Chapter Eighteen
"Report, Centurion!" Mendax ordered as he entered the Command Centre with Admiral Malus and Commander Baltar following closely behind.
"By-your-command. Communications-with-our-ground-forces-are-down. They-are-not-responding. Attempts-at-engaging-batteries, negative. Failure-code-'error-access-denied'. The-Angylion . . . "
"Batteries?" Malus asked, seemingly aghast. "You'd fire on humanoids?"
"Surely not!" Baltar added, as he joined in. He placed a hand on the lieutenant's arm.
"It's against the treaty!" Luana added vehemently. "You'll destroy ten yahrens of peace!"
"Only as a warning," Mendax hastily explained, immediately suspicious that systems that had previously been functional were now down. Had Malus sabotaged his ship when he had interfaced with the central computer system? Was this alliance, that seemed too bizarre to be true, some kind of ruse? But why the elaborate hoax? And why would the IL, or for that matter any Cylon, be a party to it? He had to proceed cautiously . . . "Obviously, the Angylions have gone quite mad to suddenly turn against us, their sworn protectors. I suspect it must be due to the religious rituals they have been demonstrating lately. Humanoids seem to become very unpredictable during such times. I have noticed unusual goings on at their so-called Holy Sanctum, atop the mountain, but our attempts to investigate resulted in a missing shuttlecraft and Raider. Telemetry-analysis registered 'destruct' on the fightercraft." He turned to the centurion at that station, adding, "Attempt to reinitialise once again, Centurion."
"Yes, humans are rather passionate Beings . . ." Malus had to agree.
"Commander-Mendax, the-Angylion-prince-is-also-missing," the same centurion added. "A-fire-was-contained-and-extinguished-in-the . . ."
"In his quarters?" Mendax inserted quickly, his lights speeding up as he tied in the absent Dayton with the prince's oh-so-timely escape. Obviously, they were connected. "Find him, Centurion. And locate the manservant. I rather suspect they'll be together."
"And then bring them to the Command Centre," Malus added. "In the name of the Imperious Leader . . . I should very much like to meet this Angylion prince."
"And perhaps the manservant could mend my cloak," Baltar added with a grin, swirling his own dark cloak dramatically.
"By-your-command," the centurion replied, reissuing the orders to his subordinates.
"Captain-Dorado-of-the-Harrower-standing-by," the centurion at the comm reported.
"Put him through," Baltar again intervened.
"Go ahead, Centurion," Mendax nodded, when the Cylon hesitated. "And begin the final preparations for lift-off."
"By-your-command."
Dorado's image came up on screen. "Commander Mendax, I have no time to waste on pleasantries. Koivee Outpost has reported Borg activity on their long-range scanners, moving at very high speed, in our direction. The Borg are soon expected in this quadrant..
"Koivee . . ." Mendax began to ask, not familiar with it.
"Are Admiral Malus and Commander Baltar aboard?" Dorado sped ahead.
"If you don't mind, Mendax," Malus pushed him aside. "We are, Captain."
"Your timing couldn't be better, Captain," Baltar nodded approvingly. "Especially with the Harbinger's batteries, so we have discovered, not functional currently."
"Commander," Dorado nodded, his features carefully composed as he gazed on the traitor, who actually was offering tactical information that could compromise the enemy. Then the Harbinger's commander was back. "Commander Mendax, we must arm you with Microsoft OS as soon as possible." He glanced off screen, and then back again. "We have a shuttle of specialists and a squadron of fighters preparing to launch."
"A squadron of fighters?" Mendax repeated. "Isn't that a little . . . excessive?"
"If the Borg vessel energizes while you're unarmed, you'll be helpless. You will be assimilated. I'm trying to protect your ship, and your crew as well, Commander."
"My apologies, Captain Dorado," Mendax replied, diplomatically. "Until a centar ago, I thought that the Colonies and Cylon were still at war. Even with the delicate inroads that we've made with humanoids in our own little corner of this dimension, it's difficult to comprehend . . ."
"Of course, I think I understand," Dorado nodded, looking off-monitor once again. "Get me a blade."
As Mendax waited, the 'Harrower'captain rolled up the sleeve of the same dark uniform that Lieutenant Luana was wearing. He then held up a blade, and with a deliberate move, neatly sliced through his flesh at the wrist, severing it circumferentially for the benefit of the vid-feed. His expression remained impartial as he started pushing back the very human-looking flesh to reveal a cybernetic limb beneath. The Harrower officer was a Human-Cylon construct of some sort! It was startling, and yet it substantiated Malus' story more effectively than anything else he had yet offered, other than the evidence of the modified Raider in their landing bay. Mendax's brain began flashing even faster, as he strove to take all this in.
"Perhaps this will ease your cybernetic mind, Commander?" Captain Dorado smiled acerbically.
"It just might, Captain," the IL replied. "We are preparing to take off. Direct your team to Landing Bay Alpha once we achieve orbit."
"Aye, Commander. We shall be ready for you. Captain Dorado out."
----------
A drill boring through his brain, grinding through his skull, with no way to stop it. Ravaging, tearing away at his mind, revealing everything, and there was no defence. All his training, all his experience, nothing could stop the onslaught of memories, good and bad, from pummelling Starbuck, overwhelming him. Jerked from one phase of his life to the next, flipping through every pivotal event—even the ones he had suppressed out of an instinct for survival—nothing could prevent the Cylons from getting everything they wanted. Every tiny fragment, every particle of what he was . . .
All that was left was self-loathing. Disgust. A burning anger.
He had thought that destroying the Brain Probe, blowing it to Hades Hole, would somehow erase the black mark against him. It would even the score, set him on an even keel. And yeah, it had felt good to see the machine blown to bits, alongside his tormentors. All reduced to smoking chunks. But . . . but, he had alerted the Cylons of his escape, putting both himself and Dayton in further danger, eliminating any advantage that the commander had gained them on this mission. He'd screwed up royally. He had to set it right. It was all his fault. To find out after all this time . . . his breath caught in his throat as it burned through his brain. All his fault . . .
He poured on the speed, escaping the ringing in his ears and the smell of smoke as he ran into the desolate night. Had to find . . . tearing through the brambles . . . he couldn't get the terrifying scream out of his mind, or the taste of fear out of his mouth . . . where was she?
Mama!!!
"Starbuck!"
The yell snapped him out of his flashback, and he glanced over his shoulder to see . . . Dayton? His chest burned from exertion as he looked around in consternation at his surroundings. A ship . . . a Cylon Base Ship. Pulled from one memory to another . . . or was this real? He nodded slightly, holding out a hand to fleetingly touch the bulkhead, making sure it was solid, as a firestorm of memories raged against him once again. He stumbled under the onslaught, trying to ground himself, before he was pulled back into the maelstrom . . .
Get it together, Bucko!
The Endeavour's commander had fallen behind him, as they raced down the corridors of the Cylon Base Ship. With an effort, Starbuck slowed his pace, waiting for the older man to catch up while adrenaline coursed through the young warrior's body. His heart was pounding in tune with his head, and he wiped at his face, slick with sweat. He couldn't shake the urgency, the compulsion to keep going. It consumed him. It was the driving force that kept him moving, when his head was threatening to blow apart. No . . . he couldn't stop. He had to get there. Mama! Where are you, Mama? He had toget past the Cylons while he could . . . brambles tearing at his clothes, his bare feet . . . which way now? No time to waste . . . He began to pick up the pace again.
"Hold up, Espresso Buzz!" A micron later, louder . . . "That's a goddamn order!"
Then a hand gripped his arm, and pulled him up short, jerking him around.
"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Dayton asked breathlessly, sweat running off his brow in torrents.
"Gotta find her . . ." Starbuck panted, pulling against the Earthman's grip, bent on resuming his search.
"Luana?" Dayton asked, his grip tightening as his brow wrinkled in confusion. "Are you talking about your wife?"
"Huh?" Starbuck replied, as images of Luana assailed his mind while Dayton pushed him up against a bulkhead insistently. His . . . his wife . . . "Lu's here?"
"Bloody hell!" Dayton spat, giving Starbuck a shake. "Where are you?"
The question caught him off guard, setting off his internal klaxon, and he automatically looked around. Something wasn't right. Still, he knew this place . . . "Base Ship."
"What Base Ship?" Dayton demanded.
More images flooded his senses. Baltar on a pedestal, smiling unctuously down at him. Being restrained into a chair, and the Brain Probe lowering. Apollo dropping Boomer's transponder. The first look at the Abaddon. Lucifer escorting him from the Brig. Sneaking through the Cylon landing bay, to the Central Core. A sword fight . . .
"What Base Ship?" Dayton repeated, even more insistently.
"I . . . uh . . ." There was a roaring in his ears, and his chest burned. He couldn't get enough air into his lungs. Dayton's eyes bored into him, demanding answers. Answers that he couldn't seem to find struggling against the crushing onslaught of images. . .
"What. . ." SMACK!!!!! "Base . . ." SMACK!!! "Ship???"
The sharp sting on the left side of his face obliterated everything else. Bizarre and conflicting images and memories retreated like an ebbing tide . . . leaving only the lingering stench of fear and confusion. Starbuck touched his cheek, feeling the heat rising up from it as Dayton studied him appraisingly.
"Thanks," the warrior murmured uncomfortably, dropping his gaze. "I, uh . . . I really think I needed that."
"No kidding, Caffeine Coma," Dayton replied, looking relieved. "Now, follow me."
----------
A planet far, far away, but so like her own, that bittersweet memories of Empyrean, and the simple life she had left behind, swept over her. Across the universe, riding a wave of Iblis' thoughts, they took her mind to a place that so many sought for vastly dichotomous reasons: hope, survival, a future . . . or the destruction of the rumoured Thirteenth Tribe of Mankind, and the annihilation of a possible refuge for a ragtag Fleet of survivors that were destined for extinction, if Iblis had his way.
No! Not while she was still breathing, would Ama allow that to occur!
The countryside rolling by beneath her reminded her of the Earthmen's Journey to Earth production, as she gazed down on the beauty that was the blue and white planet. Pyramids almost identical to their motherworld's, huge and sprawling cities, deserts of sere and windswept beauty, fields of blinding white ice, rolling green hills and burbling brooks, vast amounts of water, yet sufficient land and resources for the present population, plus a few refugees from across the Heavens—it was the paradise they all hoped for.
Yet, however tempting, she wasn't here to sightsee. She had come with a purpose in mind as she soared through a mountainous region, finally ending up at a secluded valley, before a huge set of massive steel doors. Her mind reached out, and she understood. It was military base built into a mountainside. Deep within were the men she had been looking for. With a thought, she was inside.
But something had gone disastrously wrong.
Painfully thin, lines of worry etched into his features, Captain Richard "Dick" Dickins, USN, and late of the Space Shuttle Endeavour was confined alone in a cell. Ama could feel his helplessness, his desperation, his disappointment, even as he finally dwelled back in his homeland. It was the kind of emotion that could drive a sane man over the edge . . . and one who had been there before, to suicide.
Yet it wasn't a wave of sorrow which she was detecting from Dickins, instead it was anger. A deep, burning resentment at his treatment by his own people, and a concern for his fellow traveller from the other side of the universe. A man who didn't understand the language, save for a few words and phrases, and who had relied upon a Languatron of dubious programming with which to communicate, which had long since been disassembled and meticulously examined piece by piece.
Three metrons away, and in a cell apart from Dickins was Hummer. A Colonial science technician with enough information and genius that he could have helped prepare Earth for an invasion from the Cylons. But, like Dickins, instead of being regaled as a hero, or treated with the respect due a visiting dignitary, he had been interrogated, phlebotomized, examined, and locked away. She could sense his despair, sorrow and regret. How long had it been since he spoke to someone in his own tongue that didn't look back at him with suspicion, distrust and contempt? How long had it been since he had even spoken, because when he did they repeatedly called him a "terrorist" or "fanatic", words he did not understand, but which he needed no Languatron to know weren't terms of endearment. He thought he had come to contribute to the salvation of his people, but he had instead failed them. And he would rot in the Brig of these "Americans" who had a society, or at least members of it, that were too afraid to accept Cyborgs as anything other than fictional creations.
Ama's heart went out to them, but there was naught she could do, at least for now. Try as she might to connect with them, she felt the pull of Iblis jerking her away from what he would have remain secret. She could feel his rage as he realized that his attempt to consume her, had culminated in his spawn's victory. Desperately, she tried to cast a thought to the captive men, but was violently wrenched away. As she was pulled back to Morlais, she caught a final glimpse of the wreck of a Cylon Raider on the Earth's moon. Within, she knew, was a Cylon IL who had activated a long-range beacon that the superpowers of Earth were still arguing over.
And not enough light yahrens away by far was Commander Syphax of the Abaddon-class Base Ship, Ravager, responding to the call.
----------
"I know this isn't exactly a good time, but could I have a centon?" Sheba asked, brushing a lock of hair back off her face as she took Dorado aside in the Control Centre.
The acting CO turned to regard the Pegasus strike captain, not missing the determination in her brown eyes, the posture of her body, and the tilt of her head. Her hand rested lightly on her weapon . . . so typical of the Colonial Warrior about to do battle.
"How about thirty microns?" he returned, his voice relaxed as he lightly touched her arm with his good hand. His real hand.
"Forty-five," she countered with a faint smile, relaxing ever so slightly with the friendly banter.
"Forty?"
"Done." She paused only long enough for him to tap his chrono. "I want to go on the mission."
"Are you afraid Boxey will now stow away in the shuttle to the Harbinger, and you want to be prepared for every eventuality?" he countered, seeing her back go up instantly.
"Boxey is missing . . ." she returned adamantly.
"And you want to go look for him on a Cylon Base Ship that we found in a different dimension?" he countered. "C'mon, Sheba. I may not be Bojay, but I flew with you on the Pegasus long enough to know how that mind works. You're worried about Apollo, and you want to be a part of the mission."
"There's more to it than that, Dorado," she insisted.
"But it doesn't involve Boxey," he added.
"No . . ." she admitted, pouting ever so slightly, in that way that only Sheba could get away with. "Count Iblis. He's . . . evil."
"Yeah, well the Cylons haven't exactly been nominated for citizenship awards in this quadrant either."
"Iblis is worse than any Cylon, Dorado. If he's a part of this . . ." She hesitated, looking away as though she was considering her words carefully. "I'm going to be honest with you."
"I'd appreciate that," he replied, nodding. He crossed his arms over his chest, pulling at his sleeve when he noticed the mess he'd made of his cybernetic arm when he'd cut it open to show the Cylon commander.
"You've heard that Count Iblis made an impact on the Fleet when we first came across him." Sheba frowned, letting out a breath before seeking out his gaze reluctantly. "But he also made an impact on me, personally." She straightened her back, as though it would give her the courage to finish what she wanted to say. "And I'm not proud of how I reacted to him . . . in fact, I'm ashamed of how easily he influenced me, recognizing my weaknesses . . . exploiting them."
The shift from fellow officer to friend, it came as easily to Dorado now, as when he'd been in the Caprican Academy with Starbuck and Apollo. His instructors had criticized him for it, and had told him it would hold him back professionally. "They described Iblis as a demon, Sheba. Diabolis. Otherworldly. Don't you think maybe you're being too hard on yourself?" he asked quietly, drawing her further away from the others. This was so typical of the Juggernaut's daughter. Just when he thought she was mimicking her stubborn father, she revealed her depth of character and vulnerability. He considered himself honoured that she was willing to confide in him.
"In a word: no," she replied, her self-derision plain. "Apollo could have lost his life for my actions. I was immature . . . naïve . . . too trusting . . . too eager to find in Iblis what I had lost when . . . my father disappeared . . .when you all did with the Pegasus . . ." For a moment she was quiet, a subtle sadness infecting her as her thoughts travelled back to another time, another place. Then she lifted her chin, meeting his searching gaze. "Have you ever felt as if you needed to atone for something in your life, Dorado? Have you ever wanted to have a second chance to prove to yourself that you're not a complete fool?"
"Is that what you're asking for, Sheba?"
She nodded.
He stared at her for several microns, weighing regulations against personal growth. She waited impatiently, shifting restlessly under his gaze. "Then suit up, Captain, and report to Lieutenant Jolly in Beta Bay. I've already told him that he's in charge, Sheba."
"And so he should be. This is too personal for me to take charge of the mission," Sheba acknowledged, leaning forward and lightly kissing his cheek. "Thank you."
"Er . . . that's no way to . . . uh . . . to treat a fellow officer, Captain," he returned a little awkwardly. When was the last time that any woman—other than a med tech—had been this close to him, never mind kissed him? He had moved from "eligible bachelor" to the "freak" list, after his accident.
"But it's customary for a friend," she returned, the moistness in her eyes barely detectable. "Thank you, my dear, dear Dorado."
"My dear, dear Dorado, huh? Sounds like one of those Backwoods songs about a hovermobile that were becoming popular on Libra. I can almost hear the twang . . ." he replied lightly, pointing towards the hatch. "Get going, Sheba, or you're gonna miss your flight."
"You've been hanging out with Starbuck too long," she returned with a laugh.
"We all have," he returned with a smile, his heart a little lighter, as she headed for the bay. There was no doubt about it, Apollo was one lucky guy.
----------
On their first attack wave, the Cylons had fired their weapons directly into the mass of approaching Angylions, cutting down much of their first line. Prince Glynn, however, had been spared, as though protected from high above, from the Infinite. With a fierce determination and rage brought about by ten years of slavery, the Angylions had rushed the Cylons, their mighty army crushing the dwindling Cylon forces as they advanced on the Base Ship.
With a battle cry that could turn a man's blood to ice, Prince Glynn hurled himself off a rock ledge, his sword already beginning its downward arc before he hit the ground, cleaving in two the Cylon that was bent on attacking one of his men from behind. The Cylon fell, spewing sparks, its head toppling into the mud.
"Onward!" Glynn cried, feeling the divinity surge through him as they pressed on towards the Base Ship. "For the glory of Morlais!"
"Morlais!" one of his men echoed from nearby, before the rare blast of a laser volley cut him down.
Glynn snarled in rage, raising his sword in front of him as he sped forward. Around him, Cylons were going down, as they were overwhelmed by numbers, falling under swords, mattocks, mining picks, rocks, whatever else the Angylions could find to wield. He could sense his father on one side, and his grandfather on his other. The blood of his ancestors raced through his body, empowering him, making him invincible. Immortal. The Cylon in his path turned, aiming its murderous weapon once again, not intimidated in the least by certain death staring it in its oscillating red eye. The young prince ducked as the centurion fired, then rushed the enemy, his sword holding true, piercing its plating, running him through. Cylon armour was no match for a perfectly forged Angylion blade. The Cylon shuddered, its red light extinguishing as it crumpled to the ground, pulling Glynn and his sword down with it.
Breathing hard, Glynn regained his feet, bracing a foot on the centurion's chest as he jerked his sword free. A sudden noise from the Cylon ship demanded his attention. The ground began to tremble as he turned to look . . .
"My Lord!"
Instinctively, Glynn threw himself to the side, rolling away, even as a burning pain cut across his chest. Time seemed to freeze, as he rolled onto his back. For a moment he could see his forefathers gathered over him, generations of Angylion swordsmen and nobility keeping watch. It was comforting and frightening at the same time. A sudden agony lanced through him as he drew a ragged breath. When he opened his eyes again, his ancestors were gone, replaced by an image of the Cylon ship.
It was hissing! Like a serpent, or water on a hot stone, the hated enemy monstrosity was filling the whole valley with a strange sound. Whatever foul power drove it, it was once more awake. He stared in bemusement as it slowly started to float in the air, gradually obliterating the murky sky, as a strange humming filling his senses, the bottom of the ship glowing with a sickly green-white radiance. Higher and higher it flew, like a black demon rearing up from the Underworld, threatening to devour them. He groaned, closing his eyes and pressing a hand to his right side, feeling the sticky warmth spreading across his tunic. It was up to their doublewalkers now. To the Colonials.
"Prince Glynn!" The Angylion warrior, himself bloody and wounded, rushed to his side.
"I be . . . fine, Jac," Glynn returned, breathlessly, as the Angylion's hand pushed his away, checking his wound.
"Find Eirys!" Jac hissed at another, pressing down hard as a groan was torn from the prince's throat. "And Llewelyn!"
"I be fine enough . . ." Glynn gasped, as pain burnt a fiery path across his chest, stealing his breath, while his vision greyed around the edges.
----------
Apollo shuddered, trying to shake off the feeling of apprehension that suddenly and unexpectedly hit him. A shadow passing over your grave . . . It wasn't the most affable of images to come to a guy while sneaking around on a grounded Cylon Base Ship, or any Base Ship for that matter, and was made even less so by the realization that they had just launched.
That slight sensation that the ship was "alive" was something a warrior noticed after living aboard battleships for enough yahrens. The constant rumbling background of white noise wasn't really noticeable . . . unless it stopped. And this ship had been eerily quiet up until now.
"You okay?" Lia whispered, pausing by the open hatch.
"Fine," Apollo nodded, feeling her watchful eyes upon him. Although he knew she was only Ama's goddaughter, and not related by blood, the young ensign had some of the Empyrean necromancer's talents for reading emotions. It unsettled him that she could see through his apparently calm demeanour with all the ease of condensed tylinium. "The Brig should be down three levels . . ." he paused as she squeezed his arm.
"I know," she told him, smiling slightly.
He nodded, abashed. "Right. Of course, you do." This ship was identical to the Endeavour, save the refits. Momentarily, he wondered if the Covert Operations Ship had made it through to this dimension. Malus had calculated the risks, and the decision to bring them over was a sound one. Of course, occasionally even sound decisions ended in disaster. It was a chance he had to take. One he would need to live with . . . or die for.
"Apollo!" Lia whispered urgently, peering downward into the hatch.
He leaned down alongside her, catching sight of movement, at the same time as he heard the sound of footsteps scaling the ladder. Then he exhaled in relief when he recognized the closely cropped grey head coming towards them.
"Dayton!" Apollo whispered.
In a flash, the barrel of a laser was pointed towards them from a few metrons away. A micron later it lowered to display an answering grin that looked sparkling white on a dirt streaked face. "Well, you're a sight for sore eyes!" the Endeavour commander told them, before glancing down the ladder just below him. "How ya doin', kid? Still with me?" he called down.
"No, I'm picking Wild Thornberries in Umbra," came the caustic reply. "Want one?"
"I was wondering what was taking you so long," Dayton threw back at him, as he started to climb through the hatch. His uniform was tattered and filthy, almost unrecognisable as being Colonial in origin. "Get a move on, we just found Apollo and Lia."
"Starbuck's with you?" Apollo confirmed, not missing the concerned look the Earthman cast down at the damp, matted dark-blond head coming up behind him.
"In the flesh," Starbuck announced, climbing up, a Cylon rifle in his grip. His gaze skipped over them, before he glanced up and down the empty corridor. "What did you expect?"
He looked like several levels of Hades Hole. Starbuck's lean form was taut with tension, like a coiled spring about to let go. His clothes were damp with sweat, ragged and bloody in several spots. A dark bruise covered the left side of his jaw. However, he didn't breathe a word about any of it . . .
"You okay?" Apollo asked in concern.
"Starbuck!" Lia stepped forward, wrapping her arms around her brother-in-law.
The warrior startled almost imperceptibly, before slowly enfolding her in his arms, and then letting out a deep, ragged breath. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, his body visibly relaxing as he embraced her.
"What happened?" Apollo asked their commander.
"Brain Probe," Dayton replied quietly. "We smoked the trash cans that were working him over, but . . . he's a bit scrambled."
"But he's not deaf," Starbuck glanced at them, pulling back from Lia. "Where's Lu?"
"With Malus and, believe it or not, Baltar," Lia replied, glancing at her chrono. "Probably in the Control Centre."
"What?" Starbuck looked sick.
"Easy, buddy," Apollo reassured him, filling both men in on the plan as Lia kept watch.
"I'm impressed," Dayton nodded approvingly.
Starbuck merely nodded, swallowing convulsively. He sucked in another breath as he fidgeted on the spot.
"What?" Apollo asked. He knew that look. It was a silent warning that hadn't found a voice . . . yet.
"I . . ." Starbuck muttered, raking a hand back through his hair, and wincing when his fingers paused at the back of his head. Glancing down at his hand, he stared at the congealed blood covering his fingers, from where he had hit his head falling in the mine after Dayton had coshed him. He murmured something unintelligible.
"Come again?" Apollo asked, taking a step closer, and hesitating when Starbuck abruptly backed up, putting that same distance between them. His old friend looked at him warily. Distrustfully. It made him wonder about his mental state. "Starbuck?"
"I couldn't . . . stop them . . ." Starbuck shook his head, staring at the deck between them. His knuckles were white as he gripped the rifle, his voice a choked rasp. "Tried to resist . . . like they taught us . . ."
"Hey, we know that, kid," Dayton told him. "I admit that I don't understand exactly how it works, but in my book that probe is torture, plain and simple. You survived. That's what matters."
Starbuck winced, his gaze flickering over to Dayton as he shifted restlessly. "You don't understand . . ." he said hoarsely, looking around futilely, almost desperately. It was as though he was looking for a lifeline, and wasn't finding it.
"What then?" Apollo asked, reaching out again to grip Starbuck's shoulder in support, as he had done hundreds of times in the time the two had known each other. Again, Starbuck instinctively took a step back, but this time Apollo followed. He grasped both of the strike captain's upper arms, forcing the other to look at him. "Tell me, Starbuck."
The shattered visage of his best friend stared back at him, having difficulty making eye contact. "They know . . . everything."
Apollo shook his head, uncomprehendingly. "Everything" was a little vague, no matter how hard this was on his friend. "How do you mean?"
"Malus . . . Baltar . . . the Endeavour . . . who and what they really are . . . " Starbuck tapped his temple to drive the point across.
Apollo grimaced as he realized that their entire plan was just an interpreted cortical scan away from falling apart. "Frack!"