Section Two : Immersion

 

Day 24, 4.35 pm

"This is an infiltration mission," said Apollo. "The most that I can tell you is that I'm testing a device created by the Strategy Unit's technical division after yahrens of research. It should allow me to collect some essential data and get it back for analysis."

Tigh watched him, the stern expression in place. Once again, Apollo wondered if the colonel ever smiled; surely it wasn't against Regulations? Simonitz was easier to read: he was seething with anger and resentment, just under the surface. Apollo wasn't quite sure why, although he suspected that some of it was professional jealousy. He wouldn't like it himself if Simonitz had been parachuted into the Hyperion and Apollo had been told that he was to offer every co-operation and that whatever it was that Simonitz was up to was far more important than anything the Hyperion was doing. He wouldn't like that at all. So he was conciliatory when Simonitz asked why Shield had effectively commandeered the Colonies' leading battlestar. The strike captain didn't put it quite like that, but that was what he meant.

"There's just too few of us to do everything that HQ demands of us," said Apollo. He shot a sidelong glance at his father. "I guess too many people think that Shield's a dead end for a career officer, I don't know, but we're overstretched--"

"Maybe you could loosen up your recruitment criteria," said Simonitz.

Apollo's internal alarms had the spot between his shoulder blades itching. He opted for a grin, and a lot of self deprecation. "It's a bitch, getting in, I know. There just aren't enough of us and we're spread so thin you can see the light through us. Our original plan was for the Hyperion to have taken me in, but we lost one of our ships. And after losing the Good Hope, the general had to divert my ship to cover that flank."

*And don't I wish it was still the Hype, and that I had nothing to do with Fleet, you, the Galactica or my father...*

"What's the plan?" asked Tigh, pulling the conversation back onto track.

"It's still being worked on," said Apollo. "But really we're keeping everything very simple. You get me in, I collect the data, you collect me."

"A little detail would be useful, Captain," said the commander.

So much for it being up to him to decide how much to say. But there was no point in antagonising the Galactica's officers. He needed them to do this. "Yes sir. There's the choice of four Cylon bases in the area behind the sector where their forces are massing over against Cetes. At this centon, I honestly don't know which one we'll go for, although I've made a recommendation that it's T18: that's the furthest back and the only one with a truly breathable atmosphere. I could breathe on T7 and T11, but not for long, and I'd need a full environmental suit for T5. I'm likely to be on the base for at least a couple of centars, so that's a major consideration."

"I suppose you walk in and out of Cylon bases every day of the secton," said Simonitz.

Apollo looked at him, and shrugged, through with being conciliatory and self deprecating. "Pretty much," he said. "It's what I'm paid for." He was aware of the commander's cool stare.

"When do you expect to hear from HQ?" Adama gave Simonitz a quelling look.

In a couple of days, most likely. They want to think over the revised job plan before giving the go-ahead. I think it'll be T18, though."

"Where is it?" asked Simonitz, the hostility a little more muted. "Where are they all?"

Apollo took a data crystal and nodded towards the console set into the conference table. "May I, Commander?"

"Be my guest," said Adama. He smiled at Apollo. After all, that smile said, you've already commandeered my ship. What's a presentation console compared to that?

Apollo dropped the crystal into the slot. Tigh, closest, reached over and switched it on, the screen lighting up against the wall, projecting a huge star map.

"Cetes is here, with the Cylons massing in this area here, and here and here. We - the Hyperion, I mean - were checking this sector, here. It's pretty empty. Most of the forces have joined the main body over at Cetes."

"Is there a real risk of an attack?" asked Tigh.

"I think so," said Apollo, soberly. "They're there in force. You were on your way there, weren't you?"

"We were," said Adama. "The Patroklus will continue there with the rest of First to support Cetes. The crews think that they're on their way to planned manoeuvres, by the way. We'll stick to that story until they get their mission briefing."

"Yes sir. This is T5 - " Apollo used the pointer. "T7's here, in the same system as T11. T18's way back here."

"We're quite some distance from it," observed Adama. "We told the Galactica's crew this morning that it would take a couple of sectons."

"Yes sir, that's about right. And whichever one of them it is, I want to take the long way around, coming at the target from behind, from the Empire's own space. It's not much of an advantage, but every little helps."

"Sensible," agreed his father.

"It will be hard on the pilots," said Tigh. "I suppose you'll want them on battle alert, on quiet running? That means them sitting out most of the journey in the launch tubes and close in pickets." He gave Apollo a thin smile, and Apollo decided that he preferred the stern immobility. "They don't like it. It makes them restless."

Apollo felt compelled to apologise. "I'm sorry."

"And when we get to whichever one it is?" asked Adama.

"The idea is for me to collect as much data as possible, blow the base and get back out again. I'm going to need one of your pilots to do the driving for me, and one of your shuttles. Unless it's T5, I'll be parachuting in, spend a couple of centars there, at least, and then the shuttle picks up me and the data."

"Will a shuttle be fast enough?" his father asked.

"We could modify one," said Tigh. "The techs can strip all of the weight out of one of the smaller shuttles, and add extra boosters."

"Good idea, yes." Adama nodded. "Use mine. Please arrange it, Colonel."

"Yes sir," said Tigh.

"Thank you, sir. I'm not expecting you to sacrifice your own shuttle."

"It's the smallest and fastest," said Adama. "And we can use our time until we reach the target, getting it ready."

"Who do we let drive it?" said Simonitz, looking at the commander.

"We could draw up a shortlist," said Adama thoughtfully. "We've some fine pilots. The best."

Apollo looked away from the map he'd been studying for the hundredth time. "Excuse me, sir, but what would be most helpful would be if you'd give me access to all your pilot records, everything you've got on them, so I can make a choice." He saw the beginnings of a frown, and said hastily, "So that I can draw up a list to discuss with you, sir." He tried the smile that Joss always said melted his bones, and although he wasn't expecting quite the same response from his father, he hoped that it would have some effect.

Adama gave him a long look from eyes that were coolly appraising, as if Apollo were a stranger. The smile didn't seem to move him. "I suppose," said the commander, "that you know what you're looking for. What do you want to look at?"

"Everything, sir, from mission reports to their dental records." Apollo let the smile die away; it was too good a weapon to overuse, especially on someone for whom familiarity had evidently bred immunity. "Thank you."

"I'll arrange for you to have access," said Simonitz, when the commander nodded, the first helpful thing he'd said. "I'll get Captain Keene to give you the same access rights as me."

"Thanks," said Apollo, privately resolving to get higher access if he could. His security clearance level should be enough to persuade their systems controller to allow it. He doubted that Simonitz could see everything and he didn't want to have to go and ask his father.

"I suppose," said the commander, "that the full detailed plan will only be finalised when you know which of the four targets we're going into?"

Apollo nodded.

"Well then, there's little to be gained by discussing this ad nauseum before HQ make their decision. Tigh, you will sort out the shuttle, and Simonitz, you'll work with Shield Captain Apollo on the pilot choice." Adama turned his attention to his son. "We meet every morning at 8, here, for the regular command meeting. I'd be pleased to have you join us, Captain."

It was an order, and Apollo bowed to it. "I'd be honoured, sir."

"And then Simonitz briefs all the officer cadre. Perhaps you could join him."

"I'd like that," said Apollo, with more enthusiasm. He'd like to get a closer look at some of the pilots: it would make drawing up the shortlist much easier.

"And, of course, you'll have all normal officer privileges whilst you're on board, including membership of the Officers' Club. We'll give you a formal mess dinner, of course."

Apollo's heart sank down to the region of his combat boots. "Er - how formal, sir?"

Adama looked at him, expression questioning.

"I mean, sir, that I don't travel with my dress uniform, not when I'm on a job."

His father said, acidly, "You do have one?"

In the closet at home, sure. "Yes sir, but it's not normally something I need out in the field."

Adama frowned. "Then I suppose we'll have to give you an informal mess dinner." He glanced at Apollo's plain black jacket. "I'd noticed that you were improperly dressed, Captain. Don't you wear medal ribbons, either, on a mission?"

"Very few Shield warriors wear them in the field, on a job." He deliberately used the more plebeian word that his father had avoided. "It's not required of us."

And we're a different service, and I'm not in Fleet's chain of command - and long may it stay that way! - and I'm not going to pretend I'm ashamed of Shield or the way we do things. He met his father's gaze squarely.

Adama didn't pursue it. "I see. Well, I'm sure Captain Simonitz will show you where your quarters are, and arrange for you to be loaned a communications link."

It was a dismissal, and Apollo and Simonitz both knew it. They rose to their feet.

"Thank you, sir," said Apollo. He added, formally, "I'm very pleased to be working with Fleet."

Adama nodded. "We'll do our best to make it a success, Captain. I'll page you about supper."

"Sir." Apollo saluted again, and followed Simonitz out of the room, vastly relieved to have got that first meeting over. He hated the way his father made him feel like a scrawny, rebellious teenager.

"Supper?" said Simonitz.

Apollo shrugged.

Simonitz grunted. "Favourite son, or something?"

So, Simonitz wasn't as unobservant as Adama had considered him to be. Apollo thought about it: him, or Zac, whose irrepressible wildness drove their father to distraction.

"Doubt it," he said, reckoning that in the region of poor choices, Adama preferred heterosexual wildness to homosexuality, any day of the secton. "But then, he hasn't many options."

 

Day 24, after 9pm

Supper started well. The food was better than anything Apollo had eaten in three sectons and to begin with at least, he and his father avoided talking about anything that might rake up old grievances. They talked instead about some of the recent events that Galactica had been involved in and Apollo made himself forget security for a while and told his father about some of his recent jobs. They did talk about family; Ila, Apollo's mother, and her political aspirations, Athena's progress at the Academy and the latest escapade that had had Zac on the edge of being suspended from school ("Again!" Adama said in despair). Nothing personal, nothing dangerous : Joss wasn't even mentioned for quite some time.

Apollo told his father of Simonitz's good guess. "He said he wouldn't say anything, but I don't think that it's improved his opinion of me. What's his problem, apart from me dropping in and disrupting everything and being related to you?"

"I noticed that too," said Adama. "There was something he said... I checked his record after the meeting. It seems he tried for Shield a few yahrens ago, after his first tour of duty, and failed to get in."

"That explains the sour reaction to me, then."

"I normally wouldn't have breached confidentiality on something like that, but it's probably better that you know and can deal with it."

"It's so depressing to be disliked for the failings of the institution you belong to," said Apollo, "It's almost insulting. The least he can do is dislike me for myself." He occupied himself with dessert for a few centons. It was his favourite.

"Is it all right?" his father asked.

He looked up, to find Adama smiling at him. "It's fine," he said.

"I hoped that it would be good. You used to love that when you were younger."

"I still do," said Apollo, not knowing what else to say, surprised that Adama had remembered. "All the food's brilliant."

"It's not too bad," said his father, modest about his ship's culinary achievements. "Are your quarters comfortable?"

Apollo managed not to smile. His father doing the solicitous landlady act was a little difficult to take seriously. "Very." He took a sip of wine and, emboldened, said, "And who was it you accused of making career choices based on hedonistic principles? This is absolute luxury."

Adama's smile faded. "I caught the little dig earlier, too, Apollo. You know why I objected to you taking Shield."

Sure, thought Apollo, wishing he'd kept his mouth shut and that he'd outgrow this tendency to pick at old sores. Adama had been very disdainful that Apollo had thought as much about Joss in all this as he had about the tenets of service that Adama lived by. Apollo had compromised, as far as it was possible to compromise, between the demands of family expectations and upbringing and his own deeply held belief that in times of war, everyone should do what they were able to prevent defeat, and the demands that Joss made of him. Compromise was a word that didn't live in Adama's lexicon.

Now he said, mildly, wanting to have his say but somehow avoid the old arguments, "I'm good at what I do, Dad."

"I'm sure of it."

"What Shield does is absolutely essential, you know that."

"Yes."

"That was a 'yes, but.' "

"But it's not going to get you senior command," said Adama. "It's too small, Apollo, and too specialised."

Apollo touched the pins in his collar. "I've not done too badly out of it."

"No," Adama's expression softened. "I'm pleased about that. I'd hoped, though, that you'd move when your first tour of duty came to an end. Shield can't be your whole career, Apollo."

Any intention to avoid argument fled abruptly: the can was open and the worms were wriggling vigorously. All they needed was a little prodding.

"Because in your view it's a dead-end, only fit for - what? The unambitious types who like the risky, dirty jobs of walking in and out of Cylon bases every day of the secton, but who you wouldn't trust with a strategic command?"

"I didn't say that and I don't want to argue with you, Apollo."

"I don't understand it, sometimes," said Apollo. "I thought that what motivated you was the duty and honour argument, not personal ambition."

"Perhaps we should talk about something else."

"I think," said Apollo, "that it's a little inconsistent to despise me for choosing Shield on the grounds that in your view I ignored the demands of duty and honour and only did it to take the easy way out with Joss, so that I could spend a great deal more time with him than you've ever had at home; and then despise me for choosing Shield because it's so steeped in duty and honour that we're not interested in personal ambition, but in service. Because we are. We get all the filthy jobs that Fleet can't or won't do, and if you get all the razzamatazz when they give you your Starcluster and mine virtually comes to me in the post, then who's the one most motivated by ambition?"

"I don't despise you!" snapped Adama.

"No? What's changed your mind?"

... so filthy and disgusting that you make me sick, and so help me if you've ever touched Zac, I'll tear you apart...

"Apollo," said Adama, helplessly.

"Hell, even Uncle Jak knew how mad you were about it. When was the last time you sat there with all those good friends of yours and boasted about my-son-the-Shield-warrior? Do I even figure in the universe at all? Of course, it would help if I wasn't queer and you didn't have that to hide." Apollo stopped dead, biting back the words. Where in hell had all that come from? He'd thought he'd long ago accepted that it was easier to earn his father's disapproval than praise and admiration, or even respect. He pushed away his half eaten dessert, and said, stiffly, "I'm sorry. I don't want to fight with you. All we ever do is fight - "

Adama was staring down at his plate. "I admire Shield greatly, Apollo, and I really don't know where you got the idea that I don't. If I think that you took Shield for the wrong reasons, then what can I do about it? It's a very long time since you cared anything for my opinion, so we just have to get on with it, don't we? That doesn't stop me wanting the best for you. You're still my son."

Apollo said nothing. Shit, shit, shit... Why in hell couldn't he learn to do things on the surface and stop thinking about what went on underneath? Things had been cordial enough until he'd opened his big mouth. But some memories were burned very, very deep, and the scar tissue was thin and tender. He'd been seventeen when his father had found out about Joss, and he hadn't felt much like Adama's son since.

"I don't want us to fight, either." Adama sighed, passing his hand over his eyes. "I wish your mother was here. She seems to be able to keep us under control." He took a deep breath and straightened. "I don't like this breach between us, Apollo. I never have. What I said, all those yahrens ago, I regret bitterly, and I think you know that. I was hurt and shocked, and too angry to consider what I was saying."

Appalled, was closer. But then, Apollo had never told his father about Joss - Adama had found out for himself and in the very worst of circumstances - and maybe it would have mitigated matters if Apollo had talked to him about it all. But Adama was hardly ever there to talk to about anything, and really, thought Apollo, dispassionately, they didn't know each other very well. He said nothing, because the only thing that sprang to mind wouldn't have helped matters very much. Only because you didn't know me. I've known since I was fourteen, and you're bloody lucky I held back for so long. Maybe then you wouldn't have been surprised to walk in on me and Joss that time.

"That's not an excuse, Apollo," his father said into the continuing silence. "I didn't react well, and if you asked me now what I think about it, I'd still tell you that I'm not very happy about it, but it's been more than seven yahrens and you and Joss are still together." He tried a smile, but it looked strained. "I'd say that means it's not a passing phase."

"No," said Apollo, surprised into a faint smile.

"So we go on from there. I'd hoped that working together on this would give us a chance to do something to heal that breach. I'd really like that chance." Adama paused, then said wistfully, "It'd be the longest I've spent with you for a very long time."

Despite worrying that Joss's petulant little digs about his need for parental approval had some basis in reality, that appeal touched Apollo. He nodded. "I'd like the chance, too," he said. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have started on you."

"Maybe we can work on it a little, then." Adama smiled, but Apollo could see the effort it cost him. "Let's rewind the conversation a bit." He pushed the half eaten dessert towards Apollo. "Eat it. I went to quite a bit of trouble to get that for you, and I don't like to see it wasted."

Apollo pulled the dessert bowl closer. "It's very good," he said, and choked a mouthful down.

"So," said Adama watching him with an intensity that had Apollo thinking of a dozen wild possibilities, each one ending in the unlikely scenario of him being assured of undimmed parental love and affection. "What ruddy Starcluster?"

 

Day 25, morning

Apollo breakfasted alone, in his quarters. He'd been delighted to find the tiny galley kitchen there, and Simonitz had pointed him in the direction of the Quartermaster's stores so that he could stock it. Apollo had thought that Simonitz's help was more in the nature of self-defence - he didn't think that Simonitz wanted to ask him to breakfast and the man had seized on any alternative. But the Strike captain's helpfulness allowed at least the semblance of hospitality, and Apollo didn't mind. He didn't think that he and Simonitz were destined to become soul mates.

The morning command meeting was something of a revelation. His father and Tigh missed nothing on this big ship, nothing was too small or too insignificant to escape their attention. They fitted everything into the picture they had of how this city in space was operating, alert to anything at all that smacked of a departure from the norm and merited investigation, anything that might threaten its stability.

Simonitz performed well. Although Apollo hadn't been impressed the previous day by the Strike captain's mulish, barely hidden hostility, the man knew what he was doing when it came to running his pilots. And he was efficient: he'd already arranged for Apollo to see the Galactica's technical officer, a Captain Keene, to give Apollo access to the ship's IT network.

His father watched him a lot. It was unobtrusive, but Apollo was aware of it. Supper had ended on a happier note. They'd gone back to talking about safe topics after Apollo had managed to contain that infelicitous outburst, and Adama had even laughed at some of the stories Apollo told him about the Hype, but it had been strained, for all that. It still sat between them, like a cancer, something to be excised. The problem was, Apollo reflected, that neither of them knew how.

He was relieved when he and Simonitz were dismissed and sent off to the larger briefing room to meet the pilot officers.

"There's thirty of them," said Simonitz, as they walked the short distance from the bridge office to the briefing room. "Ten in each squadron. They're a good bunch."

"The commander said so. He was very complimentary." There, see if that mollifies you.

It didn't seem to. Simonitz didn't respond, and Apollo reflected that it had been a bit unsubtle, at that.

They reached the door at the same instant as a lieutenant. There was a momentary confusion about who went first, and Apollo, amused, took stock of a shock of thick blond hair falling over eyes that seemed impossibly blue. The lieutenant stared at him frankly, saluted smartly, and let them precede him into the room. Apollo hoped his amusement didn't show: it had been neatly done, but he had no doubt at all that the lieutenant had been lying in wait for them.

Simonitz ushered Apollo to a chair beside his at the head of the table. Apollo settled into it, aware that everyone was staring at him with the same frank curiosity that the blond lieutenant had shown. The blond was sitting about half way down the table, between a black lieutenant - probably a Leonid - and a very tall man who looked like he'd have to be folded up to fit into a Viper. Apollo met the stares with what he hoped was a friendly, open, look-how-harmless-I-am expression; since childhood, his instinct in a crowd of strangers was to disappear into himself, but he'd had to learn to deal with it, to learn when he couldn't retreat into remote politeness. He couldn't retreat here, he needed these people. The blond grinned back at him.

"At ease, everyone. This is Shield Captain Apollo." Simonitz did a quick round of the table, naming them all and giving their squadron designations. There was no formal salute, but they murmured polite greetings.

Starbuck, the blond was called. Lieutenant Starbuck, Blue Squadron.

"Thank you," said Apollo when it was all over. He smiled at them, not the bone melting smile, but the one that proclaimed his essential harmlessness. He hoped it would disarm and he allowed the slight hesitation in his voice, the hangover from childhood shyness that he normally controlled ruthlessly, to slip through and help the harmless smile along. "I'm very pleased to be aboard. I've not been on a Battlestar since I was about fourteen. Can someone explain to me how you're organised?"

Beside him Simonitz started slightly, and stared. Most of the pilots looked surprised. Simonitz cleared his throat. "Well, we've got 180 pilots," he said, "divided into three squadrons - Blue, Red and Green. Blue squadron's Commander Adama's personal strike wing."

"Really? Why?"

"Because we're the best," said the blond lieutenant, and grinned at the looks he got from the other pilots.

"If the mouthy lieutenant will let me finish - " said Simonitz.

Starbuck held up his hands. The pilots grinned, the tension easing and Apollo had to hide a smile. This was the joker in the pack, then, the potential misfit.

Simonitz explained how the three squadrons were organised into ten squads, five in each flights, operating out of the alpha and beta flight decks, running on three shifts eight centars each.

There was nothing that Apollo didn't already know. "Thank you," he said, politely, wishing that Simonitz had let someone else speak. "That's very interesting."

"But pretty basic," said Lieutenant Starbuck. "What's all this about?"

Apollo studied him, interested. He'd hoped to provoke them out of their polite reserve in the presence of a stranger. He was pleased that Starbuck had reacted. He looked around at the others, wondering if anyone else would follow Starbuck's lead.

"Lieutenant Starbuck," said Simonitz, with an unfriendly glare directed at the lieutenant, "has no qualms at all about planting his size tens where more heavenly beings fear to tread."

"Ah," said Apollo, and this time he didn't hide his grin. "Your resident subversive?"

"Oh yes," said Simonitz.

"I just think we should know what we're getting into, that's all," said Starbuck. He didn't look too upset at the description Apollo bestowed on him. He looked self satisfied, rather than otherwise.

"I can't tell you yet, Lieutenant."

Starbuck locked gazes with him and persisted. "It's not much of a security risk."

"I'll do a briefing in a few days."

Most people would have let it go at that, but not, apparently, this lieutenant. He didn't give up at all. "Well, if you can't tell us what it's all about, maybe you could tell us why Shield is working with regular troops."

Simonitz lost patience. "Starbuck!"

Apollo's grin faded, thinking about Leander and the Good Hope, still limping slowly home with half her crew dead. He didn't envy Leander his dreams, even supposing he was able to sleep.

"It's about numbers, Lieutenant - Starbuck, is it?" Again that usually controlled hesitation. He frowned, as if struggling to remember Starbuck's name. No point in feeding that ego any more than necessary by betraying that he'd been noticed, and, if first impressions were anything to go by, Apollo reckoned that Starbuck could do a good job of ego-feeding himself. "There's not that many of us take Shield, and there's a lot going on. My own ship, the Hyperion, is needed elsewhere, and the Supreme Commander decided that you'd take her place to help support me on a job. I'll tell you more about that when I can."

Starbuck nodded and this time he let it go. After a centon, Simonitz resumed the day's business, glaring at Lieutenant Starbuck throughout. But the lieutenant was a model of decorum now, joining in the discussion but letting others have their say. The Leonid he sat beside seemed sensible and steady, Apollo thought, as he listened to their debate, and made mental notes about who joined in and who stayed silent.

When Simonitz dismissed them and they milled out, Apollo sat back, watching them go, thinking about them, and noting one more glance from those bright blue eyes. Already he had a mental list of one or two that would bear further thought and investigation. The mouthy lieutenant was one of them, of course, and Apollo laughed to himself, pretty sure that Lieutenant Starbuck would expect to be on the radar, and would be outraged if ignored.

 

Day 25, 10.70 am

This ship was vast.

Apollo spent the morning finding his way around, trying to remember where everything was, using faint and evidently faulty memories from his last visit more than eleven yahrens ago. It had been a birthday treat, a chance of spending a few days with his father, who'd brought the Galactica into close proximity to the Colonies for some routine maintenance. Apollo had had a wonderful time, revelling in the attention he got from his father, undivided with either of his demanding siblings; exploring the ship from stem to stern and getting spoiled by the crew.

Not to mention falling in love for the first time, although back then Apollo hadn't realised what it was he was feeling. What had that pilot's name been? Gerrant? Geraint? Something like that, anyway, and now no more than a memory of someone tall and dark and the object of uncomfortable and incomprehensible dreams for some sectars afterwards. The pilot had been assigned to keep the Boss's kid amused, probably, Apollo realised now, as punishment for some misdemeanour, but at the time he'd seemed a hero. He'd taken Apollo on a couple of Viper flights, sealing Apollo's love of flying with a passionate and inarticulate admiration for the man piloting him. Whatever had happened to him? Apollo decided that he'd better not ask his father. He'd hate to have to explain his interest.

He found Captain Keene, and got the clearance he needed to trawl through the Galactica's records. He was given the same security level as Colonel Tigh, even without having to flash his security clearance.

"This will give you everything you want on any member of staff, with some command exceptions, Captain, as you'll expect. We can't have all the Galactica's secrets exposed." The Captain handed him a datapad. "This is keyed into the Galactica's systems, so it'll save you having to recalibrate your own. Link it in through the console in your quarters and you'll be able to download whatever data you want. It's got a reasonable sized memory chip, but of course, it won't take everything all at once."

"I'll work through them alphabetically," said Apollo, solemnly. He thanked the major and wandered away, tucking the datapad into his jacket pocket and sealing it securely.

It took him about half a centar to find the gymnasium, reluctant to concede defeat and ask for directions either from one of the crew he passed or by plugging in his datapad. He was surprised it took him so long to find it. Either they'd moved it, or his memory was even faultier than he'd realised. He paused outside for a centon, trying to remember the name his father had given him the previous night when he'd mentioned his intention of making this visit.

The gym was empty but for a small middle-aged man, who looked up sharply when Apollo walked in. As he advanced across the gym, Apollo endured the long, level look.

"Sergeant Pershing?"

The small man looked him up and down, and nodded. "You'll be Shield Captain Apollo."

Apollo grinned. "Unfair, Sarge, there's only one of me to guess at." He held out a hand, sensing Pershing's faint surprise. The man's hand was like leather, hard and strong. "I'm glad to meet you. I think I might need your help."

Pershing raised an eyebrow.

"In a couple of sectons, I think I'll be running about on a planet that's got a gravity one third more than standard, a mean temperature of ninety degrees and air that's barely breathable. I'm pretty fit, but I'm going to have to build up some stamina. I thought you might be able to advise."

Once more Pershing looked him up and down. "Strip," he said, tersely, and turned away into the little office.

Apollo stared after him for a moment, then shrugged and did as he was told. He might outrank Pershing, but in this place the sergeant was king. He was down to his shorts when Pershing came back, carrying his own data pad.

"I hope this is far enough," said Apollo, shivering slightly in the cool temperature.

Pershing, serious, nodded and walked around Apollo, staring at him as if he were a specimen on display. "You've got reasonable muscle development. You work out a lot?"

"Yes." It was, after all, a requirement of being gay as well as being in the military.

"Only, the officers on this ship seem to think that's beneath them. I have to have them dragged in here some days." Pershing's stern face relaxed into a grim smile. "They think I'm too tough on them."

"Are you?"

"Sure. It's my job. What do you weigh?" Apollo told him. "You could stand to lose a couple of pounds." The grim smile lightened. "I can guarantee that you will."

Apollo grinned back. "I believe it."

Pershing fed some more data into the pad, and reached out one hand to touch Apollo's scarred right side. "When was this?"

"Last yahren - about nine sectars ago."

"You've healed well. Does the scar tissue pull on you?" The hard fingers probed at the scars.

"Not much," said Apollo, hiding the wince, he hoped. "I feel it sometimes, but it's not been too bad."

"We'll have to watch it. You're going to be putting a lot of strain on those muscles, if the air's as bad as you say. In that heat and gravity, you're going to find breathing a strain even before you start running around." Pershing put the datapad down. "All right, I'll sort out a daily programme for you and I can get the engineers to rack up the gravity and temperature in here to mimic what you'll be going into. We'll have to close the gym to everyone else while we do it."

"Yes."

"Are you busy now?"

"I'm at your disposal," said Apollo, a little apprehensively.

"Good. I'll need to do an assessment, and there's no time like the present." Pershing indicated a nearby running machine. "We'll start you easy. Ten miles, Captain. Start running."

 

Day 25, somewhere between 8 and 9 pm

Apollo ate in his quarters that night, not quite up to going boldly into the Commissary and being the cynosure of all eyes. He rather felt it would ruin his appetite. Give them a couple of days to get used to him being around and he could resume something close to a normal existence.

His father didn't invite him around again. Adama probably felt that they both needed a breather after the previous evening.

The Commissary delivered a reasonable meal for him, and when it was over he decided that he'd really like a beer. He picked up the volume of the history that Joss had almost thrown at him, and headed for the Officer's Club. He'd promised Professor Bachman at the Kobolian that he'd think seriously about taking on the revision, and he'd not yet had much opportunity to study it. Well, that's to say that he'd read it over a couple of times on the Hype, and seen a few glaring errors or just old-fashioned analysis, but he'd not done much to start work on the revision.

It was early, and there weren't that many people in the OC. A few pilots, and one or two technical and bridge officers. Apollo found that someone - Simonitz? - had considerately set him up a bar account. He ordered his ale and retired to a corner table to read.

It wasn't his best period, the Third Wave of Migration - he was an early history man, himself, and modest though he was, he knew that if there was anything he didn't know about the First Wave then it had never happened - but he'd done a lot of original work with Bachman on this period when he was doing his degree at the Kobolian, and there wasn't anything he couldn't handle. He sipped at his beer and lost himself in academia for a little while. He wished he'd brought his own datapad with him, to make notes.

He became aware that someone was standing in front of his table. *Let me see, bet it's Lieutenant Starbuck... * He shot a very fast look up through his lashes, and returned his gaze to the book. *Thought so.*

"Good evening, Lieutenant," said Apollo, turning a page.

"You don't often see one of those outside a museum," said Starbuck. "Most people use datapads."

Apollo smiled and looked up to meet Starbuck's gaze. Those eyes were impossibly, incredibly blue, he thought, and the lieutenant was all too pretty. Knew it, too, if that self-satisfied air was anything to go by.

"Me too, usually, but this was a present."

Starbuck looked interested, and, grinning to himself, Apollo obligingly turned the book so that he could see the spine.

"A bit of light reading, I see," said Starbuck. "A History of the Kobolian Peoples, Volume sixty-three." He looked blank. "How many are there?"

"Eighty seven."

"And you have them all?"

Apollo nodded. "Yes. A graduation present from my parents."

His mother's idea, he thought, not least because he and his father still weren't on speaking terms, too many sharp words between them about Apollo's selfishness and perversion, particularly the latter. Adama wouldn't want to be seen to condone bad and selfish choices by giving him the History, the very symbol of Apollo's first big rebellion when he'd refused to go to the Academy when he left school. And while he was still at school, Apollo had met Joss at the Kobolian and within days had lost himself for ever in Joss's bed. The History symbolised that sad fall from grace as well, of course. Adama hadn't come to his graduation from the Kobolian. On a mission, Ila had said, but Apollo hadn't been fooled for a centon. He reckoned that his mother had had to forge his father's signature on the card that came with the books. She'd definitely made up the bit about 'all our love'.

"That's not how it's supposed to go," said Starbuck, cutting through the profitless thoughts. " They're supposed to buy you a fast red sports car. If I were you, I'd complain and make them do the right thing."

Apollo laughed, remembering the look of gratification on Joss's face when they'd come out of the Kobolian together, the day of his graduation, and there it was, parked directly at the foot of the wide, sweeping stairs at the main door: the shiniest, reddest, fastest sports car that Apollo could ever have dreamed of. Joss liked buying him expensive presents. Sometimes it got a little overwhelming.

"I got the car from someone else."

"Red and fast?"

"Very red and very fast. Are you joining me, Starbuck?"

"I came over to invite you to join us." Starbuck nodded over towards the table where a number of officers were sitting.

Apollo's glance followed his. The black lieutenant was there, the one who seemed to be Starbuck's friend, and Simonitz. He hadn't seen the other captain come in. He grinned, and said, in fair and friendly warning, "I don't drink very much and I'm trained not to say a lot even when I do."

"Calumny! I don't know whether to be appalled at your lack of trust in your fellow man, or at how transparent I am." Starbuck grinned at him and it was remarkably attractive, slightly lopsided, and only the sheer good humour kept it this side of insolent. "I'll be good."

"Sure," said Apollo, that grin deciding him. He got up. "Which one of them have you set up to be bad?"

"Have you been talking to Captain Simonitz?" asked Starbuck, suspiciously.

"I'm just naturally observant." Apollo slipped the book into the pocket of his jacket, and followed Starbuck.

"I'm relying on young Giles. He's naïve enough to ask the right questions." They reached the table and Starbuck waved Apollo into a chair. "Don't worry about not remembering any who any of this lot are, Captain Apollo. Apart from me, they're not that memorable."

Apollo glanced at Simonitz, wondering how welcome he was. The Strike captain was drinking liquor. A little early for it, in Apollo's opinion, but it was none of his business. Simonitz looked very sour, but Apollo wasn't sure if it was aimed at him or Starbuck, since the Strike Captain threatened to use Starbuck for target practice.

Starbuck just laughed. "They'd miss," he said to Apollo, settling into the chair beside him.

A brief silence fell. Apollo sipped at his ale, feeling uncomfortable. But the silence didn't last long. A very young man wearing an ensign's pips leaned forward eagerly, his eyes shining.

"Captain, I know you can't tell us what all this is about, but - well, I'm a bit curious about the Shield regiment."

Apollo smiled. "You'll be Giles, then."

The ensign blushed. "Oh. You remember me?"

"You were described to me," said Apollo. He grinned at Starbuck.

And then, just as he'd guessed and, from the looks on their faces, just as the assembled officers hoped, the ensign shyly asked him about Shield missions. Apollo, amused, let him down gently.

"I'm afraid it all comes under the classified heading," he said.

"And we aren't Shield," said Simonitz, taking another pull at his liquor.

Apollo gave the other captain a cool look, wondering if this was going to be a bone of contention between them and if he should cut this conversation short right now.

Giles sighed. "That's a shame. Can I ask you something else then?"

He nodded. Damn Simonitz - there wasn't any reason in the world why Apollo shouldn't satisfy the boy's curiosity, as much as he could, anyway. He found himself explaining a few facts about Shield recruitment, calling on all his patience under the interrogation, watching the boy's eager face. Giles and Chivers had to be related, he decided. They were both barely housetrained puppies, but eager to learn. By the time Giles was satisfied that he couldn't join Shield the next day, his interest waned a bit, and Apollo was allowed to sit back and relax.

He'd just explained the Shield practice of rotating people out for their third tour, thinking back to what Jak had said, and hoping devoutly that the Supreme Commander would keep his word. He didn't want to be stuck behind a desk. He'd much rather spend a yahren or two in Fleet before negotiating his way back into Shield. He'd prefer that to the Infantry, he thought. He'd miss flying, if he went into the Infantry, and it would please his father if he spent a little time, at least, in Fleet.

That incredibly tall pilot leaned over the back of Giles' chair. He looked a lot like the stick insects in the science lab at school. "What was your first service?"

"I've never been in the regular forces. I joined Shield when I graduated."

"Talking of that," said the Leonid, "you weren't at the Academy, were you?"

Apollo shook his head. Oh dear. Another age old rivalry to worry about. "No. SSI."

"The dark lieutenant grinned. "We'd guessed that. I'm Boomer, by the way."

Boomer. Right.

"We should send you back to that table in the corner," said Starbuck.

"I'm sorry," said Apollo, as meekly as he could, and took a couple of centons of gentle ribbing about SSI geeks with as much good nature as he could. It was hardly his fault that SSI had allowed him a fast track through into the services, faster than the more traditional Academy route. He'd have been a fool not to have taken it.

A pilot wearing Red squadron insignia, said, "I'm surprised they let you join Shield, sir."

"Call me Apollo."

"Apollo, then." The pilot gave him a quick smile, laden with such significance that Apollo blinked. "I'm Bojay, Red squadron. So, how did you get into Shield?"

"Well, I had to argue for it," said Apollo, thinking what a mild understatement that was. SSI graduates were meant to go into the Strategy Unit and win the war from behind a desk. Even though that would have meant that he could live fulltime at home, and yet still serve in the military - something that really appealed to Joss - it wasn't what Apollo wanted. His solution had ended up pleasing no-one but himself. "They don't like us not taking a commission when we graduate, so they gave in, in the end, rather than let me go back to the Kobolian. I did my degree there before I went to SSI."

"That explains the history books," said Starbuck.

Apollo grinned at him, amused at this effortless assumption of some kind of inside knowledge. Starbuck grinned back, that lop-sided smile very attractive.

"There must be a few perks in it," said the Red leader - Kyle, his name was, Apollo thought. "Like getting priority transport."

Apollo raised an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, Bojay leaned forward and briefly touched his arm and said, voice warm, "Kyle's got tossed off a shuttle once so a Shield Warrior could get home. It happened yahrens ago, but he likes to nurse a grievance."

Apollo smoothed the sleeve that Bojay had touched. Hmmmn. That was a mild attempt to hit on him, or he'd never been in a gay bar. He pretended that he hadn't noticed it at all, and glanced at Kyle. "You got bumped for a Shield?"

Kyle nodded.

"We don't often use Fleet transports," said Apollo. He sipped at his ale, thinking about the shuttle he'd commandeered, amused by the irony. And of course, the even greater irony of commandeering his father's battlestar, even if that hadn't exactly been his idea. "But yeah, when we do, we get priority. It's not much of a perk, though. Whoever got your seat, Kyle, would have earned it the hard way."

Kyle grinned and settled back, and the talk moved on to something else. Apollo glanced at Bojay a couple of times, wondering if he'd dreamt the touch on his arm, the confidential tone. He saw that Bojay looked intently at Starbuck a couple of times, and wondered about that, too.

After a little while, he decided that he'd had enough. Pershing had only started with the ten mile run: things had gone rapidly downhill from there, and Apollo decided that what his over-exercised muscles needed was another hot shower. His quarters rated a real water shower, and he couldn't get enough of that particular luxury.

He finished his ale and made his excuses, leaving to a chorus of goodnights that all had an unsatisfied sound to them, as if they were disappointed at not finding out more. He enjoyed that. A man could get to like this kind of celebrity.

 

Day 26, around 8.75 am

Apollo didn't take much active part in proceedings at the next morning's briefing meeting, content to watch and listen and take mental notes about the officers to add to the research on their records that he'd started the previous day. He was amused at the unfeigned delight at the news that the ship's gymnasium would be out of bounds for three centars every afternoon, from one until four.

The Green leader, Jillia, was the most vocal about what they all evidently saw as an unexpected treat. They'd all realised that it was something to do with Apollo and the job he was on: Jillia favoured him with a smile so bright it could have burnt its way through bulkheads. Apollo watched, amused, but sobered when she saw that he was looking at her and she sparkled at him. She was very pretty. He thought of Joss and his lover's belief that casual sex with girls didn't count. Well, only if the girls approached it in the same light-hearted way: even if he'd been into casual relationships like that, he'd rarely been seriously attracted enough to take the risk of using and hurting someone.

Jillia exulted in missing out on what she described as Sergeant Pershing's 'malignant attention'.

"Pershing's the ex-Infantry sergeant who oversees our physical training," said Simonitz.

"I met him yesterday," said Apollo. "He was very helpful."

"He despises airheads," said Bojay, using the Infantry's less than affectionate term for Fleet pilots. He grinned at Apollo. "You'll probably almost count as Infantry with him, I guess, sir."

"Almost," agreed Apollo, noting another attempt to catch his interest. He glanced at Jillia again. He hadn't thought that he was so attractive that they'd be competing for his attention. It was almost flattering.

"He doesn't give us much quarter when it comes to hand-to-hand or keeping us fit."

"Usually because he's battling against our baser instincts," cut in Starbuck.

"In your case, yes," said Bojay, with an undercurrent of malice that Apollo didn't miss.

He caught Starbuck's eye, and the lieutenant gave a little smirk, almost conspiratorial. Apollo began to wonder whose attention Bojay was trying to get. If it was Starbuck's, he suspected that the blond lieutenant knew it.

Starbuck sat quiet, until Simonitz announced that Apollo would be their guest in the Mess that evening. When Simonitz told them it would be informal, normal battledress to be worn, Starbuck straightened up.

"Oh, and I look so good in dress uniform!"

I'll bet! was the unbidden thought, Apollo assaulted by a vision of Starbuck in Fleet dress uniform that had the breath catching in his throat. Astonished, he suppressed the image and managed a quick grin. "Sorry, it's my fault. I don't normally travel with dress uniform." He remembered the expression on his father's face when he'd had to confess as much the previous day and added, ruefully. "Commander Adama's already pointed out what a social gaffe that is."

Another grin from Starbuck, this time one with a lot of fellow feeling in it.

After that, Apollo sat quietly beside Simonitz, watching as they went through their usual discussions of the day's business, weighing them up, measuring them, looking for that something that was almost indefinable, looking for the one to whom he was going to trust his life and this mission.

 

Still Day 26

When Simonitz left for the duty office, Apollo went back to the bridge. Adama had suggested - tentatively, his son thought - that a couple of centars with the command staff would help Apollo understand better how the battlestar operated. It wasn't that Apollo suspected that his father's main motive was to try and show him what he was missing not being in Fleet, and to try to inspire him into returning to the fold, but he did suspect that was in there somewhere.

Adama took him into the bridge office first, to be hospitable, leaving Tigh in command. "I suppose you'd prefer tea?"

"Yes," said Apollo. "Thanks." He took the cup Adama handed him.

"How's it going with Simonitz?" asked his father.

Apollo considered it. Simonitz wasn't his greatest fan and he suspected the man drank too much, but he could live with the first problem and the second was absolutely none of his business. If it hadn't been noticed by the Galactica's most senior officers, it wasn't Apollo's place to enlighten them.

"I think it's fine. He's not over friendly, but he's being professional about it all. He's co-operating, and he knows his people. I had a long talk with him yesterday morning, after the meeting with the officers, and he had a lot of insights to pass on." Apollo grinned. "You've got some characters down there."

"I know it," said Adama, ruefully. "But I'm glad Simonitz is co-operating. I'm not really surprised, though. He's not the most imaginative Strike captain I've ever had, but he's solid and efficient despite - " Adama paused, and shrugged.

He knew then. That probably meant that Simonitz's drinking was noticeable, but not yet so huge a problem as to affect his work.

Apollo ignored the pause and the shrug. "I've watched him get through two briefings with his officers. They respect him. That tells me a lot."

Adama nodded, looking satisfied. "Sergeant Pershing said you'd made arrangements with him to get into training."

Amused, Apollo wondered if anything ever happened on this ship that its commander didn't know about. "I really think it will be T18. I'm pretty fit, but T18's a hot and heavy horror: I need to get acclimatised to that. Pershing will help. He's one of those characters I mentioned."

"He most certainly is," said Adama. "He told me he was a little bit worried about the scar tissue."

Ah, so that's what this was about, at least partly "It pulls a bit after I've run a few miles, but it's really pretty good, as good as I can expect."

His father looked doubtful, but contented himself with exhorting Apollo not to overdo things. Apollo's amusement shaded into something else; a faint surprise, perhaps, at this parental concern and his own pleased reaction to it? He was so used to doing without it, that he was uncertain about how to react; and he didn't know what had provoked it.

"I'm looking forward to this evening," he said, trying to find a fairly neutral topic. "I'd like the chance to see a battlestar at play."

Adama laughed. "It won't be that entertaining."

"I don't know," said Apollo, thinking of Jillia and Bojay and one Lieutenant Starbuck. There was a triangle to conjure with.

"Well, I hope you enjoy it. And you will wear medal ribbons, won't you? Give me that much satisfaction, at least."

"All right. Just this once, mind." Apollo frowned. "I hope I can find them."

"You'd better." Adama glanced at the wall chronometer. "We'd better get back to the bridge. I hope you'll enjoy the next couple of centars, Apollo."

"I thought I was meant to find it instructive? Just in case it came in handy one day." Apollo softened the words with a grin.

"That as well," said Adama, refusing to rise to the bait.

Apollo followed him back to the bridge, still grinning. He reflected that this had been perhaps the most unfraught conversation he'd had with his father for yahrens, and slight though it had been, he wished there were more like them.

 

Day 26, lunchtime

Apollo ate alone in the Commissary. To give him credit, Simonitz had offered to take Apollo in to lunch, but the Strike captain had found it hard to hide his relief when Apollo, pleading the need to start in on reading all those records that he now had access to, politely let him off the hook.

He spent much of the meal reading through mission reports, trying to identify a pool of potentials in the hope the he'd be able to avoid having to plough through the personnel records of all 150 pilots. He knew he was fooling himself, of course. He'd still end up doing the ploughing, just to be able to assure himself that he hadn't missed anything.

Although more than a few people watched him curiously, no-one bothered him, leaving him to his own devices. A few centons before one, he closed down the datapad, pushed away his half eaten meal, and got up to join Pershing for their first session in a heavier atmosphere. He was glumly sure that the sergeant had something planned for him that would make him regret ever turning down that scholarly life at the Kobolian. If it wasn't utterly impossible, he could almost believe that Joss had somehow subverted Pershing with a large bribe.

As he crossed the floor, he saw Starbuck sitting at a central table, with Jillia and a couple of non-commissioned pilots wearing Green insignia. He felt a faint disappointment that Starbuck had been one of those who'd left Apollo to himself.

Starbuck looked up when Apollo drew level with the table. He looked friendly. Cheered, Apollo nodded at him as he passed.

He decided that he liked the resident subversive. This was definitely one who merited further attention.