Chapter Eight

Baltar was abruptly jerked backward, first by the collar, then by the belt, and hauled to safety. The solid ground beneath his astrum had never felt so good, as he watched rock and mud slide into the void in front of him. Then, as suddenly as it began, the shaking stopped. It had all happened so quickly. In the blink of an eye, Baltar had almost died. He sniffed, gazing upward into the blue eyes of the Colonial Warrior who had just saved him. It would have to be him!

"Why . . .?" he muttered numbly.

Surrounded by trolls, one of them a general, but no . . . Starbuck had had to come to his rescue! Baltar let out a ragged breath, realizing the warrior's longstanding debt to him from Planet 'P' had just been repaid.

For his part, Starbuck looked almost as surprised as Baltar felt. He slowly wiped his hands, one against the other, as if he could brush off the memory of saving Baltar, along with the dust. Momentarily, his gaze shifted to the edge of the cliff, as if he was replaying the events in his mind. Then he turned, looking back up the trail, removing himself from Baltar's probing gaze.

Caradoc held out a hand, offering it to Baltar. "Such reflexes would come in handy in a fight." He glanced in approval at Starbuck.

"Yes," Baltar murmured, remembering a half-drowned Starbuck punching him in the face on a beach only a few sectars ago. And another incident where the brash lieutenant had the audacity to tell him that he'd trade his life for a shot at Baltar, while he was being kept prisoner on a Cylon Base Star. What cosmic force with a warped sense of humour kept bringing them together? A moment later, the former bureautician and most hated Human Being in all of history accepted the hand up, and was pulled to his feet.

"I suppose I owe you my thanks . . ." Baltar breathed in the warrior's direction, brushing at his pants. For a few moments he could not control the shaking of his limbs.

"Let's just call it even," Starbuck replied over his shoulder, his tone aloof. He kicked at a rock, watching it fall over the edge and plunge downward. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, before abruptly heading up the path.

"As I said, our time is running out," Eirys reminded Baltar, her gaze flickering between the two men. "We must hurry. We must awaken the King."

"The King?" asked Baltar.

"You shall see. Come."

---------

Twinkling candlelight sparkled like a vast field of stars in the darkened room. Dayton drew a deep breath, shaking his head as he waited for Ama to finish fussing, preparing the hastily adapted medical chamber like some kind of mystical shrine. It reminded him of those parties Yvonne used to have where she'd invite her sisters and friends, sit around and drink a lot of wine, and add twelve dozen more "tea lights" to that bin she kept on the floor of his closet. He glanced over at Cassiopeia, regretting that he had to drag her into this mission. There were too many unknowns, and he didn't like it. Maybe he was a little old fashioned, but he would rather have her in the relative safety of their base ship. Besides, in the privacy of their chambers, his lady had admitted a time or two that she far preferred the controlled environment of the Life Station, to the uncertainty of the field. Oh, she would certainly go if needed, and had even insinuated herself onto missions where no med tech had been assigned. No warrior would die due to lack of medical attention if Cassiopeia had something to say about it, but some people worked better with laser blasts or bullets flying around them than others. Dayton had intended that their Chief Medical Officer and other lower level med techs would be doing the field work, leaving her to run the Life Station, and continue to work on her medical studies in relative peace. But of course, Dr. Sala wasn't going to be much good to them in this instance. Unless of course he could talk a potentially injured Starbuck into feeling better, once they found the missing warrior.

He slipped an arm around Cassiopeia, pulling her into the main Life Station. "I'm sorry you can't just hang out here and crack your books. But we're stuck with it. There really isn't anybody else in this med department qualified enough. You've jumped before, under fire."

"Don't be sorry. You know I'm always willing to do my part," Cassiopeia returned, turning to smile at him. "Besides, I've always liked this outfit . . ." She grinned wickedly, as she provocatively ran a hand over one hip, smoothing out some imaginary crease. "I'm thinking of keeping it."

"Hmm, not a bad idea, Mrs. Peel," Dayton chuckled, pulling her close in the dim lighting to kiss her quickly. She was more like a soldier than some cadets he had seen, willing to sacrifice anything for duty, and able to work past her fears. He wished he could tell her how proud he was of her at that moment, but he was afraid it might come across as sounding way too condescending. "You're quite the lady, you know that?"

She smiled.

Yeah, she knew.

"Mark-Dayton?" said Ama, her voice sounding somehow louder than it really was.

"Yeah."

"I'm ready."

----------

"Hey, Komma?" Silence. "Komma!"

"Huh? Oh, yeah," said Komma, roused from his near-trance, at his station in the Galactica's Computer Centre. "What is it?"

"I said, do you want a java?" asked Lomas, standing over him. "I'm gonna stretch my legs and grab something. You want anything?"

"Uhh . . .yeah," replied Komma. "I'll take a java. Black. And a pack of mushiebeans, if you can swing it."

"Done," said the other, and left him alone.

Arching his back and popping several vertebrae, Komma rubbed his eyes, and returned to his work. He was still trying to see if he could drag something out of the security feed from Baltar's cell aboard the Prison Barge. So far, every enhancement technique he'd tried had turned up nothing. Period. Zip. Whatever had happened to the traitor, it had apparently left no trace that he could find. Mong! Mong, it was so damned annoying, indeed infuriating. NO piece of data EVER got away from Komma! No way in Hades Hole he . . .

"Here, Komma," said Lomas, returning.

Komma looked at the chrono. Lords! Had it been that long? Lomas had been gone almost a full half-centar. He'd barely noticed. Popping a mushiebean into his mouth and taking a sip of the hideous thrice-used leftover reactor cleanser that passed for java these days in the mess, he hit a key on his board, as the unit ran another sim. Bloody Hades, this was what? The fiftieth? Sixty? Lords of Kobol, it was like he'd been grabbed by a . . . by a ghost! Snitrads-on-a-stick! Maybe it was just time to . . .

Frack!

"Frack!" said Komma, hands suddenly still, cup a micron from his lips. "Fin . . ."

"Huh?" said Lomas, turning to regard him.

"I may have it, Lomas!" said the pudgy technician, starting to grin. He began inputting new instructions into his setup. "Oh yeah. Oh yeah!"

"You finally find something?" asked the other, coming over to Komma's station.

"I sure as Hades Hole hope I have." He leaned closer to the screen. "Yeah, you sneaky little wisp. Gotcha!"

---------

Starbuck felt his feet begin to drag as they climbed the final hill to the Holy Sanctum, the sacred Angylion site, just below the summit of Mt. Cadoc. His head had settled to a dull ache, rather than a mind-numbing throb, but he still felt as though he'd rather find a warm, soft place to rest, instead of donating blood to the Angylion cause. A small plateau, a shoulder of barren volcanic stone except for loose dirt and rocks, gave rise to an immense cairn that towered over a burial vault. Within were the remains of the first Angylion Sovereign, King Cadoc, so both Colonials had been told. Here, throughout their people's long history, sacred ceremonies and rites had been practiced by successive kings, religious leaders, and sorcerers.

Eirys, Caradoc and the others dropped to their knees, placing their faces in their hands and bowing their heads. Softly, they chanted words that neither Starbuck nor Baltar understood, before getting back on their feet, and continuing up the hill, genuflecting every several metrons. Starbuck paused, feeling uncomfortable with their ritual. Stand up, take a step, down on one knee, touch forehead with fingers. Stand up, take a step, down on one knee, touch forehead with fingers. It was the inevitable situation where a Colonial Warrior needed to balance his own beliefs with being respectful of others. In retrospect, he probably shouldn't have fallen asleep during that bit of instruction at the Academy. Still, he had their stated need of him to hold onto. Especially knowing his usefulness might expire with his inevitable donation of blood. He sighed, hanging back until the trolls again stood erect. They didn't even look back at the Colonials, continuing on towards a cave.

"Come," murmured Baltar, striding after them.

"Wait a centon," Starbuck returned, grabbing his arm. The trolls had paused at the burial vault, performing another ritual. "Now that we're finally alone, just what's your plan, Baltar?"

"You make it sound as though this was somehow my idea," the traitor returned incredulously, after a moment. "I asked for this . . . this situation no more than you did, Captain. You think otherwise?"

"Well, it's crossed my mind that there are two sides to this war, and that you've already been on the Cylons'," Starbuck returned bitterly.

"Ah." Baltar nodded, smiling knowingly. "I see. And you think I'll change sides at the first opportunity, and betray these people."

Starbuck looked at him coldly. "It wouldn't be the first time, Baltar."

"Are you regretting saving my life, already?" Baltar drew in a deep breath, nodding patiently before he let it out. "You're predictable in your accusations. Just like your friend, Apollo."

"Well, you're pretty damn predictable in your behaviour, Baltar, with the possible exception of falling off cliffs!" Starbuck returned. "You'll do anything to survive, just like before. And you'll betray anyone for power."

"I'm a changed man, Starbuck," Baltar denied calmly, gazing up the hill before looking back at the warrior. "After all, my realm of power is somewhat limited these days . . ." he smiled bitterly. "As I am sure you've noticed, Captain."

"But you're already seeing the potential here . . . with these people." It wasn't a question, and Starbuck gave him a long look. "Hmm?"

"I only see . . . the path to redemption," Baltar shrugged. "Your Empyrean witch helped me to see the way."

Starbuck hesitated, studying him. Since he'd accidentally saved Baltar's life, he'd felt this overwhelming urge to throw the traitor off the nearest cliff, making up for his momentary lack of reason when he had instinctively saved him. Now, verbally attacking the man, hurling accusations and voicing doubts, was a conciliatory substitute. For now, at least. "Felgercarb."

"Only time will tell, Starbuck. But you tell me . . . why did you save my life?"

Starbuck shrugged, dropping the traitor's gaze.

"Oh, c'mon! Here's your chance to gloat! To rub my nose in it!" Baltar pointed out.

"I think you have me confused with . . ." The warrior raised an eyebrow, "you."

"Perhaps you're right," Baltar laughed. "Now, I'm guessing it was reflexive. You didn't think about it, you simply acted. That Code of Honour that they instilled in you at the Academy Is that it?"

Starbuck grunted, turning to look at the barren valley below them. The traitor was right. It was instinct to reach out and save a falling man. For an instant he had almost wished he could go back . . . but he knew he didn't have it in him to let Baltar, or any other man, die like that. Smashed to a bloody pulp fifty metrons below on craggy rocks, it would have been swift . . . maybe too swift, for the likes of Baltar . . . Such opposing thoughts were something he didn't want to dwell on. If he did, the darkness could swallow him whole. "I was distilled early on in my career, Baltar."

"Hmm . . ." Baltar mused. "Then there's the fact that you didn't tell them earlier on that I was a Cylon commander. You could have, you know."

"Yeah, and it would have had them wondering how in Hades Hole I knew that. It was sure to reflect poorly on me." Starbuck glanced back up the hill. "That General Caradoc doesn't exactly strike me as the mellow and reflective type. Mention any connection with the Cylons, and I'll wager you a sectar's pay he'd go into lightspeed. If they lump you in with their enemies, I'd follow." He looked in the direction of their hosts. "You're not the only one around here with an instinct for survival, Baltar."

Baltar chewed that over for a moment. "At the time, I thought perhaps you were repaying me for saving your life down on that planet . . ."

"I wasn't exactly harbouring a lot of guilt about that, Baltar, if that's what you're thinking . . ." Starbuck muttered, pulling the top off his canteen again before taking a long drink.

"You're not what they call a . . . deep thinker," Baltar mocked him. He held out a beckoning hand.

Starbuck smiled slightly and pasted on his trademark grin. "Just a Viper jock, Baltar." He tossed him the canteen.

----------

"I don't understand, Ama," Dietra burst out nervously. She stood with Ryan, Dayton, Cassiopeia and Apollo, enclosed in a circle by Ama, Lia and Luana, who were holding hands. The shimmering candlelight had lent a mysterious mood to the last few moments as they stood there in silence, while Ama merely tilted her head back and drew in several long, quiet, deep breaths.

The necromancer smiled slightly, before turning slightly to regard the warrior. She spoke in a hushed tone. "Life is energy, Lieutenant. And I do not speak of the natural forces of electrical and chemical energy that exist within all living cells. Those are not life. Each of us has a spiritual force, the very Flame Imperishable, and as we move through our lives and experience different things, as well as learn and accumulate more understanding about ourselves and our place in the world, the spiritual power grows, eventually forming part of a greater unified field of energy, embodied throughout our universe, and beyond it."

Use the Force, Luke! Ryan quipped to himself, merely miming the words at Dayton. The attempt at self-control did no good. For a moment, Ama turned and gave him a withering glare that would have wilted any mere "Jedi apprentice". He smiled cheerfully, counting down the moments bravely until she turned him into a toad.

"Power?" Dayton repeated, his brow wrinkling. "Tell me more."

"Ultimate power—that of one mind, one heart and one body—resides within each person's ability to develop their own unique and indestructible identity, while always living in consideration of the well-being of other individuals," Ama added.

"Isn't that kind of . . . basic?" Ryan asked, still feeling a chill from Ama's gaze. "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you?"

"The Golden Rule," Dayton added. "That's what we called it, back home. It's in just about every ancient Earth writing about behavioural precepts and ethics, including the New Testament Sermon on the Mount, the Talmud, the Koran, and the Analects of Confucius."

"I remember reading about the Great Law of the Six Nations Iroquois Confederacy. It was also one of their three principles that was supposed to guarantee peace between their member nations," Ryan added.

"It's in the Book of the Word as well," Apollo added. "In The Way of Wisdom."

"And in ancient Empyrean teachings," Lia nodded. "Although most of ours are handed down orally." And they had lost the only surviving written account of their history on the planet Alrin.

"Ama, what exactly are you saying?" Cassie asked her. "That the Thirteenth Tribe from Kobol carried these precepts with them to Empyrean and Earth, or that the Beings from the Ship of Lights . . . the Guardians, as they called them on Earth . . . actually established these rules?"

Ama smiled. "Neither. Again I will say it: one mind, one heart and one body. These precepts are not limited or driven by any one life force. Or even one species. Think of the moral writings of those you call the Hasaris, after all. No, my dear. They are within all of us, uniting us."

"At least that's your take on it," Dayton inserted.

"If I said God was within all of us, uniting all of us, would it be more palatable, Mark-Dayton?" Ama asked quietly. Ryan snorted, ever so quietly, but this time she let it pass. "For regardless of the name of that spiritual force, the meaning is the same. We are one. All of us."

"Whatever," Luana snapped. "Save the discussion on spiritual philosophy for when we get Starbuck back. How are you going to find him? And how are you going to get us to him?"

"The power of three," Ama replied, tightening her grip on her god-daughter's hand as they stood in triune. Each young Empyrean women wore her talisman outside of her tunic. "If you focus on his life force, Triquetra will lead us to Starbuck."

"I understand that you can sense Starbuck," Dietra said, "but how can you physically transport us to him?"

"The same way the Hag did," Ama replied. "Life is energy, and energy can be transformed. Energy is invariant with respect to rotations of space, but not invariant with respect to rotations of space-time."

"Say again?" Ryan muttered, shaking his head. He felt for a moment like he'd fallen out of church and into a physics lecture. Overall, he'd rather be in a pub.

"Trust in me, Luana," Ama held her gaze. "I want you to focus on Starbuck's life force. All of you," she added, looking at those enclosed within her fold.

"How do we do that, exactly?" Ryan returned.

"Search within yourself for Starbuck," Ama continued. "He is there."

"Man, I thought that was my ulcer acting up again after all this time . . ." Dayton muttered wryly. "If I'd know it was the kid . . ."

Luana sniffed in amusement, meeting the Earthman's gaze. "All right. Let's get this mumbo jumbo over with." She drew a deep breath, letting it out and closed her eyes. "Where are you, Innamorato?"

----------

Starbuck swallowed down the rising panic that gazing upon an identical visage of oneself, clearly dead, could induce. The golden hair was considerably longer than Starbuck's, and the prince also looked somewhat younger, but spending ten yahrens catching up on your sleep could probably do that for a guy. Going easy on the ambrosa and fumarellos probably didn't hurt, either. Muscular and fit, the prince was clothed in pants, tunic, vest and boots that were casual, yet somehow elegant. Weirdly, there seemed to be a kind of radiance to Llewelyn's skin, giving him an almost ethereal look. The aura of which Caradoc had spoken. It reminded Starbuck of the siren that had enticed him here, and fleetingly he wondered what had become of her. The torches that Caradoc had lit began to illuminate the enshrinement more clearly, and he took another tentative step forward. "I don't believe this . . ." he muttered, shaking his head, as though denial could somehow erase the image of himself and Apollo lying on two identical altars,within the dimly lit cavern, dead. Yet after ten yahrens, they should certainly be rotting corpses, not handsome young men. It was like an old Colonial fairy tale, one he hadn't thought about in yahrens. Something the Matron had read to them at the orphanage when he'd been Boxey's age.

Baltar snorted aloud, the incredulity in his voice echoing in the Holy Sanctum. "Of course, Apollo would be the other one! God above, why do you torture me so?"

"Our princes," Eirys said as she approached her sovereigns, bowing her head and dropping onto one knee for a moment. "Llewelyn and Glynn."

"Brothers . . ." Starbuck murmured. He and Apollo were brothers in an alternate dimension. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself, as more than a deca-yahren of friendship and camaraderie flashed through his mind. Gazing upon Apollo's "dead" likeness just now was as unsettling as regarding his own. It took him back to the Ship of Lights for a moment. You were only dead by primitive measures . . . it was not Count Iblis' right to take your life . . .

"You look surprisingly good for being dead ten yahrens, Starbuck," Baltar commented, with a glance at the lifeless prince. "Almost an improvement."

Starbuck met the traitor's mocking gaze, but could only shake his head, glancing back at Eirys. It was a little overwhelming. "How . . .?"

"An enchantment," Eirys explained, waving a hand over Llewelyn's supine form. "I can still sense the life force within them. The Flame within them is not extinguished, though it burns low, and they look the same as they did on the day that Iblis struck them down."

It was so eerily similar to when Iblis had . . . killed Apollo. Yeah, the mere thought of the malicious Being striking down Apollo as the selfless warrior leapt in front of Sheba, still filled Starbuck with a mixture of turbulent emotions. Rage. Loss. Impotence. Hopelessness. He'd lost countless friends before in combat, but when Apollo had "died" that day, it had hit him harder than ever before.

Thank the Lords . . .

Starbuck sucked in a deep breath, shaking off the cold, crawlon-like shadows of the past, and stepping closer to the prince that looked so much like his best friend. As with Llewelyn, Glynn's dark hair was much longer than Apollo had ever worn his, but tiny beads adorned a narrow braid on one side. He was dressed similarly to his brother and shared the radiant glow of both Llewelyn and the mysterious Siren that had lured Starbuck here. The glow of health and vitality was dizzyingly at odds with what seemed to be apparent death. Now as he gazed down at the Angylions, and actually knew what one looked like, he could almost believe that his imagination hadn't gone supernova when the vision of the alluring and magnificent creature filtered through his mind once again. In fact . . .

"The . . . the blonde woman . . ." Starbuck stammered, turning to regard Eirys while he thought back to his trip from one dimension to another. He was either about to receive a revelation, or make a total equine's astrum of himself. "I saw a beautiful blonde woman, with hair flowing down her back . . . she dangled the talisman in front of me . . ."

"Yes," Eirys nodded thoughtfully, smiling slightly.

"Was that . . . you, Eirys?" Starbuck asked. Vaguely, he remembered her telling Baltar that she had fought with the warrior all the way from one dimension to the other. He glanced at the traitor who was regarding him as though he had lost his mind. Which, of course, he told himself, was entirely possible.

Eirys smiled wryly. "Can you truthfully see any of her in me?" She took a step back, fanning her hands out to her sides, and turning in a slow circle. The others trolls merely watched in silence.

"Well . . ." Enchanter and troll. They were about as different as two beings could be. Yet, there was something . . . "You're more real than she was. More sincere. Convincing. At least I don't read any ulterior motives," Starbuck replied, watching her features shift subtly as she listened to his words. "Is she your . . . real form? As an Angylion?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Eirys replied bitterly. "But yes, that is my Angylion form. The form I was born to."

"As a race, we were vain. We thought we were invincible. Self-absorbed. Unequalled," Caradoc admitted, glancing at the princes. "Many of us believe that our internment as Odreds might be the Mystics' idea of poetic justice."

"Life has a way of humbling us," Baltar mused aloud, meeting Starbuck's sudden interest unflinchingly. "Someone once explained to me that a path to redemption is a long and humbling experience, and that the reward is more likely to come in the hereafter than the here and now. It makes the path that much more difficult to tread, and the reward entirely elusive."

"Ama," Starbuck murmured. He could almost hear the words in her gruff voice. Lords, he could almost feel her presence there next to him as his Empyrean talismans tingled next to his skin. He placed his hand over his tunic, feeling a warmth radiating through it. It was the strangest sensation . . . as though through the necromancer's talisman they were somehow connected. But that was insane. Then again, with Ama damn near everything seemed insane.

Innamorato.

Lu? Luana? He could swear his heart skipped a beat.

"We must hurry," Eirys said suddenly, urgently, pulling a golden orb from her plentiful skirts, and moving to stand by the eternally slumbering golden-haired prince. "Starbuck, come stand by me." She grasped his hand, trying to get his attention. "Please. Time grows short. Listen. When the time is right, I will prick your finger, allowing a drop of your blood to fall upon Prince Llewelyn."

"And then?" He asked as he took a place at the head of the altar. The four male trolls flanked him. In ceremony?

"The prince will rise, and the Angylion people will be restored," Eirys replied.

"What about Apollo . . . Prince Glynn?" Starbuck asked, hastily correcting himself as he found himself feeling protective about the dead ringer for his best friend. "What happens to him in this . . . ceremony?"

"I have not abandoned hope that Prince Glynn will also rise," Eirys replied elusively.

"How?" Starbuck asked, as she met his gaze, and then dropped it, glancing at the dark-haired prince. "If it would take my blood for Llewelyn to rise, then wouldn't it take Apollo's blood for Glynn to rise?"

"You neglected to mention your sideline of Sorcerer's apprentice, Starbuck," Eirys replied, her tone bordering on caustic.

"What can I say, huh? I'm a multi-talented guy," Starbuck returned casually. Something just wasn't sitting right with him . . .

"Just ask him," Baltar added unctuously.

"Just do as I ask, Starbuck, and I'll worry about Glynn," Eirys returned.

"I admit that I'm curious, Starbuck . . . as to how many times Eirys tried to bring you across before she succeeded," Baltar inserted, walking casually around the altar, his movements slow and purposeful. It had a calming effect, as their attention was drawn to him. "After all, she managed to get me the first time around. Then again, considering the company I was keeping, it perhaps isn't too difficult to understand my succumbing to a pretty face."

Starbuck followed the man's progress as he came to pause by Prince Glynn. "Twice. Once while I was sleeping. The next on patrol when she succeeded. Why?"

"Because I recall Caradoc saying she had failed twice before, and naturally I assumed she had meant twice with you . . . but now it appears . . ." Baltar nodded towards the dark-haired prince. "Perhaps I was wrong?"

"Apollo," Starbuck realized. "You tried to get Apollo too, but you couldn't." He clutched tighter to the talisman beneath his tunic. "Is that how you ended up with Ama's talisman. . . ?"

"Which side are you on, Baltar?" Eirys said quietly. "Have you forgotten our agreement already?"

"I merely think that you would be more likely to get Starbuck's full cooperation if you are totally honest with him," Baltar shrugged. "He's already said that he would help. He's a Colonial Warrior, after all. One of our finest."

Oh, when Baltar started singing his praises, it was a sure sign that something was wrong! More than likely the traitor had suddenly decided that if Starbuck was expendable, then so was he. The warrior took a step back, stopping short as a blade pressed into his back.

"Halt," Caradoc growled. "A drop of blood is all we're after, Captain. Nothing more."

"Yeah? I'm not so sure . . ." Starbuck replied, reflexively raising his hands at another nudge from the blade. Again, his gaze flickered to Baltar. There was something in the traitor's eyes . . .

Baltar smiled, and then chuckled aloud. "You're not quite putting it together, are you, Starbuck? You know there's something amiss—your instinct is telling you so—but still it's evading you."

----------

"It's what?" asked Commander Adama, in the computer room. He looked a tad red-eyed, but this was too important to put off. "I'm not sure I understand all of that, Corporal. Ghosts?" Next to him, Croft looked equally sceptical.

"Well, it is kind of complicated, sir, I admit," said Komma. "But just as I was about to pack it in, I suddenly remembered a technique that's so old, you don't even find it in a lot of modern texts. It's called 'Quantum Ghost Imaging', sir. Simply put, it's a phenomenon of physics that allows images to be rendered through the pairing of photons that do not reflect or bounce off an object, but off of other photons that did, thereby creating a sort of 'ghost' image of it."

"Komma . . ." sighed Adama.

"Think of it, sir, like bouncing a ball off a wall. It bounces off another ball, affecting it in ways that can indicate that it has done precisely that. Say transferring paint or dust from the original impact." More silence. "Well, here," he brought the data up on his terminal. It was a view of Baltar's cell, with the traitor in full view. Baltar turned, stood up slowly, and reached out to whatever-it-was, before vanishing, as they had seen him done endlessly before. "This was the original scan from Baltar's cell. There was barely enough data to get anything, but when I finally tried this . . ." The images replayed, only this time . . .

"There's someone there," said Adama, leaning close. "A woman in his cell?"

"Yes, sir," replied Komma. "I know the image quality is lousy, but we have her at last. Somehow, another person penetrated Baltar's cell, and at the exact moment that weird energy pattern passed through the Fleet, it took him. It, whatever it was, transported this woman here, and transported both her and Baltar away."

"Can you trace where they might have gone?" asked Croft.

"No, sir. Once the visitor vanished, the energy pattern collapsed and vanished as well." He zoomed in on the ghostly image, and both Adama and his exec studied it.

It was the figure of a woman, dressed in white, long flowing robes swirling behind her, along with her long hair. Whomever she was, she had been utterly gorgeous, with an almost ethereal beauty that hardly seemed Human. Adama was reminded of stories in The Book of the Word, describing Heavenly messengers, reputed to be of other-worldly beauty and radiance. Could this be such a Being? And if so, why had she come after Baltar of all people. She was barefooted, and tiny sparkles of light seemed to dance about her, like dust particles in sunlight. He could see only about half her face at this angle, but it was clear that her beauty affected Baltar enormously. Adama was surprised: the look on the traitor's face was not one of lust or desire, it was a look of utter wonderment. He reached out to her, and touched her hand.

Then, the both of them were gone. The cell was empty.

"My God," said Adama.

"What does it all mean, sirs?" asked Komma.

"I have no idea, Corporal," replied the Commander. "I . . . I just don't know."

----------

How many times had he changed his mind and his plan since landing in this troll infested hole? Too many times, sighed the traitor. Too many times, Baltar. He had considered his options minutely, over and over, primarily realizing that his future was now in a dimension utterly separate from that which had once been his own. Initially, he had thought that to be a dismal prospect, when he had considered living amongst a population of trolls, however sentient. A man had certain needs, after all. Decent food, rather than that swill on the Prison Barge, good wine, intelligent conversation with people who actually had brains. And, of course, a man had more, well, visceral needs, and his hadn't been attended to—at least by a comely mate—for as long back as he could remember. Yes, convicted traitors were people too. And even Baltar yearned for satisfaction on a more carnal level . . . Still, when all was said and done, it beat life on the Prison Barge, and if there was even a chance that these trolls actually could be converted back to a form that was compatible with Humans, things were looking up!

Besides, Eirys was a strangely compelling individual. A gutsy woman with a grim determination that was more befitting a man. It made him replay in his mind what she looked like in her Angylion form. With a woman like her at Baltar's side, he could go far in this society.

Still, Starbuck had been right about his earlier accusation. Damn him. Baltar had considered crossing back over to the Cylon side. There was something completely diabolical—in a most delicious and devious sense, of course—about commandeering the only technologically advanced ship in that realm and spearheading a takeover of that universe. Lord Baltar, the Magnificent. Baltar I, Ruler of the Universe. By your command, Imperious Baltar. Ah, it had a nice ring to it. And if Eirys was with him . . . Hmm. The problem being that this group of centurions, dating from about a century before the Holocaust, would be completely unaware of Baltar's existence, and any approach on his part would most likely be responded to with the downward strike of a Cylon blade to the back of his neck. All Humans were to be eradicated, after all. Such was the Edict of Extermination from the old Imperious Leader. No, if he was to get his hands on the old Cylon Base Ship, it would have to be through a troll victory. He had to help these people win their war against the Alliance!

Intriguingly enough, there was something almost satisfying about being on the "right" side for a change. It was liberating and uplifting. It took him back to his younger yahrens when his motives were altruistic, and he had been a bit on the naïve side. Oh, to live like that again, without the bitter taste of realism and scepticism to cloud his judgment and pollute his dreams. Without the shattered hopes. How did a man get that idealism back again? Wasn't that why his kind procreated? To see the innocence and idealism in their own children that they had long since lost as adults? Or through love? What could blind a man more thoroughly than a pretty skirt? It was enough to make him laugh. Bitterly.

Of course, Baltar's tenuous alliance with the trolls and his promising future were suddenly hanging in the balance because of what Starbuck could reveal about his previous alliance with the Cylons, and an uncomfortable alliance was thus born. Oh, it had crossed his mind to just eliminate Starbuck from the quotient. Initially, he had thought that the pesky Colonial Warrior was intended to be some kind of sacrifice to the troll figurehead, to end up slaughtered like an animal on some alien altar. But, as more of the Angylion legend was revealed, Baltar began to realize that Eirys could be in over her head. After all, what little he knew of Count Iblis had left him with the impression that the mysterious and alarming Being was not one to be fooled with. His powers were seemingly unlimited, and even more alarmingly, unknown. And once again, Iblis had aligned himself with the Cylons, leaving Baltar suspecting that his initial suspicions about Iblis were horrifyingly accurate.

I know you. I remember that voice.

Do you?

The voice of the Cylon Imperious Leader.

But Cylons are machines.

Yes. Now. But once they were a race of Beings who allowed themselves to be overcome by their own technology.

And when did this happen?

A thousand yahrens ago. At the onset of the Thousand Yahren War against the Humans.

Then for my voice to be the voice of the Imperious Leader, it would have to have been transcribed into machine leader a thousand yahrens ago. I'd have to be a thousand yahrens old.

Baltar still remembered his disbelief . . . oh, not that he had been wrong in his conclusions as Iblis had attempted to convince him, but that Count Iblis was a Being like none other he had ever met. A Being older than recorded history, folklore or myth. Older than the oceans and skies of the Twelve Worlds. Older than Kobol. Unthinkably old. Perhaps going back to the very beginning of the Universe, itself. And a Being that called him "old friend". Had he unwittingly been conspiring with Diabolis, against his will? For he strenuously believed that every decision he had ever made, however ill fated, had been his own. No other force, omnipotent or otherwise, had entered into it. Free will had guided his course, of that he was certain. It had to be!

And then Starbuck had gone and saved his life.

A debt of honour. It was tradition on Piscon. Oh, it was an old tradition, and one that he could simply ignore . . . but of late, those old traditions and values that he had long strayed from, and which he had so often sneered at, seemed to prey on his mind like maggots on a festering corpse. There was too much time to think while rotting in a cell, or on a planet of exile. Yes, psychologically he was much better suited to leading and commanding, than dwelling and ruminating. After all, the more he spoke aloud of regret and repentance, while trying to convince himself he did not truly mean it, the more often he seemed to be put in a situation to redeem himself—or at least his immortal soul—somewhat. Which was where he once again found himself, much to the delight, no doubt, of some twisted Lord of Kobol with too much immortal time on his long-dead hands. Which brought him back to the Holy Sanctum of the Angylions on Mt. Cadoc. . .

"You still need Apollo," Starbuck suddenly said to Eirys, never the sharpest blade in the drawer, but still bright enough to eventually put some of it together . . . with prompting. "You said, 'When together the princes rise, the spell will be broken.' This isn't going to work without him." The warrior held himself defensively, waiting for any eventuality, while still putting on the 'Starbuck face' that had bamboozled many an opponent.

Eirys held up a beautiful orb, crafted of a gilded metal. Baltar recognized it as the piece she had used to bring Starbuck into this realm. "This is the Oculus, Starbuck. It holds the power to raise the princes. Along with that which resides within your blood." Then she snapped, "Caradoc!"

It might have been funny that there was four midgets with knives at the infamous warrior's back, if the troll general hadn't grasped the back of Starbuck's belt with a tylinium grip, and pried the tip of the blade between his ribs before Eirys' command even left her lips. I can sense their emotions . . . their mental state . . . Starbuck jerked abruptly, his reaction to the abrupt pain visible. The threat was clear. If he moved, the general would bury the blade up to the hilt. Fast. Then they'd have all the blood they needed.

"Be still, and obey," Caradoc growled in warning. "I don't want to harm you, but I will if necessary."

"It's the last thing on my mind," Starbuck assured him.

"Being still, or obeying?" quipped Baltar, his arms crossed, as he tried to dispel the sudden tension.

"Silence!" Eirys approached Starbuck cautiously, grabbing a hold of his tunic and ripping the fastening open. She reached out almost tentatively before grabbing the two talismans resting on his chest. Then she looked up at him pointedly. There was no way in Hades Hole she'd be able to lift them over his head, and the thick leather cords would not permit her to rip them free. He raised an eyebrow, unwilling to help . . . at least until Caradoc advanced the blade a little more.

Starbuck winced, reflexively straining forward, even as troll hands grabbed his arms to restrain him. Another clambered in front of him, reaching up and severing the cords with a blade. Starbuck hissed, as a thin line of blood welled up across his chest. "I'm beginning to question your sincerity, Eirys," he murmured, meeting the troll's eyes.

"I was completely honest with you, Starbuck," she returned, taking a finger and running it along the cut, while she held the talismans tightly in her fist. She rubbed his blood between her fingers, her lips parting slightly, her eyes glistening. Then she paused as she idly traced the scar on his chest that was an exact image of his talisman. "What's this?"

"The mark of the Empyrean witch," Baltar adlibbed. "From what I understand, he is family."

"Family?" Eirys echoed, smiling slightly at the warrior. "You are more valuable than I realized."

Starbuck smiled cynically. "You just had to get to know me better."

"The mark . . ." she examined his scar more closely. "It's the same as the amulet. A brand?"

"It's a tough family to get into," he returned wryly.

"What does the amulet signify?" Eirys asked slowly.

Starbuck sniffed aloud. "It protects me from evil."

"Do you think I'm evil?" Eirys asked, eyes boring into his.

"Well, you're not from the Good Ship Lollipop, Eirys."

"The Good Ship . . ." Eirys glanced at Baltar, who merely shrugged. She looked back at the warrior. "Is it protecting you now?" she asked with a pointed glance at the trolls still restraining the Viper pilot.

"Can't you tell?" Starbuck returned with a smile that might have been bravado, but was so damned convincing that even Baltar suddenly wasn't sure. Neither was Eirys.

Lords! He has balls of tylinium!

"Get on with it, Eirys," Caradoc said gruffly.

"It's not going to work," Starbuck averred. "Hades Hole, can't you see that? I'm no wizard, and even I can figure it out! You need Apollo to break the curse. You said so yourself. You kill me, and even if you succeed in bringing him here, it would be pointless."

"Silence! I told you, we only need a drop of blood! My intention is not to kill you, Starbuck," Eirys snapped at him, angry that he would imply otherwise. She turned, and held the Oculus high over her head, beginning to chant in some ancient, unknown dialect, and closed her eyes. The trolls shifted uncomfortably, even as they held the warrior fast. Then the mountain grumbled and the ground shook. Eirys did not even pause.

A breeze began to blow. Gently at first.

"Oh, frack . . ." Starbuck muttered.

Anxiously, the Colonial Warrior glanced at Baltar, who admittedly didn't know what to think. He was a bureautician, a plotter, a schemer. This sort of thing was entirely beyond his experience. He shrugged. If it didn't work, then presumably all it would cost the warrior was a drop of blood. Eirys had said they only needed a drop. If it did work, then the Angylion prince—or princes—were about to rise, and a race of trolls would be freed! Frankly, it didn't seem all that alarming, at least from Baltar's point of view. He found himself secretly wishing for the mystical spell, spoken in a guttural language of auld, to be successful. Admittedly, his desire to see Eirys transformed overweighed any curiosity about giving life to two men that looked like Starbuck and Apollo. After all, two of them was enough! And if that happened, they could move past this foreign ritual and on to the battle, which he was already planning. It would be a relief to progress from the incorporeal, to the tangible.

Eirys' tone peaked as she stood at the head of the altar, the wind now blowing her hideous tangled hair behind her. Beside her, Starbuck was now strangely docile, succumbing to his fate, while sucking great gasping breaths into his lungs, a troll hanging off of every limb. The sorceress held the Oculus high, giving it the appearance of an overseeing eye to the ritual. The gilded metal of the orb began to glow eerily, becoming more like a smoky glass or crystal, as though effected by some inexplicable energy. Then Caradoc gripped Starbuck's arm, prying it from his side, despite his abrupt resistance, the effort causing the troll to shake like the mountain around him. Another joined him, securing the Colonial anew, and when they saw his fist clench tightly, they pulled up his sleeve.

Eirys nodded calmly, her features serene, as she cradled the Oculus in one hand. The wind was screaming now, and lightning split the sky outside the mouth of the cave. Deftly, she reached within her skirts, withdrawing a blade. It was a long blade, made of some gold coloured metal, with a hilt of glittering crystal. The jewels set within it flickered with the light, as if, like the Oculus, it was lit from within. A litany of inarticulate, glottal sounds preceded an almost surgical slice of the blade across the warrior's taut forearm, as blood welled up from Starbuck's superficial wound.

The warrior's teeth were clenched, and Baltar could see him swallow visibly, as his arm was extended further over Prince Llewelyn. A gradual accumulation of blood formed a droplet which finally fell, landing on the prince's lips. Starbuck grimaced.

"Gogyfur y'awdurdod o sanctaidd Llyr!" Eirys cried, holding the Oculus over the prince as the mountain rumbled again. "Gogyfur y'awdurdod o sanctaidd Llyr!"

Baltar held his breath, his eyes trained on the insensate young man that resembled Starbuck so eerily. For a moment, silence hung over the chamber, seeming to serve as an omen of some great event. Even the wind stilled.

But moments later, nothing had happened. Nothing.

"I told you," Starbuck murmured, his voice coarse, despite his words.

Eirys tilted her chin up higher, meeting the warrior's eyes. "More blood . . ." she said determinedly.

"I was . . . afraid you were going to say that."

----------

Far below, the IL Series Cylon Mendax looked up from the reports on the almost completed work, towards the distant bulk of the mountain the slaves called Cadoc. Once again, the mountain seemed to be rumbling, the tremors spreading out across the landscape. While as a Cylon he possessed no mystical bent or predilection, Mendax was nonetheless curious about that mountain. The slaves seemed to be in awe of it, and now, as he looked up, he saw lightning flash, and something glinting in the gathering darkness. His enhanced Cylon senses allowed him to see with vastly greater clarity and proximity than any mere organic scum, and now, he saw . . .

What? He wasn't sure. Something was going on up there, if the growing agitation among the slaves was anything to go by. More and more of them were looking up that way, and muttering in their guttural speech, repeating Cadoc over and over. Something told Mendax that all was not right.

"Centurion Plectus," he called. A Gold Command centurion approached.

"By-your-command."

"Take a foot patrol, and go up there," said Mendax, pointing towards the mountain. It had been yahrens since the Cylons had gone up to the old burial site, and the path was treacherous. "Report back to me what is going on, Centurion."

"By-your-command."