food, he realized just how very hungry he was. Alone on the planet Adama had marooned him on, he hadn't been this famished, even after his supplies had run out. Even Starbuck dry heaving a couple metrons away, didn't dissuade his appetite.

"Bara," she replied, glancing over at the nauseous warrior, before gathering her skirts and skittering over to him.

"He doesn't look well, Eirys," Caradoc growled. "Will he make it?"

"You don't look so hot yourself, pal, but I'll feel better tomorrow," Starbuck sputtered, pushing himself backwards with considerable effort so he could rest upright against the cave wall. He raked his fingers through hair damp with sweat, and shivered in the coolness, drawing up a knee to rest his pounding head on. He held up a hand defensively when the troll leaned closer, peering at him, and sniffing loudly.

"What is your name?" she asked, hesitating before him.

"Star . . . Starbuck . . ." he swallowed, unsure what to expect next. He was a little surprised when she merely nodded, and began to rifle through her skirts.

"Tell me about this, Starbuck," the troll returned, pulling out Ama's talisman like a parlour trickster, as the necromancer would say.

He hadn't expected his violent reaction to the troll possessing the Empyrean necromancer's sacred amulet, but his hand shot out, grabbing it, and jerking it from the Troll's grasp. She startled, reeling back from him reflexively, as four other trolls rushed them with daggers drawn.

"Hold!" she demanded, raising a hand to stop them. "Put those away!"

They stumbled to a halt, looming over Starbuck like pit-Taurans on a choker, yet he could see uncertainty on their features as they pointed their weapons at him menacingly. Eirys' hand seemed to hold them at bay, more effectively than any shield. A moment later, she repeated her command, and they sheathed the blades, then stepped back, but remained watchful.

"You're fast." She narrowed her eyes at Starbuck appraisingly, and then dropped her gaze almost hungrily to regard the talisman, as he closed his fist tightly around it, clutching it to his chest. "It must be very powerful."

"Sentimental value, nothing more," he murmured in return, feeling a bizarre comfort coming from the familiar charm. His headache receded ever so slightly, as a warmth suffused him. "But what are you doing with it?"

"I took it from your witch," she glanced at Baltar momentarily, inclining her head.

"Ama?" Starbuck swallowed, trying to imagine anybody taking something from the Empyrean necromancer that she didn't want to cede. "I'm guessing there's a little more to it than that . . ."

A glimpse of amusement crossed her features. "Perhaps."

"What do you want with me? What do you want with . . ." he glanced at Baltar, before again meeting her steady gaze. The traitor was obviously in their good books, which didn't exactly bode well for him. "Why do you want my blood."

"To break a curse," she replied simply.

"To break a curse? Well, that's novel," he grinned. It was reminiscent of the Empyreans who considered blood to contain some sacred, supernatural force that would please the Gods. His eyes searched hers, and her features seemed to soften as she studied him quietly for a moment. Then she sighed.

"Please, believe me. I have no quarrel with you, Starbuck. But I trust that you possess the power to save my people. My King. You have something so precious, so sacred that I have brought you from the Infinite, crossing the Non-Entity, and risking the wrath of the Mystics. When together, our princes rise, the spell will be broken."

Starbuck blinked, trying to make sense of her speech. She might as well have been speaking the ancient dialect of the Empyrean mystics. "Come again?"

"My greatest enemy is the evil mage, that calls himself Count Iblis. Then there are his minions, the Cylons. My quest is to save Morlais, and to restore the Angylion people."

It raised more questions that it answered. Morlais? Angylions? But more pressingly, "Cylons? There are Cylons here? And Count Iblis?" The news didn't help his headache, which flared back like full turbos.

"Iblis disappeared, but the Cylons remain," Caradoc replied gruffly, restlessly. "To torment us."

"Where are we?" Starbuck asked, shaking his head at the strange creatures, and then looking over at the traitor. It was like some kind of weird fantasy world, dreamt up from an overactive and vivid imagination. What was it that Ryan kept saying? We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto . . .

"Morlais. A world within a dimension quite apart from your own," Eirys explained.

"And why did you bring Baltar here?" Starbuck asked.

"I was the test case," Baltar said self-deprecatingly. "It seems they wanted you in one piece, Lieutenant, for you to be of any use to them."

"Use?"

"Their words, not mine, Lieutenant."

"Captain," Starbuck corrected him.

"Oh yes, of course," Baltar smiled, focusing on Starbuck's collar pins, and nodding slightly. "My apologies."

"Commander Baltar has told us he will help us in our battle against the Cylons. He has told us what they have done to your own people, to your worlds. He is clearly a brave and honourable man." Starbuck grimaced, but the troll carried on. "Will you do the same, Starbuck? Will you help us?" Eirys asked. "With enemies as powerful as ours, we need all the help we can get. We must free my people."

Determination shone from her eyes. For a grungy little troll, she had a lot of backbone, and by the sounds of it, problems that would rival those of the Colonials. Of course, she could be lying through her crooked and darkened teeth . . . but Starbuck's instincts were telling him she wasn't. He needed more information, as well as their trust, if he was going to survive this, and eventually find his way home.

"Commander Baltar . . ." Starbuck huffed humourlessly, nodding, yet realizing that trying to set them straight about the traitor would merely be his word against Baltar's. The turncoat would reveal his true colours in good time, as he always did. And Starbuck would be there when that happened. "Well, there is that little technicality about needing my blood . . ." He raised his eyebrows. "I'm kind of . . . using it right now."

"A mere drop is all I ask. Surely you could spare that to save a beleaguered people from enslavement?" Eirys pleaded with him.

"A meagre sacrifice for the sake of an entire civilization," Baltar added cogently. "You're a Colonial Warrior, Starbuck. Show these people what we're made of." He was really pouring it on, his voice thick with drama and pathos. The effect was impressive, and well rehearsed over a lifetime. "We went to war to save our neighbours, the Hasari's, from the vile and hideous Cylon Empire. They ask so little of you now, in comparison."

They all looked at him expectantly, Baltar no less so. Starbuck really had no choice, despite the fact that his internal klaxons were screaming at him. "All right. I'm not sure exactly how a drop of blood can save a civilisation . . ."

"It seems that we are uniting against our common foes, Lieutenant . . . forgive me again . . . Captain Starbuck. . . ." The smile was mocking, and Baltar chuckled mirthlessly as Starbuck glowered at him. "Count Iblis. The Cylon Empire. Just like old home secton."

"Oh yeah. Together again, just like our glory days on Planet 'P'. Wouldn't miss it." Starbuck struggled to his knees, bracing himself against the cave wall with one arm. He slowly gained his feet, determined he would get wherever he was going under his own steam this time. Baltar quickly climbed to his feet, and stood over him, grabbing an arm when the warrior swayed.

"I too was rather affected when I first arrived. But it passed eventually." Baltar told him. "How do you feel, Captain?"

Starbuck looked up at him, and cracked a fleeting grin at the sucron-coated insincerity oozing from the other's voice. "Pretty much like you look, Baltar."

Instead of the usual scowl, the traitor actually smiled. "Ah. That bad. I thought so."

"Come," said Eirys. "Time grows short."

----------

Dayton shifted from foot to foot, speaking mostly by rote, as he looked around at the members of the task force assigned to rescuing Starbuck. Picking the team had turned out to be a bit tougher than expected. Every member of the crew, from the most seasoned warrior in the launch bay, down to the grease-monkeys in the engine room, had volunteered to go. Dayton was impressed: a man had to command a lot of loyalty to elicit that sort of response. Dressed from head to toe in the traditional black infiltration fatigues—Apollo, Luana, Lia, Dietra, Cassiopeia and Ryan—most of them were checking their equipment while listening to their commanding officer brief them. Leaving Dorado in command, Dayton had insisted on leading this mission, which was a bit of a departure from the Colonial way of doing things. But there was no way in hell he was going to indefinitely sit on the Bridge when there were other officers more than capable of manning the fort. Especially, since in this case they didn't know where they were going, or what to expect when they arrived. Most of them had their doubts—unvoiced—about whether they would arrive at all. Only Lia looked confident that the Empyrean necromancer would deliver them unscathed.

"Okay, questions?" Dayton asked, glancing up at the useless navigation board in the War Room. Alternate dimensions weren't included. Idly, he checked his own gear, then he smirked humourlessly. "Questions that I can answer, that is."

"Well, in that case, does my butt look okay in these pants?" Ryan returned, glancing sceptically behind him. "I feel ridiculous. From Beach Bum to Elvis is just too much of a transition in one day."

"Your 'butt' looks fine," Dietra replied with a chuckle and an appraising look at the Earthman she had been involved with for many sectars. Despite their chronological ages, thirty years harvesting and eating koivee root on a pirate asteroid had apparently slowed the aging process for them, making them appear at least a decade younger than they were. "Very fine, Paddy."

Ryan smiled at her warmly, waggling his eyebrows, and lowering his voice. "I ain't nothing but a Hound Dog, little mama."

"A hound dog that I'll Return to Sender, if I hear anymore cute ones like that." Dayton rolled his eyes as the others laughed. He could always count on Paddy to lighten the mood. "Anything else more pertinent to the mission?"

"Well, I for one wouldn't mind knowing how exactly we're going to get there . . . and where 'there' is," Dietra told him.

"I'm going to defer those questions to Ama, once she gets here," Dayton replied, glancing at his timepiece, and trying to maintain his aura of confidence. "She's the expert." I hope to God . . .

----------

The trail was ancient and decrepit, winding its muddy and eroded way narrowly along a rugged mountain path that lead up the thickly-wooded flank of Mt. Cadoc. Starbuck fingered the two talismans he had concealed beneath his tunic, wondering if the protection they offered extended to falling off the side of a cliff. The route looked like it had been fortified over the yahrens, but those same fortifications had long-since broken down, leaving treacherous gaps along precarious walkways. Blackened stones and partially burnt bridges indicated the Cylons had been here at some point. He doubted they could pass this way now without casualties, which might be why it had been left in such a state. If there was a revered site at the top of Mt. Cadoc—their destination—then the trolls wouldn't want their enemies there.

Looking down the side of the mountain, out over the barren landscape below, he paused to take a long drink from a canteen. Eirys had said that these mountain passes and valleys had once been green, lush and vibrant with life. With the coming of the Cylons, a scourge was cast upon her homeworld, and the bleakness he now regarded was all that was left of her beloved Morlais. Bitterly, he realized that Caprica would almost certainly look something like this now, and he was almost glad he wasn't around to witness it. His heartbeat echoed in his ears at the exertion of climbing a mountain while feeling like mong. Sighing, he wiped at his face, slick with sweat, while catching his breath. Directly below, he could see the glint of sunlight reflecting off of metal. He leaned further out, realizing it was probably the remains of the last centurion that had tried to pass this way.

"Be cautious, Prince Llewelyn . . ." Caradoc put a hand on his arm, pulling him insistently back from the edge. "My apologies . . . Starbuck," he corrected himself, stealing another furtive glance at the Colonial Warrior, and then releasing him, and nodding for the others to continue ahead.

Starbuck nodded. "We really look . . . that much alike? Me and your prince?"

"Yes," the troll grunted. "Like unto twins."

"Then Angylions are . . . Human? Like us?"

Caradoc paused, considering that for a moment. His face scrunched up as he mulled the question, which somehow made him look less ugly. "There are . . . differences. While you physically resemble Llewelyn, Angylions have an aura that is most profound. It is unmistakeable."

"An aura?" asked both Starbuck and Baltar, at once. Caradoc looked from one to the other, then back to Starbuck.

"Yes. An ethereal light that comes from within. It is like . . . like a lantern, seen through a curtain or shroud. You see it, the light within, even though it is masked by the outer shell of the flesh." He sighed. "There are the gifted ones, who can see deeper than most. To the very flame itself."

Starbuck nodded slowly, trying to keep his features carefully neutral. Ama often talked of auras and ethereal qualities. It made about as much sense to him as romance did to a Cylon. "What else?"

"I have a bond with my own people that I do not sense with yours."

"What kind of bond?" Starbuck asked.

"I can sense their emotion . . . their mental state, if you will. I can feel their pain, or, sometimes, when they die."

"You mean collectively? Or individually?"

"Both," Caradoc replied. "At this moment, I feel the pain and despair of the Angylion people, as keenly as I feel Eirys' hope and yearning." He made a fist, squeezing it tightly before waving a hand at the cliff edge and adding, "You must be careful. The mountain quakes often. And the ground. It is soft. It will crumble beneath your feet, and you will surely fall to your death."

"Well, as long as you can still scoop up some of my blood, General. . ." Starbuck deadpanned, then broke off abruptly. He paused, staring hard through a gap between two peaks in the distance, a little further along the mountain path, as he sucked in a breath of dismay. It was a chillingly familiar shape. "Holy frack! Is that what I think it is?"

"What?" Baltar asked from behind, drawn by the urgency in the warrior's voice.

"It's a frackin' Abaddon, Baltar! Just like the Endeavour!" Starbuck replied, his head feeling absolutely clear for the first time in centars. The old single saucer style Cylon capital ship was tilted to one side, as though she had landed that way. Crude scaffolding was erected around her. The natural barrier of rock between them and the Base Ship obscured any further view. "If we're in another dimension, then what the frack is a Cylon Base Ship doing here?"

"Indeed . . ." Baltar replied quietly. "But the Abaddon-class . . .none of those have been in service for almost a full centi-yahren."

"Yeah, not since your day," Starbuck returned. "They told us that back at the Academy."

"Very amusing," drawled Baltar, although much of his knowledge came from Cylon databanks, rather than the Colonial Academy. "They were a failure, basically, as a weapon system, and were first relegated to secondary duties, then withdrawn from service altogether."

"When was this?" asked General Caradoc, curious about all this Abaddon and Base Ship discussion. Know thy enemy.

"After the Battle of Olinick One," replied Baltar. Caradoc's bushy eyebrows arched in question, and Baltar explained. "The Cylons dropped out of lightspeed over the planet, just outside the orbit of her moon. The Colonial taskforce, led by Commander Nebrod aboard the Battlestar Atlantia, moved in. But there was a fatal flaw."

"What?" asked Eirys, curious as always.

"The scanner and deflector systems aboard the Abaddon-class were totally inadequate. When dropping out of lightspeed, there is a momentary burst of radio noise and secondary radion. Normally, the ship's deflection and scanner systems compensate for this distortion, and remain up. But the systems aboard these ships," he indicated the ship they had seen, "never functioned correctly. When dropping out of lightspeed, the radion distortion as often as not caused the scanners to go blind for a short period, or the deflection system to drop, as they were slaved together in that design. At Olinick, the four Abaddon-class vessels supporting the attack were on the right flank. Perceiving their weakness, Commander Nebrod detached the Battlestar Acropolis, and the cruisers Century and Liberty to attack them, the Starhounds taking a heavy toll. Blind and unprotected, the Cylons' right flank began to buckle within bare centons. When they tried to reinforce their right flank by thinning the rest of their line, they were caught by the Battlestars Galactica, and Pacifica, along with three cruisers and several destroyers, coming in at lightspeed from behind the sun, and dropping out right behind them."

"I am intrigued," said Caradoc, his military mind trying to visualize the story. "It reminds me of when Angylions ruled the seas. Go on."

"Caught while launching their fighters, the Cylon left flank was unable to manoeuvre effectively, and one Base Ship was knocked out of action within centons. The Colonials pressed them harder, driving both flanks against the centre. Their fighters were caught between both waves of Colonial fighter ships, and soon the first Base Ship was blown out of the sky."

"Magnificent!" said Caradoc.

"Yes," agreed Baltar. "Soon, one, then a second Abaddon-class ship was taken out, and then the Task Force's Command Ship. After barely two centars of combat, the Cylons had lost four Base Ships out of the original eight, more than half of their fighters were destroyed, and two of the surviving Base Ships were badly mauled. One so badly they self-destructed to avoid capture. After that, this type of vessel," he pointed towards the one far below, "was completely retired from service. Scrapped, too, so I thought."

"When was this?" asked Caradoc. "Did you fight in this battle, Commander Baltar?"

"Almost a full hundred yahrens ago," replied Baltar. "And sadly, before my time, General." He looked pointedly at Starbuck. "Which leaves me curious as to how long these Cylons have been here?"

"Ten years," Caradoc replied.

"Ten years?" Baltar repeated, glancing at Starbuck.

"Close to ten yahrens," the warrior interpreted confidently, a strange look passing over him.

"But that doesn't make any sense," Baltar reasoned. "How could it have arrived ten yahrens ago if the Cylons decommissioned them a centi-yahren ago?"

"Well, I know for a fact that three Abaddon's were assigned to this quadrant . . ." Starbuck paused as Eirys cleared her throat. "Well, the quadrant we were in."

"But that's ridiculous . . ." Baltar sneered.

". . . almost a hundred and five yahrens ago." Starbuck finished. "We retrieved the data from old Cylon logs."

"But I never saw . . ." Baltar broke off, not willing to admit to Caradoc and Eirys that he commanded a Cylon capital ship.

"I imagine not every commander is . . . privy to all intelligence," Starbuck answered delicately.

"True," said Baltar haltingly. Starbuck had had the opportunity to challenge him, yet had chosen to prolong his ruse. He exchanged a nod with the warrior before he looked back at Caradoc. "And they just . . . appeared?"

"Yes. By the machinations of Iblis! May he rot in the lowest of perditions!"

"Okay, all well and good," said Starbuck, "but the question remains, folks. If this is another dimension, what is a Base Ship doing here?"

"Yes," said Baltar. "After all, we were not so fortunate as to be allowed spacecraft for our journey."

"I do not have the power to bring a vessel such as that through the Non-Entity," Eirys admitted. "Not even a small one."
"Iblis," Baltar nodded. He glanced at the general, then back towards the grounded warship. "Is she space-worthy?"

"Space worthy?" Caradoc asked.

"Can she fly?" Starbuck interjected.

"Since the Cylons destroyed Morlais and enslaved our people, they've been repairing their . . . abomination." Caradoc pointed at the Base Ship, as if it were a mass of rotting flesh, or a walking corpse. "Demand in their mines and metal-works has slowed, and most labour has been redirected to what you now see. We have gleaned that they have almost reached their goal. There have been rumours that they will test their weapons out on Morlais when they depart, annihilating us."

"Sagan sakes, can you imagine if the Cylons actually get that bucket off the ground," Starbuck interjected. "The Cylon Empire could end up dominating an entirely separate dimension!"

"Depending on who is out there to stop them," Baltar glanced skyward. "What do you know of other planets, other civilizations?"

"Naught," Caradoc returned abruptly. Space exploration was far beyond their development.

At that moment, the ground began to shake. They all reached out to steady themselves, skittering back from the edge of the cliff. Baltar sucked in a panicked breath, as the ground beneath him rippled, split in front of him, and then began to crumble. Futilely, he jumped back, and sought purchase as he fell. Slowly, mockingly, he felt his right foot slide forward and his body begin its inevitable descent to certain death. There was nothing to grab onto, nothing to break his fall. How could his life end so abruptly, so unexpectedly, so . . . mundanely?

He cried out in terror . . .