Part Two

 

Starbuck likes daggits.  One of the attendants at his orphanage had a mongrel daggit with curly hair, floppy ears and a thin rat-like tail that was an abomination in the sight of the Lords.  Rowley had fleas and would eat things that even boys thought were gross.  Starbuck had loved that daggit.  When Rowley was killed by a speeding hovercar, Starbuck cried himself to sleep every night for a secton, despite being eight and tough and far too old to care about stuff like that.

Muffit is a lot smaller than Rowley was, and his tail is unimpeachable.  He's a small terrier sort of thing crossed with something unidentifiable, but he's a friendly little animal.  He has good manners.  He sniffs at Starbuck's shoes, tail wagging, but doesn’t pee on him or hump his leg.  Starbuck's sorry to have to refuse him entrance.

"It's the health regulations.  I can only allow in registered service dogs."  It's dreadful that he has to make the professor and his son sit outside, but he can't risk his licence,  "Sorry.  At least it's not raining."

The professor sighs and give the daggit a glower.  "Right.  My usual, please, Starbuck and a hot chocolate for Boxey."  He drags the daggit and the child back outside and takes over one of the tables.  Boxey gives Starbuck a very hard stare.

"I'm going to take my break now," Starbuck tells Jolly.  Jolly doesn't seem to be too surprised.

Starbuck makes himself a venti hazelnut mocha with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla with whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles and decamps outside, taking the latte and hot chocolate with him.  The professor grins when he joins them, Boxey stares and Muffit accepts half a mushie with more grace and decorum than your average daggit.

"This is Mister Starbuck, Boxey, who's bought the coffee shop from Mister Rameses."

Boxey appears to specialise in hard stares.  He doesn't look much like the professor, of course (and how could he?) and is, indeed, an unremarkable looking child.  He slurps up hot chocolate, eyeing Starbuck over the rim of his mug.  The expression in his brown eyes is not a happy one.

Starbuck isn't going to let himself be intimidated by a six-yahren old.  "Old Mr Rameses told me that Boxey is a regular, too."

The professor nods.  "Childcare and my mother's schedule being what it is, he has to be.  We usually come in a couple of times a secton for half a centar before we head home."

"I work in Daddy's office after school, the days when Grandma can't get me," says Boxey.  He has a moustache from the floating blob of cream from his hot chocolate.  It's quite disgusting but the professor merely grabs Boxey by the chin and wipes him clean without even gagging.  Starbuck's impressed.  But then, you can probably get used to just about anything, however gross, when you're a parent.

"Work?  Aren't there laws against child labour?"  Starbuck tries out a smile but Boxey isn't having any of that.  The hard stare is back.

"I work on my bones," says Boxey.

"The Kobolian's pretty good about him staying in my office after school, until I finish for the day.  By that time we both need a treat."  The professor smiles at his son and gets a tooth-gappy grin back.  Whatever provokes Boxey's ire it isn't his father.  There's a lot of worship in those beady little brown eyes right now.

"Has to be hard," says Starbuck, with a brisk sympathy.  The professor gives him a quick nod.  There's no need to say more.

"I miss Mister Rameses," announces Boxey.  "He used to give me a mushie and he wouldn't have minded Muffit.  He'd have liked Muffy, wouldn't he, Daddy?"

"I'm sure he would.  I'm sure Starbuck likes Muffit too, Boxey.  He gave him a mushie, after all."

Boxey sniffs so disdainfully that Starbuck's tempted to look around to see if Colonel Tigh is lurking nearby and has been handing out lessons on how to intimidate junior officers.  Boxey has the Tigh sneer down to a T.  "Mister Rameses had nice mushies."

"Really?" says Starbuck.  "So do I.  I buy mine from Boomer next door." And just on cue, Boomer arrives bearing the evening's beer.  Starbuck introduces him to the professor and Boomer smiles and mortifies Starbuck so much that Starbuck could cheerfully throttle him.

"Ah-ha," says Boomer, those ridiculous eyebrows working overtime.  "I've heard all about you from Starbuck."

"I gossip about my customers," admits Starbuck.  His glare bounces off Boomer's insensitive hide.  He should take lessons from Boxey.  Boxey's glares don't bounce.

"One or two of them, anyway." Boomer laughs.  Starbuck thinks it's a stupid sound, but the professor just grins.  Starbuck notices that the tips of the professor's ears look pink. 

Boxey doesn’t seem to like the limelight moving on to anyone else.  "I went on a dig with my daddy and found some bones.  Me and Daddy like bones."  He adds complacently, "I have my own trowel.  Daddy gave it to me."

Starbuck hopes he looks suitable awed.  "That's… nice," he says.  "Bones?  Well, well, well.  Does he keep them in the bedroom?"

The professor has a really nice smile.  "I'm going to teach him how to mummify small animals soon," he says, rubbing at Muffit's ears. 

Starbuck is taking a mouthful of hazelnut mocha and chokes on a sprinkle, but Boxey, oblivious, is tilting his head back and upturning his mug to get at the last of his hot chocolate.  Starbuck, coughing, stares at the professor.  That's some awesome parenting.  A pity it's wasted on the kid.

"Well, I think that deserves one of my mushies," says Boomer.  He disappears inside to fetch one, giggling like a lunatic.

"He's nice, Daddy," says Boxey, with pointed emphasis and another inimical stare for Starbuck.  "He likes Muffy, too.  Is Sire Anton coming today, Daddy?"

"I have no idea," says the professor.  "We'll have to wait and see."

"Because Sire Anton's nice, and he'll—"

"Let me guess," says Starbuck.  "He'll like Muffy.  Well, Tiger, I like Muffy just fine but if I let him into the coffee shop and the health inspector sees him, they could close me down.  Then where would your daddy go for his coffee?  Tell you what we can do, though.  See that door there?"

Boxey twists in his seat to look at the side door between the coffee shop and the iconic electronics store next door.

"That door goes through to my office at the back.  Whenever you come here we'll let Muffy in by that door and take him to the office, and he can wait there for you and the professor.  How does that sound?"

"You don't have to do that," protests the professor.

Starbuck waves this off.  He meets the professor's gaze.  Boy, but those eyes are real, true green and none of your wishy-washy hazel.  "It's all about customer satisfaction.  It’s not much to do for a regular, Professor."

"Apollo."

There's a little burst of warmth under Starbuck's breastbone.  The professor's… no, Apollo's smile is brilliant and warming.  "Apollo."

"If you're sure, I'm very grateful.  I like coming here.  What do you say, Boxey?"

"Okay," says Boxey.  "If you promise that Muffy will like it.  Can I have two mushies?





Apollo comes to the coffee shop every other day, usually for lunch.  Starbuck invests in a reserved sticker for the table Apollo usually uses—the coffee shop is busy enough to merit it, these days—and falls into the easy habit of joining him for a half-centar or so.  It doesn't mean anything.  It's just being friendly.  It's the highlight of Starbuck's day.

Muffit soon gets used to skittering down the passage to Starbuck's office and the dog bed that now lives under the rickety desk.  Boxey comes often too, but shows no sign of thawing.  He usually fixes Starbuck with the unwavering stare of one who may only be six, but who recognises a rival for his father's attention when he sees it.  Boxey doesn't seem to be impressed.

"Man, but you have it pretty bad," says Boomer.

Starbuck maintains that he has no idea what Boomer's talking about. 

"You," says Boomer, "are smitten.  Looking after the daggit, trying to win over the son.  Smitten, Starbuck."

"I don’t know what you mean," says Starbuck.  "I'd do the same for any of the regulars.  It's just good customer service."

"Madam Pearse," is all Boomer says to that.  And yes, he has a point.  He knows her only too well as she stops off in the bakery most mornings too.

"Well, okay, maybe I wouldn't do anything to look after Madam Pearse's daggit.  If she has one.  And I don't think she does.  Any daggit of hers will be a savage brute that will tear my customers limb from limb and spit the bits out all over the floor."  Starbuck looks thoughtfully at Boomer.  "If she has a daggit, I'll let it practice the tearing and spitting on you, you bastard."

Boomer nods as if his diagnosis is confirmed.  "You have it really bad," he says.  And because, like most people, he's as self-centred as they come and can't focus on Starbuck's problems for more than a few centons, he adds:  "Hey, Dietra got the job singing at the new Chancery.  Want to go over there on Eighth-Day night and catch her new show?"

Dietra's is Boomer's girlfriend.  She is a very fine lady indeed and Starbuck has a very healthy respect for her.  Very healthy.  Boomer's very respectful, too.  Starbuck privately says that she's scary as Hades and Boomer's a worm under her pretty little foot, but he has far more sense than to say so where Dietra might overhear him.  He's nowhere near as scared of her as Boomer is, but is, you know, healthily respectful.

Still.  Boomer's a self-centred bastard, introducing his own concerns when all Starbuck wants to talk about is Apollo.

"Sure," says Starbuck.  A game of Pyramid will be a very good distraction.

Boomer grins.  "Bring Apollo."

So Starbuck does.





It's Professor Josiah who precipitates that particular step forward in the friendship… relationship… thing that may or may not be going on with Apollo.  It's clear, though, that advancing anything is absolutely not what Josiah wants to do.

Professor Josiah—Apollo says that the students just call him Joss, but Starbuck scorns to pander to that sort of self-delusion.  It would take more than a nickname to make Professor Josiah just one of the guys and Starbuck doesn't want to be that friendly.  Well, Professor Josiah, apparently, is another archaeologist who's been away digging up bones and has just come back to the Kobolian.  Apollo brings him to Starbucks for lunch.

Starbuck doesn't notice him at first.  He has another new coffee for Apollo to try – pumpkin spiced double-shot dry latte with an extra pump of sugar-free vanilla and chocolate sprinkles in honour of the season, and he's not entirely convinced by it—and he's bounced up to Apollo with a tasting cup before he sees the older man holding onto Apollo's arm.

Not as old as Old Mr Rameses or Sire Anton, of course, but he has to be a good fifteen or twenty yahrens older than either Starbuck or Apollo.  He's a tall man and slender, still good-looking in a louche sort of way and if you like that sort of thing, with a thin face and mouth and a sharp nose.  He's very elegantly dressed, very fashionable.  It's far too young a look for him.

He's giving Starbuck the real stink-eye, and Starbuck doesn't like the way that his grip on Apollo's arm changes and he moves closer, to press up against Apollo.  All the while the man looks like he's smelling something terrible.

Apollo introduces them and everything deteriorates from that point on.  Professor Josiah is clinging to Apollo, establishing a prior claim and ownership, maybe?  And while the significance of that is intriguing, Starbuck's hackles are rising.

Professor Josiah decides to give him hell about the missing apostrophe.  But not in a nice way, a joking way.  The man sneers.  He sneers so badly that Starbuck is hard put to it not to provide a little extra customer service by way of a balled fist to that aristocratic nose.  Instead he hits where it hurts.

He laughs.  He smiles at Apollo to share the joke and to establish common ground that will, he thinks, irk Professor Pissy.  And "Heavens," he says, honey-sweet and so condescending he has to be channelling Commander Cain himself, "isn't the older generation pernickety about punctuation!"

Professor I'm-Young-And-Trendy-I-Wish! gasps and opens and closes his mouth like a fish.  Apollo looks astonished, like something bit him. 

Score one for Starbuck.  He may have had to give up flying, but he can still power up and hit the target whenever he wants to, bang in the bulls-eye.  Professor Josiah is spluttering and Starbuck enjoys each and every choke and half-gasped, inarticulate word.  The man dyes his hair, as well.  Starbuck can see the grey hair coming in at the roots. 

Starbuck smiles very, very sweetly, conscious of his own thick, grey-less hair.  "Two pumpkin lattes coming up," he says.  "You want a chocolate muffin with that?"





He's sorry, later. 

All the while that Apollo and Professor Older-Man-In-Denial are there, Starbuck is buoyed up by his victory and the resentful incoherence to which he's reduced the enemy.  Apollo is obviously as embarrassed as hell, and Starbuck's sorry for that, but Joss deserves it. 

But Starbuck doesn't get to spend his half-centar with Apollo, and that's Professor Dyed-Hair's fault and it's damned annoying.  They leave after they've had their coffee and all Starbuck gets for the day is an apologetic glance from Apollo as he's hauled out of the door.  Starbuck sighs.  Some victories are hollow.

Jolly appears in his office door, later.  "Still sulking?  Listen Starbuck, that new guy is here, the one the agency sent over.  I've just had him pull a couple of customers' shots, and he's okay.  A good barista.  Do you want to interview him?"

"Did I interview you?  And what do you mean, sulking?"

"You made me do what I just did to Greenbean.  And sulking?  It's what you're doing.  Want to come and meet him?"

Starbuck sighs and gets up.  He doesn't hurry.  Everything seems flat and tired today, despite it being a red-letter day: business is so good he can afford extra help, maybe get some time off for himself and… for himself.  "What sort of name is Greenbean, anyway?"

"It's Groeneboon, " says the new barista.  He's from Northern Friesland on Aries, apparently, where they warp the language into something so odd not even their mothers recognise it.  "But I'll answer to Greenbean."

Which is just as well, because Starbuck has three attempts at Groeneboon before giving it up.  His tongue won't quite wrap itself around what he thinks might be a diphthong in the middle.  He watches Greenbean pull another couple of drinks and is satisfied.  The Arian may not be able to speak decent Standard, but he can make coffee.  That's all Starbuck's bothered about.

"A sectar's trial okay with you, Greenbean?  Cool.  Listen, guys, I'm going next door to see Boomer.  Come and get me if there's a problem."

Jolly waves him away, but Boomer gives him a beer and a sympathetic hearing.  "I wonder what reason the guy had to be jealous," he says when Starbuck's retold the day's events for the third time, with embellishments and analysis this time.  "Could be significant."

"Mmn," says Starbuck, and there's silence for a while.  It's kinda nice.  Boomer's undemanding and quiet, content just to sit and let Starbuck think. 

But what Starbuck's thinking isn't about quiet contentment.  He likes Apollo.  He admits that.  He really, really likes Apollo.  He can admit that too.  What he wants to know is what Apollo thinks of him, if there's any chance at all, if he's really blown it and Apollo will never come back again… and round and round it goes, like a rat in a cage.

"Here," says Boomer, and hands him another bottle.  When he looks up, Boomer's grinning and clinks his bottle against Starbuck's. 

"To absent friends."

"Yeah," says Starbuck, and drinks.  If Lady Luck's with him, he can drown.  Himself or his sorrows, what difference?





When Starbuck hops back over the fence between his tiny back yard and Boomer's, Muffit is in Starbuck's office, curled up on the dog bed and worrying at something with teeth that looked to be in very good condition.  Starbuck stops in his tracks, feeling the warmth build.  Apollo's here.

Muffit yaps at him, the normal barking a bit muffled.  Starbuck leans closer.  Oh great.  There goes supper.  Muffit is exercising those very good, sharp teeth in Starbuck's supper.  The remnants of the coolbag are strewn over the floor.  Good old Muffit.  So nice that Muffit gets the chance of a good steak now and again.  Starbuck had been hoping for the chance of one himself.  His own fault for not putting the coolbag into the fridge upstairs in the flat, but c'mon.  He'd been a bit preoccupied.

"I hope it makes you sick, daggit.  Not here, though.  Wait until you get home, then I hope it makes you sick."

But still.  Apollo's here.

Starbuck tries to hold back to a saunter.  It doesn’t do to look too eager.  "Hey," he says, casual as you like when he gets to Apollo's table.  Boxey is there too, looking a little less revolted by Starbuck's existence than normal.  

Apollo grins.  "Where did you pop up from?"

"I own the place.  If I want to use the back door, who's going to stop me, huh?"  Starbuck risks a grin at Boxey, who's been eating one of Boomer's pink-icing cupcakes.  Well, he must have been.  He has the evidence spread from ear to ear and pink icing plastered on one eyebrow.  "Hey Tiger.  Neat eyebrow decoration."

"Hello."  Boxey's prim.  Well as a prim as a kid can be with icing in their eyebrows, but he isn't as hostile as usual.  Maybe Starbuck's growing on him.

"I knew you were here when I saw Muffit was in my office.  He likes steak, did you know that?  It was my dinner."

"Oh felger."  Apollo looks guilty. 

"My fault.  I should have put it away earlier and I forgot.  I wasn't expecting you back today, otherwise I'd have put it out of his reach."

"There is no such thing as being out of that daggit's reach," says Apollo.  "Look, Starbuck, I wanted to see you, to apologise—"

"No.  You don't have to apologise.  I'm the one who's sorry.  I was a bit rude to your friend—"

"A bit!" says Apollo, but he's grinning.  "I didn't know where to look.  Joss's face was a picture.  No Starbuck, he was rude first.  I don't know what got into him.  He's not usually like that.  He just—" Apollo hesitates and shrugs.  "He doesn't like letting go."

There's a very peculiar burst of warmth under Starbuck's rib cage.  It's not pain, not even pleasure.  Anticipation, may be.  Potential.  Something like that.  "Doesn't share, you mean?" 

Apollo nods.  "Look, I think Boxey and I owe you supper.  There's a restaurant near here that does amazing rice dishes.  Come and join us.  We'd like that.  Right Boxey?"

Boxey looks like Starbuck just pissed in his hot chocolate.  "You mean, he's going to come and eat with us?"

"I hope so."

"Okay," says Boxey.  Maybe he's related to Joss.  Neither of them like sharing their toys and boy, can Boxey do a good stink-eye.  He gives it to Starbuck, the steely glare that tells Starbuck that Boxey sees his interest in Apollo, even if Apollo doesn't.  Luckily a six-yahren-old isn't likely to articulate it in quite that way…

Starbuck is almost dizzy at the invitation.  He grins at Boxey despite the stink eye.  "I'd be delighted.  Now?"

"If you can, so Boxey doesn't get to bed too late."

"Great.  I'm starved."

Boxey, though, has another conversational spanner to toss at them first.  "Is this a date?"

The little sunburst under Starbuck's ribs explodes and expands, like someone hit him with a cattle prod, bang on it.  He just stares.  He can't think of anything to say other than Oh Lords, yes please! and that's just pathetic.

Apollo's ears are scarlet.  "It's just dinner." 

"Grandpa was taking to Grandma and Auntie Thenie the other day," says Boxey.  "He said that it was time you started going out on some dates.” 

“Did he, now?” Starbuck watches Apollo's reaction.  What a sensible sort of father Apollo seems to have.

Boxey nods.  "He said that Daddy had been moping too long, and Grandma cried.  She doesn't like it when daddy's sad and lonely over my Mom.  I said that Daddy isn't sad all the time and he has me to keep him company—"

Starbuck isn't above buttering up the kid to get in with the father.  "I'll bet you're good company, too."

"Oh, he is," says Apollo, rather faint.  The redness is spreading down his neck.  It's a good look on him, is terminal embarrassment.

Boxey's impervious to sarcasm.  "It'll be nice for someone to live with us to look after me while Daddy's busy with his bones and the dead people, but Grandpa and Grandma don’t have any ideas about who we should get.  I asked them, but all Grandpa said was that I had big ears and that I wasn't to say anything to anybody.  Grandma gave me some sweeties and Auntie Athena laughed, just like a girl.  That silly laugh girls do.  You know.  Then Uncle Zac came and played Triad with me.  Do I have big ears, Daddy?"

Apollo has covered his face with his hands and his voice is muffled.  "They flap about like a big fat elephant's ears." 

Boxey giggles and it's such a scary sort of sound to hear that Starbuck can't help grinning.  "I don't!  I don’t have elephant ears.  Is Starbuck taking us on a date?"

Oh, but Starbuck would like to, don't you worry, Boxey.  But this compensatory dinner will do for starters.

"No.  We are taking Starbuck to dinner because your daggit ate his supper."  Apollo looks up.  He's very red.  "Starbuck, I am so sorry.  My father is a dreadful influence on him."

"Oh I don't know," says Starbuck, grinning, and Apollo goes even redder.  Starbuck hadn't thought that was possible.  "Sounds very sensible to me."

"I'm awful, terrible hungry, Daddy," says Boxey, who obviously wouldn't recognise an emotional undercurrent if it had him by the scruff of the neck.   "Can we go now?"

And so they do, leaving Muffit behind under Starbuck's desk to finish off the steak.  The restaurant is only three or four streets away, tucked down another of the little side streets that lead from the Kobolian's grounds.  It's small and expensive, and Starbuck wouldn't normally even think about passing through the door without giving his wallet a massive transfusion first.  But the wait-staff know Apollo and they are shown to a table almost straight away.  Starbuck thinks that they may even have queue-jumped, but if they did, Apollo doesn't seem to notice.

The food is wonderful.  Starbuck has to hold back so he doesn't orgasm over the delicately spiced rice dish piled with tiny shellfish, served with wilted spinach and a piquant sauce.  At least the menu says it's a piquant sauce.  Starbuck says that he wouldn't know piquant if it bit him, but it tastes damn good.  Apollo laughs and the beady little brown eye that Boxey turns to him is, for once, indulgent and lacking in ire.

"The little things crunch like bones," says Boxey, with great satisfaction, and concentrates on his food to let the grownups talk for centars. 

Apollo swears him to secrecy and tells him about the summer's dig.  "I couldn’t go last yahren, and Joss took over for me instead.  It was too soon after Serina… well, it was just too soon.  I wasn't really fit enough to be scrambling all over the Carillon desert and Boxey was just beginning to settle, so we stayed at home."

"And fretted," guesses Starbuck, remembering the competitive nature Apollo had shown over the peer review.

"I was terrified he'd find something.  But he didn't.  I did, only a secton after we arrived."  Apollo leans forward and his eyes gleam a dark green in the subdued lamplight.  "The Twentieth Dynasty, Starbuck, was the greatest of them all.  Under its Pharaohs, the Colonies were founded, everything that we now have came from them.  The Great Pharaoh was the one who founded the Colonies.  He never lived here, but he expanded the empire into this quadrant.  Sekhet-an-Ankhmehit.  A great leader."  Apollo's smile is so brilliant that Starbuck laughs.  "I found him, Starbuck.  I found the Great Pharaoh.  His tomb wasn't completely untouched, but most its contents are still there.  I brought him and a few of the mummies from his royal cache home with me, along with some of the most precious artefacts, and early next yahren, we'll make the announcement and hold a small exhibition.  It'll take me yahrens to clear the site, but next year… the stuff we have to show even with most if it still on Carillon…  there's not been anything like it, ever.  It’s going to be huge."

Apollo's enthusiasm is endearing.  Starbuck grins at him, enjoying the warmth flooding through him.  He really is going to have to read up on this stuff.  Maybe he'll ask Apollo to recommend a few books.

In return for the confidences about mummies, Starbuck tells Apollo a little about why he had to leave the Services.  For the first time, recounting the sorry little tale doesn't pain him.  It's just something that happened to him.  It's in the past.  He has a different present, and not one that's second-best.  He realises, as he and Apollo share a bottle of very nice wine, that he is happy in his new life.

"Do you miss it?"

Starbuck shrugs.  "A bit less with every secton that goes by.  I miss flying.  I'll never be able to fly fighters again, but I should be able to requalify on commercial ships and shuttles soon.  My doctor reckons my eyes will be good enough for that.  I miss my old squadmates and I miss the excitement.  Mind you, it could get too exciting at times.  Still, I don't miss the regular lectures from the Commander about sexual incontinence and gambling."

"Oh," says Apollo.  After a micron that's tense for reasons that Starbuck is frantically trying to analyse, he asks; "Are you much of a gambler?"

"How do you think I could afford the down payment on the coffee shop and to pay for the refurbishment?  I took my gratuity along to the biggest chancery in the Colonies and tripled it overnight."  Starbuck laughs.  "Lords, but Lady Luck was with me that night.  Do you play?"

"Badly.  No, Starbuck. you can't make your fortune out of me!"

Starbuck thinks that's a shame.  It's not the sort of example a parent should be setting his son—who's crawled into Apollo's lap and is snoring, not particularly quietly— and obviously Apollo's a stick-in-the-mud archaeological professor who probably only gets excited when he's playing with bones.

"Only if they're more than five thousand yahrens old," agrees Apollo.  He doesn’t seem to be offended.

"Seriously," says Starbuck, when they've wrangled over the bill and he's allowed Apollo to win.  "Can you get a baby-sitter for Boxey some evenings?  I'm going to the new Chancery with Boomer this secton-end.  Why don't you come with us?"

"Oh, I don't know," starts Apollo.

They're on their way out to find a taxi.  Boxey is well out of it and has to be too heavy for Apollo to carry far, especially with a bum leg.  He's limping quite heavily tonight, Starbuck notices, but all Starbuck does is put out a hand to help steady Boxey.  It would be rude—crass—to offer to take the child from him.

"Boomer's girlfriend, Dietra, works there in the cabaret,"  he says, once Apollo has Boxey secure.  It's cold outside, and drizzling.  Winter's on the way and Starbuck shivers.  He should have brought a thicker jacket.  "She can get us in for nothing.  What do you say?"

"Boomer's girlfriend?"

There's something a little odd about Apollo's tone, that has Starbuck frowning.  "I know!  He's there at four every morning to start baking you know and she works the casino every night.  When in Hades do they get the chance to see each other?  Still, it's serious.  I'd rather not go along to play gooseberry to those two.  At least you'd be good company."

Apollo studies Starbuck for a micron and Starbuck wishes he could understand Apollo's expression.  It's grave and assessing.  Starbuck had better measure up, that's all.  Then Apollo's sudden smile lights up his face.  "I'd love to come, Starbuck.  Thank you."

No, Apollo.  Thank you.  Because you just made my day.

Starbuck smiles back.  And all he says is:  "Great."





The next day, Boomer appears with two books underneath his arm: Rituals and Death in Ancient Kobol and Early Kobolian Culture.  Both are written by a certain Professor Apollo, and are printed by the Kobolian Institute Press.  Boomer hands them over with a flourish.  "Well, if you are going to be smitten by an academic, you'd better be able to quote the titles of his books.  You can read, can't you?"

"Blimey!"  Starbuck handles both thick tomes with trepidation.  Lots of thick black text, but thankfully interspersed with plenty of illustrations.  A paragraph catches his attention.  "Did you know that they yanked your brain out through your nose when they mummified you?"

Boomer takes a healthy swig of beer.  "Lovely."

Starbuck smiles.  "I wonder if I can persuade him to demonstrate the technique on Joss?"





The next sectar is the best ever.  It's fun.

First good thing?  Apollo does come to the Chancery with them at the secton-end; not just that secton end but every single one.  Boomer, being the sort of conformable boyfriend that a scary lady like Dietra needs, spends much of his time staring at her adoringly from a table in the cabaret room—a spot, says Starbuck, where Boomer's sure Dietra can see him and avoid painful misunderstandings.  Apollo just laughs but he admits that Dietra's a little… forceful.  That's the word.  Whatever.  Boomer's subjugation leaves Starbuck and Apollo free to roam the gambling tables. 

Sadly, Apollo really isn't very good at Pyramid.  Starbuck sighs and moves them from his usual professional-level table to one where the players aren't skilful enough to bankrupt Apollo. 

"Very protective," murmurs Apollo.

Well, the appreciation seems genuine enough.  "I'm going to have to give you lessons, just to protect my reputation."

Apollo smiles. "I'm sure we can arrange that," he says.

Starbuck almost chokes on his drink. 

+*+*+*+*+*

Second good thing: the little debacle with Professor Ancient-Sleazebag doesn't stop Apollo coming to the coffee shop, as usual.  He just doesn't bring Joss with him.  He and Starbuck resume their half-centar chats over coffee and cakes, and if sometimes those chats get drawn out into an entire whole and uninterrupted centar, then Starbuck has the help these days and both Jolly and Greenbean are more than capable of coping with making coffee without Starbuck standing over them.

"It's very sweet," says Jolly, and yawns.  He doesn't have a romantic bone in his body.

+*+*+*+*+*

Third?  Well, third is that Starbuck tells Apollo about another little restaurant that he's found and suggests that Apollo finds a baby sitter for Boxey and the two of them check it out.  He hardly dares breathe the whole time and only glances at Apollo's face, expecting to see nothing but scorn and derision there.  Apollo looks thoughtful, it's true, but all he says is "Would fifth-day suit you?  I can palm him off on my mother for the night." 

It's a good, relaxing evening.  Starbuck breaks out his best clothes and even polishes his boots.  Apollo's having a bad day with his leg and is using a cane.  He can't quite pull off the elegance of Joss – or even Starbuck himself – but he's still drop dead gorgeous, the most gorgeous man in the entire restaurant. 

The food is so-so, but the place has a wine list to die for.  They do nothing but talk, but it's good.  Satisfying.  There's nothing significant in what they talk about.  They're just mapping things out, expanding on what they know about each other.  Starbuck finds out that Apollo loves watching professional Triad as much as he does, is allergic to felines even the mummified ones he digs up in tombs, and that his favourite drink is a triple malt liquor that costs almost a secton's worth of Starbuck's profits.  He won't let Starbuck buy him one, and Starbuck is grateful for the restraint.  But he has more facts to tuck away and mull over in private, more little pieces that add up to Apollo.

They spend a lot of time arguing the merits of various Triad teams and agree to go to the Caprican City vs Arian Rovers match the following secton.  Apollo arranges the tickets over his mobile comm unit while they're still eating, talking to someone to get the best seats—his father's PA, he explains without exactly explaining who his father is or why his father needs a PA.  Starbuck wonders if he'll ever get to have a PA of his own.  It's an entrancing thought, to have someone to run around to do his bidding.  Jolly and Greenbean sure as hell won't.

"So," says Apollo, when they eventually roll out of the restaurant, replete with so-so food but a lot of very good wine.  "What restaurant shall we try next secton?" 

+*+*+*+*+*

And fourth?  The fourth good thing is that the Triad match is brilliant.  Starbuck's been to the stadium before, of course, but never in seats this good. 

They're sitting right above the Trinity hole on the left side and he's never been so close to the action.  There's chatter and yelling all around them, but in this hospitality box they're almost insulated from it all.  The people around them give them really envious looks, because he and Apollo have the box to themselves, an oasis of comfort and room and oh my Lord, is that a bottle of wine in the cooler?  Two bottles!

"My dad's PA is a very efficient woman," says Apollo, inspecting the wine.  "There should be canapés or something in that box, too."

There are canapés.  And sandwiches, both hot and cold, and desserts rich with custard and cream, and even choco bars to guard against the remote possibility that they'll get hungry after eating everything else.  It’s so impressive. 

"Dear Lords," breathes Starbuck, through a smoked salmon sandwich of such delicacy that his tastebuds are swooning, "I want to marry your dad's PA." 

And just for a secton, Starbuck means it.  But then the game begins, and just as much as he watches the play in the triangular court just below them, he watches Apollo.  He watches an Apollo who can't seem to stop himself from leaping up and yelling and waving his arms around whenever the play gets exciting, or from sketching the tactical plays in the air with his hands and shouting (unheeded) advice to the Caprican City team.  Then the City team scores and they're both on their feet and screaming and jumping, and Apollo is hugging him, both arms thrown around him.  Apollo smells of clean lemony soap and mint, and excitement and maybe a hint of mummy dust, and all the other things that make up Apollo.  Just for a micron Starbuck lets himself revel in it.

Apollo's laughing when he lets Starbuck go, and they grin at each other.  And just as suddenly, they can't look each other in the eye and they sit down again.  Down on the court, the City team are tagging the Arian Rovers.  Apollo coughs and stares at play.

"Good game," he says.

Starbuck smiles, so wide that his face starts to hurt.  His arms remember the feel of Apollo in that hug.  Some sort of muscle memory, maybe?  He flexes his arms but the feeling doesn't fade.  He's warm and happy.

He takes another sandwich.  "Yes.  Good game."

+*+*+*+*+*

Fifth is a bit of high culture.  Starbuck has his reservations about that.  Not that he's a cultural wilderness, whatever Apollo says when he finds out that Starbuck has never before crossed the Kobolian's august threshold.  But this is a bit deep.

The laboratory is a microclimate, carefully controlled, and every mummy in it is encased in a clear stasis pod.  They're intricately wrapped in broad linen bandages.  Apollo, having forced Starbuck into a surgical-type gown and protective gloves, takes him on a tour.  A lot of it's over Starbuck's head despite his careful study of Apollo's books, but it doesn't matter.  What matters is that Apollo's sharing this with him, letting him in to one of the most important aspects of his life.  So Starbuck nods and smiles throughout Apollo's careful explanations and surprises them both with a sensible question about amulets.  He can't work up much enthusiasm for heart scarabs, which appear to be important to Apollo, because really he's not very fond of bugs, but he makes mmmning noises in all the right places.

"This, Starbuck, is Sekhet-an-Ankhmehit," says Apollo, standing with one hand on the biggest stasis pod.  He might as well have preceded his announcement with a fanfare of trumpets, he's quivering so much with excitement.  "This is the Great Pharaoh."

The mummy looks almost like any other, bound in swathes of grubby linen.  Its bandages are in an intricate pattern, that's true.  Its hands are crossed on its breast, a flail tucked into the right.  The flail's handle is made of gold.  The head and shoulders are covered by an immense mask, the face of the Pharaoh in life wearing an immense ritual head-dresses. 

Starbuck's heard all about Great Pharaoh, the Golden Horus Sekhet-an-Ankhmehit, Justified.  He's read as much as he could find on the Twentieth Dynasty and the foundation of the Colonies.  He's beginning to grasp how seminally important this Pharaoh is to their history, how wonderful Apollo's find is.  He gets that this is incredible, how much it adds to their knowledge.  He understands why Apollo's almost beside himself with excitement.  It's important that he acknowledges this, that he says something that marks the significance.

"Wow," he says, leaning in closer.  "Is that mask solid gold?"

+*+*+*+*+*

And sixth and every other number there could possibly be right unto infinity? 

Starbuck's spending time with Apollo.  He's spending a lot of time with Apollo.

He thinks he can get used to that.