Section Nine : Materia Medica

 

It started out as one more patrol, just like all the others; like the one he'd done yesterday and the day before, and the one he'd do tomorrow and the day after that.

Starbuck was beginning to value the routine and the mundane. Anything that meant he didn't have to think too much and that let his training take over so that he could coast along inside it, helped get him through the day. It gave him something to cling to. In the three sectons since the Midnight Watch, mindless routine had grounded him, had been the stability he'd needed to get on with things.

There were other advantages too. Starbuck was a very social animal usually. He had pretty much always lived a communal life: the transition from lack of privacy in the orphanage to lack of privacy in the military hadn't been that much of a strain. But even he craved silence and space occasionally. Patrols gave him that. He could sit in silence and drift, letting his squad chatter around him, comforted by the noise and the lack of any pressure to join in. Over the last few sectons, his pilots had learned to respect Starbuck's silences, thought they didn't understand them, and even though he was silent this was still his place, he was still included. And mostly his and Boomer's squads patrolled closely together, giving him the chance of some private time with Boomer, that he couldn't always get in the barracks or the OC. At least at the mid point of the patrol they managed a few centons to talk quietly on a closed channel.

This patrol started out normally. He and his squad had taken off on the second wave, five centons after Boomer's people. Their course was a wide arc that took them around and behind the First fleet, checking that everything on the port flank was quiet, that nothing was sneaking up on them. Boomer's squad was doing exactly the same on the starboard side. The two arcs met at a point several thousand miles behind the lastmost corvette, the Vipers sitting a holding pattern while he and Boomer exchanged a few words.

Nothing significant. Just the usual military exchange that everyone could listen in to, formally reporting on the outcome of their patrols so far - Thought we heard a transmission from that asteroid belt, but it checked out. Or, there's some sort of anomaly here, and Isometrics want another set of readings to confirm the ones we took - then a couple of centons on the private channel that, equally, everyone could have listened to since it consisted of little more than Boomer talking Starbuck into some extra Triad practice when they got back. It was easier just to agree, and hell, it would fill up a centar or two. Then with ritualistic and ribald com noise that cast mutual reproaches upon the looks, virtue and sexual tastes of their respective mothers, the two squads passed each other; Starbuck to make his way home on the starboard flank, Boomer to patrol the port side.

No, nothing significant; in fact, a conversation that had been profoundly ordinary. But it was Boomer looking out for him, making sure that he wasn't on his own. Starbuck wasn't often given to feeling humble, but he knew that he was lucky in his friends. He knew he was thrice lucky in Boomer.

He felt himself relaxing as they headed for home, happy that the beacon on his flight-board was ahead of him, not behind. Galactica might just be a tin can in space, but she was still the only home he'd ever had.

Jolly, his flight-sergeant, broke the silence. "What are you up to when we get back? We're planning on getting together with Boomer's people."

Starbuck roused himself. He'd have to be sociable, but it would fill another couple of centars. "It'll have to be after the Triad practice I've just arranged with Boomer," he said, without enthusiasm. "But I don't see why not."

But it seemed that the Galactica had other plans for him. They were half way back when the call came. It was the captain himself, ordering Starbuck to hand over command of his squad to Jolly and get back to the ship, on the double.

Surprised, Starbuck worked the tiny navigational computer on the console. "Forty centons," he said.

"Make it thirty," said Simonitz.

Starbuck frowned at the comlink. "Sim, what's going on?"

"All I'm allowed to tell you is that you're wanted back on board," said Captain Simonitz, in the tone of voice that made it clear that whoever had put that prohibition on him was still within earshot. Starbuck understood that immediately, and scowled as he listened. That was bad luck. In other circumstances, Simonitz would have told him what was heading his way, but the captain, presumably in the presence of senior officers, had to seem intent only on getting Starbuck back as fast as humanly possible. "Move it, Starbuck. We're tracking you on isometrics."

Why? In case he ran away? Interest piqued, and more than a little apprehensive, Starbuck duly moved it. He handed over quickly to Jolly, adding a private set of instructions to tell Boomer what had happened in case he was otherwise engaged when the other patrol got home (but with what? he wondered), and kicked in the turbos, sending his little fighter hurtling back to the Galactica at top speed.

It was an invigorating little flight, made all the more interesting by his increasing anticipation that something out of the ordinary was happening. He couldn't imagine what, although speculation made the flight pass even faster. He thought it wise to make it back in the recommended thirty centons: even without the heavy warning tone that Simonitz was using, the curiosity was enough to kill him.

It was with relief that he brought the Viper into position to take his usual flight path into the Alpha Bay, and hit the comlink for the landing routine. "Core Command, this is Blue Squad 2 leader. Am coming in to approach Alpha. Permission to land?"

A flurry of static, then to his astonishment, the comms officer did something completely unheard of. "Permission denied. Please await further instructions."

He slowed the Viper so hard he almost had her standing on her nose. "Come again?"

"Approach to Alpha bay denied. Am sending you an approach for Beta bay. Please acknowledge."

Starbuck watched the data stream flash from the comlink to the navigation computer. "Data input functioning. Approach to Beta confirmed."

He let the nav-computer take remote control over the flight-board, and brought the Viper into the Beta bay, following the floor lights to a parking bay over to one side. He climbed out onto the decking, looking around, but there was no Simonitz there to explain, or do anything else for that matter. The Strike Captain was conspicuous by his absence. Relieved that security weren't waiting for him either - the only explanation that had occurred to him was that he was in deep trouble for something, although his conscience was, for once, so clean it squeaked - he could do nothing but wait.

The deck was busy - that was normal. Techs were working on preparing a shuttle for a flight - that was normal. The Deckmaster was yelling at another group of flight crew about getting a Viper into the tool shop - and that was normal, if her reputation for a fiery temper and a vocabulary that would shame a trooper, was anything to go by. It made Starbuck's ears burn, and he'd thought he knew all the swear words in the lexicon. He wasn't sure that the techs could obey her instructions without complex surgery.

Nothing at all to indicate why he was there. Starbuck stood beside his Viper, helmet in hand, watching all the activity for some clue about what was going in, and feeling like a spare part the techs had forgotten. He paged Core Command.

"I'm here," he announced, in as inviting a tone as he could manage. "Would somebody like to tell me where I'm to go next?"

"You're to stay put, Lieutenant."

That was the unmistakable voice belonging to Colonel Tigh, and even over the comlink it had Starbuck's spine stiffening out of its customary slouch and straightening into a vague approximation of a military posture. He gawked at the comlink until his brain re-engaged gear.

"Yes, sir," he said, and prudently closed down the link. The last thing he needed was a conversation with the colonel. "Staying put, sir," he added to the uncaring flight-deck.

If all he was required to do was wait, then wait he would. It was just something he wasn't good at. Waiting unnerved Starbuck. He didn't like not knowing what was going to happen, and he didn't like being left to one side like this, parked, awaiting someone else's convenience. It wasn't comfortable. What if they forgot about him? What if five days later, they suddenly wondered where he was, and discovered him faint from hunger and thirst, gamely waiting for orders in some forgotten corner of Beta deck?

And it wasn't comfortable because a Starbuck on his own and with nothing to do, without the routine to sustain him, invariably found his thoughts going in one particular direction.

He blew out a noisy breath, frustrated and unhappy. He didn't want to go there. He couldn't afford to keep going there: the return journey to a colder reality was increasingly painful. Tense, Starbuck turned his back to the main part of the ship and stared out across the deck, back out through the transparent force field to the stars beyond. He could just see the grey shape of the Patroklus behind them. That was distraction enough. He shifted several feet to one side, hoping to get a better view of her, and forced his thoughts down a different path, wondering what it would be like to serve on her. Frustrating, he decided. It must be terribly frustrating to serve on a destroyer, and know you were second best, and that all the time the best - that is, the Galactica and her pilots - were constantly in front of you, almost as if the Lords were mocking you and your ambitions. Almost, he thought, as frustrating as waiting around on Beta deck for something to happen.

"Starbuck," said Commander Adama, from behind him.

Starbuck jumped and turned around quickly, his mouth dropping with surprise. The commander had been back on board for a couple of sectons, but Starbuck hadn't seen him outside the normal sectonly briefing meetings. Starbuck had half wondered if Adama would call him in and tell him about the service on Caprica, more than he'd been able to glean from the sparse newsline reports, but had then shook his head at his own naivety. Of course the commander wouldn't do that. It wouldn't be right for him to single out Starbuck like that. Starbuck had no right to expect it.

"Sir." He made it both a greeting and a question. He saluted smartly, swiftly switching his helmet to his other hand.

There was something different about the commander. For sectons he'd been subdued, as if he'd been greyed over, the spark gone. Now it was back, and the energy and eagerness were almost visible. For an instant, Starbuck stared, wondering. Then joy and hope had the blood pounding in his ears until he was dizzy with it, his heart thumping in his chest until it hurt. He dropped the helmet, unheeded, to the deck.

Adama didn't seem to notice. He smiled at Starbuck. "I need a pilot to take me to Demeter, Starbuck. I thought that you might do."

"Apollo!" said Starbuck, shocked.

"Apollo," confirmed Adama, and catching Starbuck by the arm, he frogmarched the younger man across the deck to the shuttle. "Come on. We need to get to Demeter."

The deckmaster, unaccountably ladylike, was waiting by the shuttle to hand it over formally to the commander and his pilot. Whatever discussion Adama had with her passed Starbuck by, almost completely. He was numb, nothing functioning except on the purely automatic. He was aware of the conversation, but it may as well have been in Kobolian for all the sense it made to him. He smiled at the deckmaster when it was all over and allowed the commander to bundle him into the shuttle.

"I think," said Adama, eyeing him coolly, "that I'd better take her out. I've had a little longer to acclimatise to the news."

Starbuck nodded, dumbly. Anything the commander said. He sat where Adama had put him, smiling down at his hands, clasped loosely in his lap.

Apollo was alive.

"Course locked in," said Adama, and turned in the pilot's chair. When Starbuck looked up, Adama was studying him. The older man's voice sharpened. "Over it?"

Starbuck nodded, making himself concentrate. "Sorry, sir."

"Don't be." Adama stood up and indicated the pilot's seat. "Yours, Lieutenant."

He scrambled into the chair. "Yes sir. Sir - what happened, sir?"

Adama settled himself into the seat behind Starbuck's. "What happened was that I persuaded the Supreme Commander to send in a Shield team - Apollo's own ship - to see if they could find any human survivors on Telnos."

"The Supreme Commander?" Starbuck goggled at that a bit.

"He's Apollo's godfather. They're very fond of each other."

Starbuck stared. "Right," he said, trying to imagine anyone being fond of a supreme commander, but even his imagination balked at it. "Did you send them to look for him, then?"

"No," said Adama, after a centon. "No, I didn't. I thought he was dead, Starbuck. With what I was told by his people, the people who saw him get hit, I thought he was dead. I didn't think they'd find anyone, and I was sure they wouldn't find Apollo."

He'd done it, said Adama, because leaving a job undone was something Apollo would hate, and he'd wanted to honour his son's memory in a way that Apollo would have liked. But Apollo was there to finish the job himself. He'd collected together more than thirty other survivors, many of them children, and with one regrettable casualty he'd got them all safely off planet, blowing the main Cylon base as they left.

Starbuck laughed at that. "Of course he blew it! That's his job. That's what he's good at."

Adama smiled. "Yes. But Jak told me he's been injured and they're bringing everyone into Demeter to ship them home. So get me there, Starbuck, because we won't have long between the Shield ship docking and the transfer to a Caprica-bound ship, and I want to see my son."

Flying shuttles wasn't top of Starbuck's list of things to do. It was like asking a racehorse to pull a coal-cart - it got the job done, but it was an unconscionable waste to make a fine, highly trained creature do something any donkey could do. But flying this shuttle - well, Starbuck flew it as if it had been crafted out of melted-down gold cubits, honoured and apprehensive and scared and wondering what in hell had possessed the commander to let him in on this.

Because Adama didn't explain further. He didn't explain his reasoning for asking for Starbuck. He gave no hint, other than this extraordinary request for Starbuck to pilot for him, that he knew or even cared what Apollo's relationship with Starbuck had been. He certainly didn't indicate either consent or condemnation, leaving Starbuck to deduce for himself that the very fact he was there meant that it might not be condemnation. Of course, it was probably light yahrens from consent, too.

Instead, the commander left him alone after that first speech, never commenting on the number of times Starbuck had to wipe his eyes, or blow his nose, or make some other sign of turbulent emotion. Starbuck spent the flight veering between happiness so intense and apprehension so intense that both hurt like fury; strung out so tight between the two that his chest ached.

Apollo was alive. Apollo was injured, Adama didn't know how badly. But Apollo was alive. He was injured. He was alive...

Adama was a silent, brooding presence. Perhaps he was deliberately not noticing Starbuck's emotion, perhaps he was too intent on his own to see it, perhaps he regretted saying as much as he had. Indeed, every time Starbuck glanced over his shoulder to where Adama was sitting, the commander was quiet and still, his eyes often closed, hands folded on his breast. Starbuck thought that he was praying.

Starbuck didn't think that was a bad idea. He tried it, a little, himself. It wasn't a bad idea at all.

 

 

Less than a centar out from the station, the commander stirred for the first time in their seven centar flight, coming to sit beside Starbuck in the co-pilot's seat to use the com. It was something to see, Adama being not only the commander of the Galactica and the First Fleet, but the patrician blue-blood Caprican Sire who expected everything to be done exactly the way he wanted it, when he wanted it.

And, of course, it was.

Demeter's commander was called to the comlink, Adama's apparent assumption being that station commanders sat around in their offices waiting for calls from Fleet Commanders. Well, maybe they did. Colonel Brenner certainly didn't keep the commander waiting.

Adama greeted him with affability - another one of the Elect, surmised Starbuck; another member of the club to which all these rich and influential men belonged. But, quite obviously, a junior member. The greeting was affable and polite, but then Adama moved straight into demands - demands for information, and demands for immediate and willing assistance. Adama's attitude was that all of this would be granted without discussion, much less protest. Colonel Brenner seemed to share the same set of cultural mores. He neither discussed nor protested.

Privilege, concluded Starbuck, was a wonderful thing. He was amused to think that the commander was so privileged that the man didn't even realise it. For Adama, this was normality. Starbuck wondered if Adama had any conception of the real normality, the reality for most people who didn't have his blood and breeding to call upon. He doubted it, somehow.

"The Shield ship got in five centars ago and transferred the miners and farmers to Docking Bay 12, where the hospital ship, the Peregrine, is berthed," said Colonel Brenner, as soon as Adama made his requirements clear. "We're waiting for a shuttle from Cetes, bringing in some seriously injured casualties. As soon as they've been transferred, the Peregrine will leave for Caprica."

"My son is a Shield Warrior and will be on the Peregrine. Shield Captain Apollo. Can you get me any word on his condition, Colonel? The Supreme Commander was only able to tell me he'd been wounded in the final evacuation from Telnos."

Not to mention whatever injuries he had from the first evacuation, when he'd been left behind, thought Starbuck, then shook his head silently at his reflection in the screen. Apollo was alive after more than seven sectons of being dead: that was all that mattered.

Adama went on, "Jak had no details, and the Hyperion went back into comms silence."

Starbuck held his breath, but was disappointed.

"I'll see what I can do, sir. I've no details here either, but I'll make some enquiries."

"Thank you. I appreciate your help. When do you expect the Cetes shuttle?"

"ETA is two centars, Commander."

"I see." Adama frowned at the comlink. "Then I'll have time to see Apollo. Our ETA is - what, Lieutenant?"

Starbuck glanced at the console. "About seventy centons, sir."

"Seventy centons, Colonel. I'd be grateful if you would clear dock 11 or 13 for me."

Starbuck gaped, but held his tongue.

"Of course," said Brenner, blandly.

 

 

Sixty-seven centons after the commander spoke to the colonel, Starbuck brought the shuttle into Gate 11.

He didn't look at the commander when they were given their approach path. What could he say about it? It would save them time, and when they had so little of that commodity, it would be a waste to spend precious centons working their way from elsewhere in the station to reach the Peregrine. But he couldn't help wondering what ship had been unceremoniously moved so that the Galactica's shuttle could be accommodated. So that the Galactica's commander could be accommodated.

He brought the shuttle in, turning her side-on to the station to bring her outer door against the Gate's airlock, manoeuvring until she was facing the big hospital ship. He closed the systems down and waited for the airlocks to synchronise, glancing once at the profile beside him as Adama gazed out of the clear tylinium screens to the Peregrine looming over them. He said nothing, waiting for orders, feeling slightly sick with apprehension. Brenner hadn't come back to them with any information. He still didn't know any more about Apollo.

Adama stirred, standing up. "Come with me, Starbuck."

And Starbuck followed gratefully, keeping as still and quiet as he could, showing all the restraint that he was capable of. His presence depended on the Commander's good will, and he'd do nothing to jeopardise it.

Brenner stood on the other side of the decontamination chamber door; a short man in a command uniform that was like Adama's, and comically unlike Adama's in the way it failed to flatter the colonel's stocky body. He saluted crisply as Adama emerged from the decontamination chamber. As soon as the brief formalities were over - with Starbuck quietly relieved about not being introduced - the colonel gestured to a turbolift.

"I've got a travelpod held for you, sir."

"Thank you." Adama followed him into the elevator, Starbuck tagging along behind, and up into the travel pod. "Apollo?"

"I wasn't able to get much," said Brenner, apologetically, setting the pod in motion. "All the Peregrine would tell me that he was in surgery."

Starbuck held his breath for a micron. In surgery? That sounded - it sounded not good, that's what it sounded. Of course, hospital ships were fully equipped to deal with anything, but Starbuck had some vague, unformed feeling that they weren't used except in an emergency; that really a hospital ship was merely a more comfortable sort of transport home to real medical facilities. That meant it had to be a real emergency, that Apollo.... He glanced at the commander out of the corner of his eye.

Adama had stiffened up, looking suddenly very cold and distant. Protective colouration, Starbuck realised instantly. Adama didn't like this news either, hiding his dismay and concern behind a patrician mask. It might have fooled Starbuck if it hadn't been for what he'd seen the day he'd offered Adama the shield. He'd seen behind the mask then. What he was seeing now increased his own anxiety. He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, but held it all back, unwilling to draw attention to himself.

"I've got some of the Hyperion's people waiting to see you," added Brenner.

Adama nodded, very grave and almost ceremonial in the distance he was creating. "Thank you. That was very kind."

"Anything to help," said the colonel.

The travelpod stopped almost immediately. Brenner led them out, down another turbolift, and through the airlocks into the Peregrine. A medical orderly was expecting them, and ushered them down two decks and into a comfortable room. Two people were waiting: a slight, pretty girl in Shield uniform and a big civilian. A very big civilian.

"Commander!" The girl jumped up from her seat.

Adama surprised Starbuck then. From the look on her face before she vanished into the commander's embrace, Adama surprised the girl too. The commander caught hold of her shoulders and pulled her close, dropping a kiss on her forehead.

"Thank you, Rosie," he said. "I can't thank you enough." He kept hold of both her hands.

Rosie. Apollo's lieutenant, Starbuck remembered. Apollo hadn't talked much about his job in Shield, but he'd mentioned Rosie with love.

"He's in surgery," she said. "Did they tell you?"

Adama nodded. "But not what's wrong, or how serious it is."

She bit at her lip, and something in Starbuck's chest contracted painfully. The girl was worried, very worried. "He was hit as we got onto the shuttle, a laser bolt through the knee. We did what we could on the way back, but we're not equipped to deal with anything that serious, and all Tim could do - Sergeant Timon, Commander; you met him at... at the service, if you remember. He's our best paramedic as well as our top sergeant - all Tim could do was keep him sedated so he was comfortable. They took him straight into surgery when we got here." She swallowed hard. "They're trying to save his leg."

Starbuck winced silently, the contraction in his chest becoming a hard thumping. His hands were clammy, and he wiped them on his pants legs. His fingers were shaking, he noticed.

Adama looked down at the deck for a micron, then smiled at her. The smile didn't take the anxiety from his eyes. "He's alive, Rosie, and his mother and I will never forgot that you kept your promise and brought him home." He kissed her again, and looked at the civilian.

"This is Ifan," said Rosie, pink-faced. She freed a hand from Adama's grip, and reached out to beckon Ifan closer. "Ifan ran one of the smaller mines on Telnos, sir, the one where they gathered all the survivors. He was Apollo's right hand man down there. He saved Apollo's life - twice. He was the one who found him alive at the landing area and got him out before the Cylons came back, and he got him onto the shuttle yesterday."

Adama held out a hand. "Thank you, Ifan," he said, simply. He turned back to Rosie. "How long?"

"They've been in there for centars. They said it could take a long time." She drew the commander down into a seat. "They've his shoulder to see to, as well."

"Shrapnel," said Ifan. When Adama and Starbuck both looked at him, he added, "He was hit in the head and right shoulder at the landing site and some of the crap's still in there. He couldn't use his right hand."

Starbuck grimaced at this extra, unwelcome information. Rosie sighed and shrugged, and looked at him curiously.

"This is Starbuck," said Adama. "He's a friend of Apollo's."

"Really?" she said.

Starbuck gave her a tight little grin and settled into a chair on the other side of Adama.

Quite deliberately, Rosie leaned forward and around Adama, and stared at Starbuck. He stared back, and she said, "From the Galactica?" He nodded, and the little frown smoothed out into a knowing smile. "Well, then," she said. "I guess that explains it."

Adama was silent again, withdrawn again, possibly praying again, ignoring all this. Starbuck shot him a quick glance, and when he looked at Rosie, she too glanced at Adama, then nodded to Starbuck and sat back. After that he couldn't see much of her at all unless he leaned forward or backward to catch a glimpse of her and wonder what the hell she was talking about - and hope that she wouldn't talk about it any more.

 

 

The time dragged.

Colonel Brenner had left them to it after a while - presumably he had a station to run and work to do beyond dealing with invading Fleet commanders demanding his time and attention. Adama stood to shake hands with the colonel and thank him for his help - noblesse oblige, thought Starbuck, watching it with a weary cynicism, and then Adama surprised him. The commander had being doing that a lot recently.

"I don't know whose ship you had to move to let me in this close, Colonel, but please thank them for me. I'd like the captain's name before I leave, so that I can apologise in person."

Brenner nodded and murmured something, and let them be. Adama resumed his seat, and took Rosie's hand in his again, patting it. He looked beyond her to where Ifan sat, big as a mountain.

"How did you find Apollo, Ifan?"

"Sergeant Ifan, Commander. He's ex-Infantry."

"I was a corporal. It was his idea of joke."

Rosie smiled. "Look on it as field promotion, Ifan. It was his idea of a compliment."

Ifan sniffed, and said, to answer Adama's question, "We were late getting to the site, Commander. A Raider got our transport, and we had to do the last few miles on foot. There was no-one there but Cylons. They piled all the bodies up at one side of the site, and when they left, next day, we went looking for survivors and weapons. We weren't expecting to find any, but there were kids there, and we - well, we didn't want to leave the kids out in the open."

"And Apollo was alive."

"Just. He had a bad head wound and he was out of things for a couple of days, and he couldn't do much for nearly a secton with the concussion. It made him sick and dizzy, but he got over that. There was a lot of shrapnel in his shoulder, too. I dug out everything I could see while he was unconscious, but I'm not a doctor and - " He held up a huge hand "- and these are a bit big for fancy work."

"Thank you, Sergeant," said Adama. "I can't tell you how grateful his mother and I are."

And me! thought Starbuck. And me.

"You're welcome. He didn't say much about home, but I'm not surprised he turns out to be a commander's son. The centon he woke up, he started giving orders."

"And you took them," observed Rosie, sweetly.

Ifan's melancholy face brightened momentarily. "It's all that training they gave us, they end up conditioning us. What choice did I have?"

 

 

And the time dragged and dragged. Starbuck was mildly surprised at the way that the centons stretched and stretched, until each felt a yahren long: mildly surprised and greatly agonised.

The knot of apprehension in his gut sent him to the flush a couple of times. He couldn't throw up - he tried that, but all that came up was spit and acid, and the lead weight in his stomach was unaffected by it. He hung over the pan, retching and spluttering, and feeling like hell, and the lead just sat there, weighing him down.

Being locked in a cubicle away from the Commander's eyes at least meant he could let loose for a few microns. He couldn't be sick, but he could cry, imagining the pile of corpses in which Ifan had found Apollo. And he could cry over the misery of the last few sectons, and the certainty of more misery to come. It might just be misery of a different kind.

Because even if Apollo was back, he still wasn't Starbuck's.

He couldn't bear to be away from the waiting room for more than a centon or two, in case the surgeon came out to tell them how Apollo was and he missed it. Each time he splashed his face with cold water and raced back, and each time he was disappointed. There was no surgeon, no news, just three strained faces turning to watch him slow down and return to his seat.

"Sorry," he said, each time, and dropped back into his chair beside the commander, his face red and his gut feeling like a Cylon Raider was buzzing inside it.

Nothing to do but wait.

 

 

"I should give you this back," said Rosie, suddenly. She reached inside her collar and pulled on a fine chain.

Starbuck hadn't thought that Shield Warriors went around wearing diamond pendants, much less one as fine as this. It was a beauty, but sadly out of place with a military uniform.

She reached up to undo the clasp, but Adama was too fast for her. He put his hand over hers, stilling them.

"Keep it, Rosie. Apollo meant you to have it." He smiled at her. "He won't want it back. It meant a lot to him, and he doesn't give things like that away lightly."

Rosie nodded and let her hands drop. Starbuck reached up to his own collar and let his fingertips slip inside, to touch the tiny silver shield that he wore hidden inside it.

No. Apollo never did anything significant, lightly.

That was hopeful.

 

 

They'd been through it all, a potted history of the last seven sectons. Ifan finding Apollo; Apollo starting the search for survivors; Apollo and Ifan finding Luke ('Poor little Luke,' said Rosie. 'He's devastated because Apollo was hurt. We let him see Apollo once on the way back, but that upset him too much. The kid's going to have real problems.'); Apollo and Ifan infiltrating the base (Adama actually laughed at that one. Starbuck was horrified. He didn't like horses any more than he liked Cylons.); Apollo and Ifan planning on taking a Raider (Starbuck listened to that with his mouth open in disbelief, trying to imagine Ifan flying a Cylon attack ship and failing dismally); Luke's timely revelation about the communicator tickling his wrist; the last horrendous few centons on Telnos.

Everything that led to them sitting there, waiting.

And now they were talked out, sitting in silence again, none of them inclined to further conversation; all, guessed Starbuck, too caught up in worrying about Apollo. And the shuttle from Cetes was due soon. Starbuck was getting worried that the shuttle would get there and the Peregrine would leave for home and Apollo would still be in surgery, fate unknown.

Except, he comforted himself, the commander wouldn't allow the Peregrine to leave. There had to be considerable benefit from Privilege.

"Commander?" It was Colonel Brenner again. "This is Doctor Selim. I've explained that you're awaiting news of Captain Apollo."

Adama couldn't sit up straighter - his back was ramrod straight already - but he did tense. "My son?"

The doctor smiled. "He's in the Recovery Room, Commander Adama, and he came through it pretty well."

Starbuck let out pent-up breath in a long sigh, and slumped in his chair. Rosie turned to Ifan on her other side, and hugged him fiercely. Adama bowed his head for a micron.

"Thank you, doctor," he said, voice steady. "How is he, please?"

The doctor pulled up a chair. "There was no saving the knee, Commander. The laser bolt had destroyed it, and to be honest we had a hard time getting enough useable bone in the femur and tibia to get a bionic joint grafted in. That was pretty extensive surgery, and it will be a long time before he's mobile again."

"How long?"

"Sectars. Maybe a yahren."

"But you've saved his leg," said Rosie, gratefully. "That's all he'll care about."

The doctor's smile was thin. "What concerns me, is his medical history. I'm concerned that he might reject the graft - you'll be aware that two yahrens ago he had a replacement rib put in. That proved troublesome and although the graft eventually took, he was on anti-rejectants for sectons. The problem is that because of the antibodies his system created last time, the reaction now is likely to be even worse. We've started him on the anti-rejectants as a precaution, of course."

"Still, that should work, shouldn't it?" said Rosie.

"We hope so," answered the doctor, with the kind of bonhomie that had all of Starbuck's hackles rising. "It'll be an unpleasant few sectars for him, though. It's a shame he's one of the small minority who have this sort of difficulty."

"His shoulder?" asked Ifan. "I couldn't get all the crap out of it."

"We did. There were several pieces of shrapnel pressing on the nerves. Again, it will be some sectars before he has full use of the arm, but he should recover at least some manual dexterity."

"Some," repeated Adama.

"The damage was extensive," said the doctor. "He'll need a lot of physiotherapy to help the nerves regenerate. He may never recover full use of the hand, but we never know. He just might."

Adama nodded, and passed a hand over his face. Starbuck realised, with a protective rush that surprised him, that the older man was tired.

"Is there anything else I should know about before I call his mother?" the commander asked. "Will you be quarantining him?"

"Quarantine? Oh, for the Telnos fever? No, there's no need for that. The first batch of people were quarantined, of course, until we were certain there wasn't any risk. The fever's a recurrent amoeboid infection, not contagious. The infection vector is through insect bites, where blood-feeding insects carry the amoeba on their mouthparts and transfer them into their victim's bloodstream. There's no possibility of it passing directly from human to human."

"Does he have the fever?"

"Yes," said Ifan, before the doctor could speak. "We all did, even those of us who lived in the hills." He smiled mirthlessly at Adama. "Those damned midges would fly for miles if they thought they'd get a good meal."

"We'll find a cure for it, eventually," the doctor said. He glanced at his chronometer. "It's unpleasant, but not dangerous."

Ifan frowned at the man. "What about the solium? We were in an unshielded mine."

"We've already started a course of decontaminants to leach out the solium," said the doctor indifferently. "As we will with all of you. I don't think any of you were exposed long enough to cause any serious damage." He looked at his chronometer again and stood up. "The captain is still very heavily sedated, Commander, but you may have five centons with him. Please excuse me - a shuttle of wounded has just arrived from Cetes and I'm needed in Emergency for the triage assessments. The orderly will take you to him."

The doctor bustled off, and Adama stood up, looking uncharacteristically uncertain, as if he didn't quite understand what he'd heard. He turned to meet Starbuck's eyes.

"I won't be long," he said.

"He'll recognise him, at least," said Rosie, sitting up straighter and wiping her eyes. She glanced at Starbuck. "Me and Tim got the beard off him on the way back. He must have hated that."

"We all did," said Ifan, running a hand over his own clean shaven chin. "There wasn't the water to spare for personal grooming. Only those religious freaks wanted the hair."

Rosie laughed, and then cried a little more. "And didn't they annoy the frack out of Apollo!"

Starbuck turned his head and watched the door Adama had left by, feeling excluded. Rosie and Ifan had Telnos in common, and it seemed a lifetime since Starbuck had sat in the decontamination chamber and yawned his way through an ICN report on the evacuation and declared that there was nothing there to make him even remotely interested.

He decided that he was giving up irony for the foreseeable future.

 

 

He looked back when the silence fell, to find Rosie watching him, her brown eyes wide and candid, so innocent looking that the threat was almost visible. Ifan was staring at the ceiling.

"So," she said. "A friend of Apollo's."

"Uh-huh."

"From the Galactica."

Starbuck sighed. She was starting that again. The look he was getting was hard, assessing, and it made him uncomfortable. Ifan focused on him, evidently only marginally interested, because the big man's sad gaze flickered away again almost instantly. Starbuck nodded.

"Mmn." Rosie, too, glanced at the door, as if mentally following Adama's progress. "Good friends, I expect."

Starbuck wasn't about to let a slip of a girl faze him. He smiled, his best smile. "I expect so."

"Mmn," said Rosie again. "The deprivation that was good for his soul, I wonder?"

Starbuck kept the smile dazzling, wondering what the frack she was on about. "So do I. Wonder, I mean."

She smiled back and echoed him. "Oh, I expect you are." She leaned forward, and touched him on the knee, and for an instant the pleasant slip of a girl was gone and he was faced by a tough and very competent Shield Warrior. "But it's Apollo's expectations that matter. Don't mess it up, airhead."

Starbuck blinked at her, uncertain. "I probably won't get the chance," he said, surprised into honesty.

She cast another look at the door and came over all female and inscrutable. "We'll see. Commander! How is he?"

"Alive," said Adama, with deep thankfulness. He turned to Starbuck, and said, very gently. "You can have a couple of centons with him, Starbuck. That's all."

 

 

He looked small, in the bed. Silly really, because he was only a half inch or so shorter than Starbuck, but here he looked small and thin and vulnerable. The equipment didn't help, dwarfing the bed with its monitors and lights and little beeping sounds. A cradle kept the bedcovers from weighing on the injured leg.

Starbuck took Apollo's right hand in his, careful not to disturb the intravenous line that disappeared into the vein on the back, distressed by the intrusive looking tubing and valves. Some clear liquid was being dripped into the tubing, and Starbuck watched it for a micron or two, timing the drops, wondering what it was.

His face was so white that all Starbuck could focus on were the black smudges of hair and eyebrows against the white pillow. His eyes were closed, and his breathing deep and even, as if he were merely asleep. Starbuck smiled at that. Apollo had slept like this in the little cabin on the Galactica, deeply and boneless-seeming; a still constant in the bed with Starbuck fidgeting around him all night. Apollo only woke up, he remembered, when the fidgeting resolved itself into true wakefulness and the opportunity for another long slow lovemaking. Off duty, Apollo's radar was switched off for anything less, as if he were making up for all the nights when he was on a job and sleep was a luxury.

He leaned forward. Nothing he did would wake Apollo right then, no matter how much he fidgeted.

It was a gentle kiss, an undemanding kiss, a kiss that thanked God, whole heartedly, that Apollo was alive, a kiss that shouted joyful thanks that the lips under his were warm and living, not cold and dead. A kiss that gave Starbuck the courage to say what he'd never had the courage to say when Apollo was awake.

"Welcome back, Pol," he said, using his free hand to trace the line of Apollo's face. "Love you."