Section 2.5: More Scenes from the
Life of a Battlestar Captain

 

 

Day 99 : 19 Octavus 6490
Demeter Transfer Station : 09.70 centars

The midnight shuttle out of the Caprica space-field arrived at its assigned docking station a few centons earlier than scheduled. That minor miracle aside, the run had been uneventful. The only other traveller in the tiny officers' compartment had been a quiet Infantry major, as disinclined for casual conversation as Apollo was himself. They'd nodded to each other on boarding and ignored each other for the entire flight. Indeed, the Infantry major was evidently a warrior to his toenails: taking the seasoned soldier's advantage of down-time, he'd slept for most of the trip, his soft snores a counterpoint to the deep, almost subliminal, rumble of the shuttle's engines. Apollo envied him that. He'd managed to doze a little, that was all. Not enough. He was tired, his eyes felt full of grit and he'd commit genocide for a shower.

No Rosie in the disembarkation room to meet him this time and the transit room behind the airlock was relatively uncrowded. No Rosie, just a few Transport Fleet personnel milling around, bitching about getting the freight unloaded. No Rosie, and no raucous troopers there to greet the few enlisted men and women travelling on the shuttle; they dispersed quickly, so by the time that Apollo had retrieved his kitbag from the steward and disembarked, they'd already gone. No Rosie, just Starbuck leaning up against a wall.

Starbuck.

The surprise made the breath catch in his throat, and an instant later heat washed over Apollo from head to foot until he had to be glowing with it. It wasn't anything he'd not known, he told himself, fiercely, when Starbuck spotted him and straightened up, his face carefully arranged into neutrality; it was stupid to let himself react to it, to feel it as if it was something unexpected, something new. And if he felt the urge to catch and stay caught, to take and seek comfort, to rub himself up against Starbuck like a cat, to hold on to the one thing in his life that he wanted… well, he was used to fighting it, tamping it down into immobility. Despite being the rich man's son, he was used to not getting the one thing that he really wanted.

Instead he said, "What are you doing here?"

"And it's nice to see you, too. Sheesh, I should make you walk home, if that's all the thanks I'm going to get for playing cab-driver."

Apollo forced a grin. "I'm surprised to see you, not ungrateful. Who let you out of the playpen?"

"Kyle." Starbuck's arms raised briefly in a gesture that could be read as resignation or despair or as if he'd thought of hugging Apollo, but he allowed them to fall again without acting on any of those things. He hooked his hands into his belt instead. "I don't get it, myself, because I know I'm the most charming man in Fleet, but he says he's had enough of me and I'm driving him mad. He says you deserve a medal, with me for a wingman."

"A medal's not good enough. I'm holding out for sainthood." The tight knot in Apollo's chest that had been there since he and Felix had been dismissed by the Intelligence Committee melted away to be replaced by a more familiar knot, the one he associated with wanting something he couldn't have.

Starbuck snorted. "That'd take a miracle."

"It usually does." Apollo let him take one of the kitbags. "Seriously, I'm glad to see you, but why are you playing taxi-driver? I wouldn't have thought that even Kyle could get that past the scary woman who runs Traffic Control."

"Sergeant Laurel," said Starbuck and sighed gustily. "That's quite a woman," he added.

"Maybe you can practice your charm on her."

"Already done," said Starbuck, and laughed. "No, really. It's always safest to keep on the right side of the people who really have power in the organisation, the important people. And if you hadn't already realised it, that's not you or Colonel Tigh or the Commander. It's the non-coms. They can make your life hell by… oh, I don't know, losing your transport papers when you're about to go on your first home leave in three yahrens, while still saluting and respectfully calling you 'Sir', and not one iota of their evil will show on their bland little faces. They hold officers in the bitterest contempt. It's only wise to be nice to 'em."

"Not a bad survival strategy," conceded Apollo.

"How do you think I've lived this long? Anyhow, when Dietra told me she wasn't feeling so well, and I'd mentioned to Kyle that you'd need a driver, Laurel was okay about me doing it. That way we can leave your father's shuttle for him to pick up, day after tomorrow. Although," he added, swinging Apollo's kitbag in one hand, "I hadn't reckoned on being your beast of burden every single time you travel, so don't get used to it."

Apollo, not unaware of the chain of masterly manipulation that had ended with Starbuck sauntering along beside him, applauded this nod towards filial respect – after all, he said, what sort of dutiful son would he be if he left his father stranded on the transfer station? Despite misgivings, he added an enquiry as to the nature of Sergeant Dietra's indisposition, and gave it as his considered opinion that she was another scary one (if prettier) whose right side Starbuck ought to be careful to cultivate.

"Of course I keep on Dietra's right side! She's almost as scary as Laurel. You'd be all right, though. She likes you."

Apollo stared.

"She does. She thinks you're cute. She said so." Starbuck sniggered and added a few snide remarks about Apollo's modest attractions—remarks that had them both looking hurriedly at something other than each other. Starbuck's face reddened slightly over the cheekbones. His voice dropped to a confidential whisper. "She's not well. Women's things," he said with such significance that Apollo almost recoiled, and his hand dropped down towards his groin, making funny little fluttery motions "You know."

"I don't," denied Apollo, quickly. "I don't know! I don't want to know. And I really don't want to know how you know!"

Starbuck's hand did a little more circular fluttering. "Women find me sympathetic. They confide in me."

"She'll kill you," predicted Apollo. "She'll kill you for being a sexist bastard."

"I'm an empathetic bastard, thank you very much." Starbuck nodded to the overhead transport stop. "Are we walking all the way or taking a ride?"

"What dock are you in?"

"Twenty-seven. The closest I could get. Let's take the transport. It's at least a centar's walk."

"You need the exercise."

"I take my exercise in more useful ways. I signed up to fly nifty little fighters, not to be a pedestrian. Especially a pedestrian burdened with your luggage. What in hell do you carry around with you in these kit bags? Anti-matter?"

"Books, mostly." Apollo followed Starbuck up into the transport.

There were other people in the bullet-shaped transport capsule so Starbuck didn't give that answer the response it deserved. He rolled his eyes instead, and sat silent beside Apollo, shoulders touching, until they reached their dock. Apollo sat and banished thought, revelling in this sudden return to companionship. It was a marked contrast to his previous return.

He hadn't done a thing to improve matters. He'd only gone away again. He didn't really understand it, but he thought they'd be all right.






Day 102 : 22 Octavus 6490
Battlestar Galactica : 17.50 centars

Apollo hated the first few days of a new shift, despite knowing how illogical it was to try and cling to concepts like 'night' and 'day' in space. The switchover screwed his internal clock for a day or two. It never felt quite right sleeping through the 'day' or arriving in the gym in the 'early evening', rather than when the ship was waking up. Not even putting the time periods within quotation marks helped, he noted, and comforted himself with the thought that at least he got the gym to himself.

Pershing met him when he arrived. "Haven't you got a big game this secton?"

"Fifthday. Me and Kyle against Starbuck and Boomer."

Pershing nodded, lips pursed. "The game you delayed last secton."

"Yes." Apollo looked at the treadmill with even more than his usual unenthusiasm. "They're both pretty good. Boomer's rock solid and Starbuck's like lightning, all over the court. It'll be hard to keep them in check."

"You aren't bad yourself. I watched you and Kyle take on those two lieutenants in Red squadron, secton before last."

"That? A scratch game, a friendly. I thought I'd better try and get some practice in."

"You creamed 'em." Pershing looked very thoughtful. "It's a shame really that you made Starbuck your wingman."

"Oh?"

"I meant, that because he and Boomer are often here when you are, you aren't going to be able to hide the fact that those surgeons did a pretty good job on your knee. If we'd had any sense, we'd have faked it so it looked worse than it is."

"Why?"

Pershing rolled his eyes. "Get a grip, Captain. It would affect the starting odds, of course, and then once I had the money down, you'd go in and stop faking, and we'd clean up. Of course," he added regretfully, "it'd only work the once."

"Is there something wrong with just going in and playing?"

Pershing stared at him fixedly.

"Okay," said Apollo. "Forget that. I can't help the religious upbringing. You and Starbuck must be fighting to be gambler-in-residence on this ship."

"No. He beats me. That boy just has natural talent."

"Yeah. I know." Apollo stepped onto the treadmill, watching as Pershing programmed it. "I should tell you, Sergeant, that for low-level practices and friendlies, I just play enough to get a little exercise. But for real matches I play all out."

Pershing cocked an eyebrow at him, enquiringly.

"And maybe I should add that the only reason I and my team-mate didn't play in the Columbia's final last season, was that I was called away early to do another job before coming on here. I've never mentioned that before now. I've particularly never mentioned it to Starbuck."

Pershing smiled.

"Deal?" asked Apollo.






Day 105 : 25 Octavus 6490, 19.00
Battlestar Galactica, the Triad Court, match time

From where he was standing with Kyle at the edge of the court, watching Starbuck and Boomer bask in the adulation given the reigning champions, Apollo could see his father and Tigh, heads together. His father was smiling. By rising on his toes he could just alter the line of sight enough to see the money change hands. Tigh looked pleased. Adama met Apollo's gaze, smiled and winked.

He dropped back onto his heels, shaken, because that wink was just bizarre. His father just shouldn't indulge in vulgar facial contortions if he wanted Apollo to win. And he most definitely did want Apollo to win, and not just because of fatherly partiality. Rather unexpectedly for someone with a religious and upright reputation, Adama was both a great admirer of the sport and inordinately fond of gambling (in a mild way, of course, as befitted a religious and upright man). He'd come whenever he could to watch Apollo play competitively, before Shield and Joss between them had cut too far into Apollo's life to make regular Triad feasible. Adama hadn't forgotten Apollo's playing style. His father had got back that morning and, when the official military business was done and he'd passed on the non-news about the Council rubber-stamping the Intelligence Committee's decision, he'd spent a moment or two reminiscing fondly about the way his son had always turned competitive Triad into all-out war.

I'm looking forward to seeing that again , Adama had said quietly, and he'd looked pointedly to where Colonel Tigh stood, oblivious, at the other side of the bridge. It had taken only centons to agree the distribution of the potential winnings. It wasn't unlike the arrangement he'd come to with Pershing, and win or draw, Apollo would come out with a profit.

Apollo turned his attention back to Starbuck and Boomer. He'd watched them play a couple of times, although he'd only ever played against them in a friendly in his first few days on the Galactica at the end of the previous season. As he'd said to Pershing, Boomer was solid on the court; he was a little unimaginative, maybe, but he was fit and agile and he was always there to support one of Starbuck's wilder flights or block the other side. Starbuck was a flashy, athletic player, all leaps and twists and acrobatics, in the air a lot in the course of a game.

All of which suited Apollo just fine, because he knew exactly how to counter both their playing styles. If Apollo was good at anything in this life, he was good at strategy and planning. And analysis. Oh Lords, was he good at analysis. He'd dissected the champions' game plays with film and charts and be damned if there weren't even a few graphs and spreadsheets in there somewhere. He and Kyle had talked tactics for this game and practiced and then talked tactics some more until Kyle's confidence was almost as great as Starbuck's. In fact, he and Kyle had almost become friends over the preparations; if he pulled this off and he'd not only have credit with a scary-drill-sergeant and his father, but he may even have overcome Kyle's resentment. He glanced at his second, eyebrow raised. Kyle nodded and grinned back. Ready.

Apollo smiled. He waited until the referee—a dour Security non-com called Carter—beckoned them forward, once the champions had been allowed their full due of appreciation. He shook hands with Starbuck and Boomer. He watched Kyle shake hands with Starbuck and Boomer. And then the game was starting and he and Starbuck faced off for the first ball. Starbuck was grinning, his blue eyes bright and alive and in the skimpy Triad kit that barely covered his loins, he was fucking beautiful. Not unaffected, Apollo leaned forward slightly. Starbuck smelled of soap and excitement, and the faintest tang of warm-up sweat. Apollo took it all in on a deep breath and smiled.

"I'm pretty good at Triad, Star," he said, and the unexpected comment and the use of the nickname had Starbuck blinking just as Carter tossed the ball into the air.

Apollo surged up after it and had it through the topmost hole, the Trinity, before Starbuck's surprised mouth closed.




"You are an unmitigated bastard!"

"Not according to my parents," said Apollo, grinning. He slapped Kyle on the back one more time. He hadn't felt so relaxed in sectars. "Come on, Starbuck. It was an honourable draw."

"Honourable!" snorted Starbuck.

Apollo could understand Starbuck's annoyance. If Kyle hadn't stumbled and fallen in the final centons, allowing Boomer to snatch the ball away, and if Apollo hadn't been pinned against the side wall at the time with Starbuck's elbow in his ribs, the champions would have lost—not by much, but they'd have lost. It had been one of the closest-fought games Apollo had played in yahrens, and one of the most exciting. It had been very, very exciting. Without the sharp pain in his ribs to take his mind off things, the skimpy little Triad kit would have betrayed just how exciting it was, being pinned by Starbuck's sweat-slicked body. Apollo wasn't big on public humiliation. He'd been grateful for the elbow.

"We almost had you!" crowed Kyle.

Boomer, lounging on a bench, shrugged. "Almost isn't good enough, my man."

Starbuck tossed his helmet into the locker with a crash, still glaring at Apollo. "I should have smacked that knee of yours!"

"You were holding back?" Apollo inspected the purpling bruise over his ribs. "Really? Did I imagine your left foot smashing into my knee then, when you fouled me behind Carter's back?"

Starbuck scowled. "Accident," he muttered, his ears reddening.

"Felger." Apollo glanced up when his name was called.

The Commander was at the locker room door. He raised a hand as Boomer scrambled to his feet. "At ease, everyone. I just wanted to say that I thoroughly enjoyed the game, and I hope that the champions will forgive a little partisan cheering on my part."

To the chorus of insincere of-course-sirs and delighted-you-could-come-to-watch-sirs, Apollo returned the questioning glance, the Feeling better? question that he knew his father wouldn't ask aloud. He nodded reassurance and Adama's smile broadened. It was true. He did feel better. The weight on his shoulders had lifted that morning on the bridge when his father had confirmed the Council's approval for him to drop the Molecay project. The game had merely hammered home how very good life could be without that particular cloud raining on his head.

"A very good game, gentlemen," said Adama. "It will be an interesting competition this yahren. I'll see you later about dividing the spoils, Captain."

"Sir," said Apollo, and after the Commander had left, he turned back to getting out of his kit. He thought longingly of getting his bruises under a hot shower. Maybe he was getting just a little too old for competitive Triad.

"Spoils?" asked Starbuck, suspiciously.

"He had a bet on with Colonel Tigh," explained Apollo. "I get fifty percent. A better deal than I managed with Pershing, actually, because he wouldn't go better than sixty-forty, but then Pershing's covering an awful lot more wagers. I'm not coming out of this game too badly."

Starbuck looked shocked, as shocked as he had in the opening microns in the game when Apollo had scored the Trinity right in front of his nose. His eyes narrowed. "You had a bet going?"

"Several. Well, Pershing did. I was just along for the ride."

Boomer laughed and clapped a hand on Starbuck's shoulder. "Out-Starbucked! I never thought I'd see the day."

"Everything I learned, I learned from him," said Apollo with almost offensive sententiousness. "He tempted me from the path of virtue."

He watched, full of amused affection, as Starbuck considered the implied compliment and accepted it as his due. Starbuck grinned at him and he smiled back, feeling suddenly more than relieved. He felt happy.

"I'll be ready, next time," said Starbuck. "No-one gets to fool me twice."

They were all right. Really.






Day 153 : 33 Nonus 6490
Battlestar Galactica 21.00 centars

Apollo found the Dome almost by accident.

Not that it was really lost, of course, but it had been forgotten for so long that it may as well have been. He had only realised it was still there in late Octavus, when the Galactica took delivery of an entire two flights' worth of brand new, straight-out-of-the-factory Vipers.

New Vipers! Ten bright, shiny, pretty, new Vipers!

He almost had to put a rota together to allow his pilots to go and salivate over them in shifts, so bad was the effect on the smooth running of the squadrons. There had been talk of nothing else in the OC for days.

"Nice paint job on number eight." ( Lange )

"C'mon, who the hell cares about paint jobs when you have that re-engineered weapons array?" ( Boomer )

"Yeah, well, some of us appreciate aesthetics as much as fire-power." (Lange, flipping a derisory finger at Boomer )

"The weapons nacelles are brilliant. Did you see that the modified inertial dampeners mean they'll turn on their own length now without you throwing up?" ( Kyle, casually getting his drink out of the way of Lange's and Boomer's unseemly tussle )

"And the engine modifications mean speeds up to M20 in atmosphere. Imagine!" ( Jillia, dreamy-eyed, elbowing Boomer in the ribs for invading her personal space ).

"Lords! they're soooo pretty and as good as sex. Well, as good as sex with ordinary people, maybe, not as good as sex with me…" ( Starbuck, wicked eyes meeting Apollo's )

Apollo had agreed, silently, on every count. He wanted a new Viper. He really, really wanted a new Viper. It had taken him several internal talkings-to to persuade himself that real leadership involved self-sacrifice and not being greedy and snaffling one for himself, but it was very annoying to watch his senior lieutenants squabble over the new toys like toddlers. If he had all the pain of setting the good example, the least they could do was follow it. He said so.

"Yeah, right," scoffed Starbuck, and twirled his forefinger at his temple.

The new Vipers allowed the maintenance crews to retire the ten oldest craft to be kept in reserve for emergency use or to cannibalise for spare parts. Apollo and the two Deckmasters had to come up with somewhere to store the bits and the Beta Deckmaster, Chelle, came to the discussion armed with a set of Galactica's schematics. Fascinated, Apollo made some fast decisions about where to cache the old Vipers (Storage Hold 11b down on Deck 21) and appropriated the schematics for further study.

He had found the Dome the first night he spent poring over the blueprints; a little bulge in the Galactica's uppermost hull, above the titanic engine vents at the stern. He knew what it was, of course. The Galactica was over five hundred yahrens old. In the early days, she'd had very limited super-light engines that required her to drop out of hyperspace regularly; like all the Colonies' ships, she had progressed to any destination in a series of short hops. The Celestial Domes (there had been three, once, but he could only find the one now) had been for the navigators to use, to check that they'd dropped out of hyperspace pretty much where they'd calculated.

Apollo thought it must have been like trying to navigate the galaxy with a foldy-up paper map, a compass and a slide rule, and probably with a pack of sandwiches done up in brown paper: primitive, but a great deal more exciting than pressing a few buttons on the sophisticated computer arrays they had now. He felt a little envious of the pioneers. Something in him—the thwarted historian, maybe, or the thwarted romantic—almost regretted the advances humanity and science had made.

The following day, he had utilised a little of his bridge duty time running sensor checks of that part of the hull. To his delight, the Dome was intact and airtight, but it was several more days before he had enough spare time to try and find his way there. He had printed out the schematic to take with him, following its guidance right up to the top of the ship. There, on Deck 1, he had located the small doorway at the end of an unused corridor that led past empty quarters and workrooms.

The door opened onto a narrow walkway, hanging high above the main thrusters. The compartment was pitch black, the gloom pierced every few microns by crackles of coloured lightning, and so vast that Apollo had stood disorientated for a centon, unable to sense where it began and ended until the next lightning strike. The noise was incredible; like being trapped inside a metal barrel that was being rolled down a rocky hill, and that first time he had retreated in short order to find some ear protectors. He had no desire to deafen himself in the name of historical romanticism.

The walkway swayed gently and continuously in the currents of hot air roiling from the thrusters below. Every time he got across the walkway as fast as possible, because not even a flyboy's head for heights made traversing the walkway pleasant. Only when he was at the end of the walkway, at the foot of the ladder up into the Dome, would he hook one hand securely under a rung and lean over the walkway handrail to take a proper look at the space beneath him.

The thruster chamber was glorious. An immense cavern of a place where Apollo could park an entire destroyer and still leave room to spare, and where the darkness was stygian, the shadows so heavy they could almost be felt. Every few microns, coloured lightning crackled across the empty space below the walkway, as beautiful as fireworks, lighting up the compartment and making the shadows leap away to gather in the far corners. Far below him, hundreds of feet below him, he could catch glimpses of the immense engines, lightning dancing over their blackened casings. Every time he came to the Dome, he stopped for a centon at the end of the walkway to watch the lightning sizzle.

The Dome was intact but not functional, and he'd spent his first few visits making repairs. Starbuck had been mildly interested in the Dome but not enough to give up his free time to come and look at it, much less to do repair work, although he promised to admire it when it was finished. Boomer had just stared at him. Resigned to this being a lone, quixotic project, Apollo had fixed the lights on his second trip. He was tired of stumbling around the dusty, musty chamber by torchlight in a gloom as dense as that in the thruster compartment below: while the tylinium dome was intact, it was still covered by its external metal iris and not even the faint light of the stars filtered through. But with the lighting restored, he had got the computer array on the observation dais operational and today he was going to open the iris for the first time. It would be just like being inside his Viper cockpit, he thought, only he'd maybe see a little bit more, have a bigger arc of heaven to look at.

The chair behind the computer console tilted back until it was almost horizontal. Lying in it, looking up at the curve of the dome above his head, he could just reach the button. He jabbed it.

First, a moment of almost-silent whirring as the mechanism, unused for decades, slowly engaged. Then a soft banging noise that he felt, rather than heard; a vibration that ran through the chair, making his entire body vibrate in resonance. It was uncomfortable, but passed quickly. Above him, the iris peeled back like the petals of a flower, leaving a tylinium canopy so clear that it was as if nothing stood between him and entire universe.

It was nothing like being in a Viper cockpit.

It was beautiful. It was immensely, incredibly beautiful, so beautiful that something tight squeezed in his chest. He had never felt so exposed and vulnerable in his entire life, and he'd never felt so unbearably free. It was as if the Galactica had sunk away beneath him, and he was alone, unprotected, his frail human body soaring through the stars; immense, powerful, limitless… free.

Pure, quintessential flight. That's what it was: flight without wings. Although he'd touched the edges of this whenever he'd flown a Raptor or a Viper, he finally understood, fully, how terror could sit hand-in-hand with glory.

His breath stuttered in his chest. It was beautiful, so beautiful, flying with the stars. Like… like… he flailed for a moment, trying to find the words. A memory returned of sleepy Tenthday afternoons in a warm church, with Zac's head heavy in his lap, the smell of incense in his nostrils and the pleasant drone of Father Diogenes reading from the Book of the Word. Later he'd find an ironic amusement in the way that his childhood faith would never really let him go, but in the memory of the old man's calm, religious voice he found the simile he was looking for, the one that captured exactly how he felt.

It was like riding in the hand of God.

"Wow," said Apollo.






Day 184 : 24 Decimus 6490
Yule Eve, Battlestar Galactica

"You're doing well, you and Kyle," remarked the Commander. "It was inevitable, of course, but it's still a shame that the element of surprise wore off so quickly."

"Fewer opportunities to soak Colonel Tigh for cash, you mean?"

"Tigh learns from his mistakes. I've never managed to get him to bet against you since that first game. Pity, really, since you walked through the last couple of games without breaking into a sweat. I think you'll really give Starbuck and Boomer a run for their money. They may even be the ex-champions by the end of the season."

"If I'm still here at the end of the season," said Apollo, keeping it casual, and smiling blandly at his father's sharp glance, "I'll do my best to make them very ex indeed."

Athena sighed. "Can we please talk about something other than sport?"

After a moment's silence, their father refilled their glasses and made a noble attempt at non-sporting inclusiveness. "I'm sorry we can't get back home for Yule. Not that I can remember the last time I had a Yule at home, mind you."

Apollo sipped the ambrosa, tasting its mellow heat on his tongue. The good stuff again, the one kept for special occasions. "Me neither, apart from the yahren I was on sick leave."

"It's only my second one away," said Athena, rather pensively sipping on her ambrosa. She glanced at Apollo and proved conclusively that subtlety and Apollo's little sister were total strangers. "You got a few messages in the last databurst from HQ. Have you heard from Rosie?"

"Yes." Apollo let the silence stretch on for a micron or two, not intending to elaborate. He waited until Athena flushed and dropped her gaze. "And I heard from Joss and Felix."

"Joss?" Adama frowned.

"I think he forgot to take me off his Yuletide card list, that's all."

"Ah. How's Felix?"

"Getting Sealed next summer." Apollo stared down into his glass. "He's asked me to stand with him at the wedding."

"You'll probably lose the rings," scoffed Athena, still pink from the rebuff over Rosie.

"Will you do it?" asked his father, quietly.

"Yes. I'm still a bit mad at him, but, yes." Apollo shrugged. "I'll write to him soon."

"You won't tell him straight away?"

"Not straight away, no."

Adama looked amused. "Ah. You mean that he hasn't earned it yet."

"Everyone's getting married," said Athena, glumly. "And I'm stuck out here."

Felix wasn't exactly everyone, but Apollo thought she deserved payback for the nosiness about Rosie. He patted her knee consolingly. "With no prospects and hey, you're getting old. Twenty three, now, aren't you?"

Athena sniffed. Her sadness—possibly ambrosa-induced—didn't last. She brightened almost immediately. "At least I don't have to go and visit the Aunts tomorrow."

"No, indeed," said their father. "A blessing."

"Not half!" Apollo shuddered. "Some of them shave more often than I do." He saw his father's mouth twitch. "The ones on Mamma's side of the family, of course," he added, hurriedly.

"Thank you," said Adama, leaning forward to offer him more liquid seasonal well-being.

"Zac will have to do it, all on his own," said Athena.

They looked at each other. It took a huge effort, but Apollo managed not to break down completely. Athena's mouth wobbled suspiciously, and her eyes were shining; Apollo thought about how pretty she was and wished he could tell her without being snubbed. Their father looked as beatific as if he were in church.

"Well now," said Adama.

Apollo raised his glass. "To Zac," he said, and his voice trembled with the effort of keeping back the snort of laughter. "May his sacrifice never be forgotten."






Day 185 : 25 Decimus 6490
Yule Day, Battlestar Galactica

"Apollo! Apollo, wait up!"

Apollo turned as Starbuck reached him. "Hey, Starbuck. Happy—"

"I know," said Starbuck, impatiently. He glanced both ways down the deserted corridor, and, without warning, put his hands on Apollo's shoulders and kissed him. A quick, close-mouthed kiss with lips that were surprisingly soft for a man, and he tasted of toast and caff, with the faintest undercurrent of smoke from the first fumerillo of the day.

It shouldn't have been sexy, but it was. It shouldn't have been passionate, but it was. It shouldn't have had any effect on him, but it did.

It was just a little, close-mouthed, no-tongue kind of kiss; almost chaste, almost innocent. But it was so very eloquent of everything they didn't say and didn't do, that it was the very quintessence of passion, something that left Apollo shaking with surprise and chagrin, and terror and a desire so deep that his insides felt like ash. His hands clamped hard on Starbuck's upper arms.

A fierce hug and Starbuck stepped back. "On high days and holidays, I'm going to take a micron out to stop pretending," he said, and his voice was shaking in a way that Apollo knew his own would, if he tried to speak. Starbuck rested his hand on Apollo's cheek. His thumb stroked lazily at the corner of the mouth he'd just kissed. "Just one micron, I promise, and then we go back to pretending it's just friends." His lips touched Apollo's again, still chaste and closed and burning. "Happy Yule, Pol."

He left at a run. Apollo stared after him, still speechless. He watched until Starbuck was out of sight. When the corridor was empty again, he straightened up, and continued on his way to his father's quarters.

"Ah, there you are!" said Adama.

"Happy Yule," said Athena, and gave him a decorous peck of a kiss on the cheek, just where Starbuck's hand had rested so briefly. Apollo wondered what she'd say if she knew.

"Are you all right?" asked his father, giving him a sharp look. "You're flushed. I hope you're not coming down with something."

"No," said Apollo. "It's just… it's just that I got an unexpected Yule present, that's all."

"A present?"

They were both looking at him expectantly. Apollo ran the back of his hand over his mouth and thought, high days and holidays .

"Yeah," he said, and thought about it some more. He knew that Starbuck would never again refer to what had happened, that he wouldn't either, that they'd both go back to pretending. But still: high days and holidays . "Can't wait for my birthday."







Day 216 : 16 Primus 6491, 03.72 centars
Battlestar Galactica bridge

When Apollo got to the briefing room behind the bridge, he was still pulling on his jacket and trying to wake himself up. His father and Tigh had managed the early call without looking dishevelled. Indeed, Tigh looked freshly pressed. They both looked grave.

His father glanced up at him. "Good, you're here. We've just had a Code Red from Military HQ. Cetes is gone."

Apollo dropped into a chair, astounded. "Gone?"

"The Cylons hit it overnight. Last reports are that there are no survivors."

"The entire station?"

"Yes."

"But Cetes guards the whole of the Sagittarian sector—" Apollo stopped, shook his head, trying to take it all in. "But... Lords!"

"Yes," Adama spoke heavily. "Yes, indeed. The planetary defences are holding, but Sagittara, Virgon and Cancera are all coming under sustained attack. We're lucky that the Cylons have split the attack force to take on the three Colonies rather than bring up more forces, otherwise we could have been looking at the loss of all three. We think the planetary defences will hold, although Sagittara's is the weakest. We're changing course now, to join Second and Third Flotillas to turn the Cylons back. Colonel—"

Tigh nodded. "We're underway. I need to brief the Patroklus."

"Call Captain Sergei from here, if you would, Tigh and ask him to join us as soon as possible, and get the other captains here, too. Apollo, you'll need to start planning a co-ordinated attack. You'll have overall strike command." Adama pushed a cup of coffee over to Apollo. "Get that down you," he said, quietly when Tigh turned to the comms array at the other end of the room. He sighed. "We are going to have one hell of a time turning them back."

Apollo didn't doubt it. And more than anything, his father's completely uncharacteristic profanity confirmed it. "We'll be ready."

Apollo decided that the hooded glance he got from his father wasn't doubtful, but anxious. This was the first really big battle he'd be going into since joining the Galactica, although there'd been skirmishes in plenty.

"They're a good bunch," conceded Adama, after a micron.

"Yes," said Apollo, feeling the sudden surge of pride in his pilots. "They are."






Day 218 : 18 Primus 6491, 05.55 centars
Sagittara

They dropped briefly out of hyperspace when they reached what was left of Cetes. Apollo was on the bridge with Tigh and Captain Saskia, watching the telemetry displays with disquiet. Cetes was comprehensively gone.

"I served on Cetes, yahrens ago," Tigh said, quietly.

Saskia murmured something inaudible, her tone sympathetic. Apollo wasn't good at empathy and comfort, so he kept his gaze on the telemetry readouts instead, while beside him Saskia's voice trailed away and Tigh stood stiff and angry.

"There's a lot of Cylon wreckage here too." Apollo touched the telemetry screen with one finger, tracing the sensor readings. "They took a few of the tinheads with them."

Tigh's glare shifted from the screen to Apollo. After a micron or two, he nodded, abruptly, his taut shoulders relaxing slightly. By the time that the Commander came on to the bridge, a few centons later, Tigh was his usual brisk self, they'd rejoined the rest of First in hyperspace and Cetes was little more than a few charred and twisted spars of metal, far behind them. All told, Apollo thought that there was remarkably little to mark Cetes' passing and the deaths of over seven hundred Colonial Warriors.

"Intel from the three Colonies is confused," said Tigh to the Commander. "The planetary governments aren't reporting anything close to an all-out attack. They've had nothing but low-level bombing and strafing runs from the Cylon Raiders."

"And yet we know that there were three baseships; Commander Marcus at Cetes managed to get that much information out," said Adama.

"Even if the tinheads spread the baseships thin, there should be more damage than that," agreed Tigh.

Apollo frowned at the readouts. "Long range scanners suggest that the three basestars are taking a system each. Why don't they go in and deliver a couple of neutron bombs each?"

"I'm grateful they haven't!" said Saskia. She was Sagittarian.

"I'm not suggesting that I wish they had done it, but the point is that they could have wiped out a couple of the major cities and screwed up the planetary eco-system for generations. We'd have lost all three colonies. What's the point of a raid this big, and then not following through with maximum damage?"

"Doesn't make much sense," observed Tigh.

"No," agreed the Commander. "It doesn't. Still, we're almost in striking range of Sagittara and we'll learn more when we get there. The squadrons, Captain Apollo?"

"On alert and ready, sir."

"Good. You'd better join them. We'll feed the intel through to you as it comes in for you to brief your pilots." Once again Adama gave him the hooded, anxious look. "You'll launch within the centar. Good luck."




In pitched battle, Galactica's three squadrons became two, the normal rotas tossed aside to get every pilot into the sky at once. Apollo took the Alpha Wing, made up of all those squads from each of the three squadrons that flew from the Alpha launch tubes. Boomer flew as his second. Kyle, seconded by Jillia took the Beta Wing. Although battles with everyone flying at once were relatively uncommon, they'd drilled for this regularly all their careers. Everyone knew where they were supposed to be and what they were supposed to do.

Apollo was in the first wave of ten fighters on Alpha Deck, his Viper ready in the tube. Boomer was on his right; Starbuck, as ever, on his left. The second wave pilots were waiting behind the safety barrier, the rest of the pilots gathered in the Ready Room behind that. When Apollo rotated his shoulders to get the tension out of them and twisted his head, he could see the ground crews readying the second wave of Vipers in the launch slots behind him. Above their heads, the third wave waited in their cradles, and the fourth behind them, rank on serried rank, until he couldn't make out even the familiar Viper shapes in the gloom of the hangar behind.

Tigh's voice sounded in Apollo's earpiece. "We're coming into orbit around Sagittara, Captain. Telemetry reports that they've picked up the Cylon baseship out beyond the third moon. It's retreating."

"Retreating?"

"Surprised me, too, but they don't seem too eager for a fight. Their Raiders are fanning out between us and the baseship, trying to put up an interdict and coming in with two attack waves. The first is eight centons out. You'll get the launch signal in two."

"Thank you." Apollo pondered the Cylon tactics. They still didn't make much sense except… he shook his head to clear it of speculation and passed the intel on to the squad leaders. He allowed a few microns buzz of chatter before closing it down and refocusing them on the task. The launch signal came to him a micron before the others.

"Alpha Wing ready to launch," he said, almost before the signal had time to register; hearing Kyle's echo in the headset inside his helmet.

Sergeant Rigel was on duty on the bridge. It was her first combat, Apollo remembered, hearing the tremor in her voice. "Transferring control to Viper Wings." Her voice caught and steadied. "Launch when ready."

Apollo had to just touch the turbo button and he was away. His Viper rocketed down the launch tube, the, striated walls blurring as he passed. Starbuck just beat him out of the tube, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw the little roll to the left Starbuck made to give himself room to check out the enemy position.

Starbuck rolled back almost instantly, coming up on Apollo's left wing-tip. "All clear."

"For now." Apollo glanced at the huge ship behind him. "Jolly, take your squad and stand guard until we're all out." He registered Jolly's acknowledgement, but didn't respond, already focused on the scanners. The Cylons were right ahead of him, only a couple of hundred miles away and getting closer. He nudged his Viper on course to meet them. The second wave of Vipers were out now, forming up behind him as if he were the tip of the arrow-head and behind them, pilots and ground crew would be scrambling to get the next wave out. "Beta Wing?"

"Here." Kyle took position a thousand yards on Apollo's right, the rest of Beta streaking in to join him as soon as they'd launched, appearing like wasps over the dark curve of the Galactica's hull.

"Patroklus?"

Captain Sergei was bringing the destroyer's Viper contingent in to join the party. "We'll be with you in twenty-five microns."

"Fine. I've got you on the scope. Rendezvous at grid point 113-7Y-14."

"Got it."

"We've got Raiders coming in," announced Boomer. "Outriders to the first wave, I'd say."

"Testing our defences." Apollo glanced at the scanner screen. "Heads up, Jolly. If any sneak past us, don't let the bastards strafe the launch tubes."

"No fear," said Jolly, with a little lack of military decorum.

Another glance at the scanner. "They're on your side, Kyle. Send three squads to intercept and engage. Give 'em a warm welcome."

"Open arms, coming up," said Kyle, and Vipers from Beta Wing peeled off to deal with the Raiders.

More and more Vipers were out of the tubes, racing to catch up; almost everyone, now. Apollo had the Patroklus squadron on visual, little points of light on his left, speeding towards him. He held the Alpha and Beta wings in position, waiting for Patroklus to join him, listening to the continuous stream of inter-ship comms that gave him the intel he needed on everyone's position. A few microns later, Captain Sergei drew up in position.

"Heads up, boys and girls," said Apollo over the command line, over-riding the chatter. "Bandits will be here in two centons. Battlecode comm transmissions only."

The chatter stopped. Everything around him fell silent, not even the engines sounding in the vacuum of space. It took him a micron to realise that the dull muffled thumping that he felt as much as heard, was his own quickening pulse. His eyes never stopped moving – to port, ahead, the scanner, ahead, to starboard, ahead, the scanner, ahead, to port…

"All advance bandits accounted for," reported Kyle. "No survivors."

"Casualties?"

"None. Clean strikes."

"Good. Stand by." Look to port, ahead, the scanner, ahead, to starboard, ahead, the scanner, ahead… "Kyle, you have their left flank. Sergei, their right. Alpha Wing, we're punching right through these guys to take on the second wave."

"Yes," said Kyle, the excitement in his voice unmistakable.

"Ready," said Sergei, more subdued.

"We're ready," said Boomer. "We're all ready."

Apollo took a split-micron to watch them get into position, the usual cold clenching around his guts, knowing they wouldn't all come back. He had the Raiders on visual now, a close-packed phalanx of disc-like ships dully glinting in the faint starlight. There had to be more than a hundred of them, with a second wave of at least another hundred, maybe more, behind. A full complement of a base-ship's Raiders all stacked up against the little Vipers.

Apollo keyed in his private line to the Galactica. "Ten microns, Core Command. We're going in." He only half-heard Tigh's acknowledgement. He'd already keyed into the battlecode comline. A deep breath. "All Attack Wings, intercept attackers and engage the enemy. Go!"

Five microns later the front ranks of Vipers and Raiders collided.




Battlestar Galactica : 10.35 centars

Apollo came in to the Alpha Bay, Starbuck's Viper close behind him. Starbuck hadn't been more than fifty yards away from him for the last three centars, sticking like glue.

The bay was full of ships and running people, loud with shouting and yelling. There were two broken Vipers to the starboard side, one smothered in foam with a fire crew still dancing around it, putting out sparks. Vipers came in waves of three or four, landing every few centons. There wasn't time for the usual leisurely landings, the comprehensive checks the ground crew would normally do before the Vipers were hoisted up into the overhead gantries and rolled through to the hangars. If a Viper wasn't actively burning or in small pieces on the deck, the pilots were being hustled out, the ship got into the gantries in microns and room made for the next wave of incoming ships. The Deckmaster, Maire, stood in the centre, directing the macabre ballet.

They were almost last in. Sergei had already taken his Vipers back to Patroklus, and on the other side of the ship, Jillia was taking in the remnants of Beta Wing; Kyle hadn't made it through the first few centons of the fire fight, his ship vanishing in a little burst of light, far over on Apollo's right. Apollo hadn't had the chance to think about it, not while he was throwing his Viper all over the star map, dodging lasers, taking out the slower-moving enemy, snapping out orders to the Attack Wings. He'd been too occupied with keeping as many of his pilots alive as possible and staying alive himself. Now, though, he could start to think about it. Kyle hadn't made it. He didn't know how many others hadn't made it, either.

Jordan cracked the canopy open almost as soon as the Viper came to a stop. "Okay?"

"Fine." Apollo pulled himself out of the cockpit, looking around at the damage. Over on the port side, the crews were working on cutting a pilot from a pile of wreckage that would never fly again. "What's our status?"

"I don't think it's as bad as it might be. I don't have the full count. The info's coming in to the command centre, but I don't have time—"

"It's okay. I'll go and check it out." Apollo got himself down to the deck, and stood for a micron, catching his breath, one hand against the Viper's landing strut. A couple of feet above his head, the little ship was scored so deep that he could see the inner skin, blackened and flaking; damage from a glancing blow from a laser sabot from a Raider that might have got him if Starbuck hadn't been there, alert and ready. He ran his hand along the scar, in gratitude for his ship having held it together.

Jordan pushed past him, already yelling for the gantry crew. "You got lucky," he said, looking over Apollo for signs of injury. "The inner skin isn't much between you and vacuum."

"Yeah."

Jordan slapped his shoulder and ran for the next Viper coming in. Apollo watched for Starbuck, waiting until his wingman jogged over to him before starting for the command station at the back of the bay.

Starbuck's eyes were wide and frightened, scanning Apollo from head to foot. "All right?"

"Fine," said Apollo, and allowed himself the luxury of putting his hand on Starbuck's arm. It was warm and firm under his fingers. Alive. "Thanks."

Starbuck twisted his arm until his hand clamped on Apollo's forearm in the traditional warrior's handshake. "That's what I'm there for," he said, his voice shaky, his fingers tightening painfully. "I always will be, Apollo."

Apollo grinned at him, faintly. He knew.

"But I'd like it better if you didn't make it such hard work."

"All for an easy life, you are."

"I just like to conserve my energy," said Starbuck, and they grinned at each other. "Seen Boomer?"

"I sent him in a few centons ago. He'd taken some fire and his ship was venting atmosphere."

Starbuck grimaced. They went together up the flight of stairs and into the command centre. It was already packed with pilots watching the screens linked to the Telemetry desk on the bridge. They let Apollo and Starbuck squirm through to the front with minimal grumbling. Things were too grave for that, given the figures and Viper numbers scrolling up in front of them.

Twenty-nine dead, three MIA.

Twenty-nine. Twenty-nine of his pilots. Apollo felt his throat close up, because he'd known all of them and he and Kyle were almost, not quite, becoming friends.

Beside him Starbuck sucked in air, making a sharp little hissing noise. "Tim's gone, and Gavin." Now the air was blown out in relief, because Boomer's name wasn't there, or Jolly's or Lange's. "Shit! Davis, too."

"Don't!" said someone from the crowd, voice breaking, and Starbuck subsided, shaking his head.

Apollo looked through the list again, reading the names until he had to look away. Maire's office, the deck command centre, jutted out into the landing bay, a glass-walled observation centre: no respite there, since now he had visuals to go with the scrolling list. The fire crews were waiting with a body bag beside the still-smouldering Viper—one of the twenty-nine had died here, at home, where he or she should have been safe. He wondered who it had been, watching as a couple of the fire crew put up screens so the living didn't see the grotesque shapes the dead could make, cutting off his view even from this angle. He let himself look away to where, across the deck, the ground crews had cut open the wreckage of the other Viper. The pilot was limp, boneless, his head held carefully still as the crew slid a backboard under him and lifted him out, handing him over to the waiting paramedics. It didn't look good. Apollo glanced back at the screen. The injured weren't listed yet and he may have lost more than twenty-nine.

Two missing pilots had come home. Twenty nine dead, one MIA.

It wasn't much comfort that there wasn't a live Raider in Sagittarian space and that the baseship had fled. Not much comfort at all. He doubted that Kyle would be comforted, or Tim, or Gavin or any of the others who had gone.

"How was it back here?" he asked. "I couldn't see much damage as I came in."

"A few got through, sir," said a gunnery officer. "We got them with the laser cannon, us and the rest of the Fleet. One of the frigates took a bad hit—the Russon, I think, from a Raider that ploughed into her bridge. Last I heard, she was still on fire and we were sending a team to assist."

"They say the Russon's had it," said another man. He caught Apollo's gaze and shrugged, looking embarrassed about repeating gossip, although Apollo couldn't really blame him. "I don't think there's any of the Tinheads left."

"No," agreed Apollo. "We got 'em. Pity they wouldn't let us go after the baseship."

Twenty nine dead. The last lost sheep had come in, and everyone was accounted for. Still, twenty nine dead.

"Captain?" said Tigh into his earpiece.

"Here, sir."

"We want you on the bridge."

Starbuck jerked beside him. "Boomer!" he said, and was gone, pushing through the pilots to get back down to the deck.

Apollo glanced in the direction Starbuck had been staring. The paramedics had taken off the unconscious pilot's helmet. Boomer. Unmistakeably Boomer.

"Shit!" said Apollo and followed fast, a little surprised by how frightened he was. He liked Boomer. Of all the other pilots under his command, he knew Boomer the best and liked him the most. He'd thought it was because of Starbuck, and maybe it was at first, but he'd grown to like the solid, dependable Leonid for himself. He may have been inching towards friendship with Kyle, but he'd reached it with Boomer.

"Captain?" said Tigh, and Apollo realised he'd left the Colonel's order unacknowledged.

"As soon as I can, sir." He arrived in time to pull Starbuck to one side before the Lieutenant could get in the way of the paramedics. "Stay back and give them room."

"It's Boomer—"

"I know." Apollo tightened his hold. "Give them room."

"Is he dead? He's my oldest friend, Apollo, and I couldn't…. Is he dead?"

"I don't think so. No. I can see him breathing. Keep it together, Starbuck. It'll be all right." Apollo waited until the paramedics lifted Boomer, still strapped to the backboard, and got him onto a gurney. "How is he?"

"Alive," said one paramedic, terse. They started towards the decontamination chambers at the back of the bay, Starbuck hard on their heels.

Apollo went with him. "I have to go to the bridge, Starbuck. You stay with him. I'll come down to the Life Centre as soon as I can."

" 'Kay," said Starbuck, distracted.

"BP's fine. Respiration at twenty." The paramedic glanced up. "He's holding steady."

And there was Boomer, summed up. Boomer always held steady.

"That's something, right?" said Starbuck, anxiously. "He'll be okay. He has to be okay."

Apollo could see Boomer's face over Starbuck's shoulder. Where it wasn't bloody, the dark skin had greyed, leaving Boomer looking strangely ghostly and washed out, as if he'd been underwater for days.

He patted Starbuck's arm. "It'll be all right."




"The basestars have retreated and returned to Cylon space," said Tigh, when Apollo joined him and the Commander in the bridge office. Tigh pulled a printout from the pile of datapads and star maps and handed it to Apollo. "Each and every one of them."

"What?" Apollo frowned at the printout, the tiny, fuzzy image of a basestar opening up a hyperdrive funnel. "That makes no sense at all. There's no point, unless… this was a feint, wasn't it? I wondered, when you told me that the baseships were retreating. This whole attack was nothing but a diversion."

"That's a possibility, I suppose," conceded his father.

"All warfare is deception," quoted Apollo.

"Very neat," said Tigh, dryly.

"It's all that makes sense of their tactics, sir. The base ships had to be bait to get Fleet here, away from wherever their real target is."

"And you're suggesting that wasn't Cetes," said Adama. "Or even the three Colonies."

"It's not like this wasn't a real attack," protested Tigh, looking grimly at the monitors. Sagittara wasn't destroyed, not even close to destroyed, but even from this far out, they could see the smudges of smoke above a burning city. "There's a lot of people dead down there and the planetary defences are in ruins."

"But it was too easy," said Apollo. "Chasing them off was too easy."

"Easy!" snorted Tigh, then caught himself up. He took the printout back, and snorted again. "They didn't put up much of a fight, no. The baseships didn't engage at all, in any of the systems."

"Just fighters," said Apollo. "They could have given the Galactica a lot of grief if the baseship had got into the fight."

"A show of strength, then," surmised Tigh. "But why not carry it all the way through?"

"We can only guess at their motives." Adama gave Apollo a queer look. "You may be right, Captain. We've just had a new set of orders come through. We're heading for the Boeotian colony at top speed."

Apollo gasped as if he'd been sucker-punched. "Boeotia?"

"Captain Sergei will remain here with the rest of First to support Commander Dalton and Second Flotilla in cleaning up operations. Tigh, when we're finished here, pass on his orders and give him command of First in my absence."

"Of course," said Tigh, watching Apollo.

"The facility?"

"HQ lost contact with them ten centars ago, in the middle of them sending a mayday warning of a massive attack. HQ's assuming the worst. The Supreme Commander has specifically asked for us to go." Adama was watching him, too, as carefully as Tigh was, but where Tigh looked puzzled, there was concern in his father's eyes. "You're the only one who can assess how bad this is, Apollo. SC Jak wants you there."

"I didn't realise there's a colony there until HQ called," said Tigh.

"There isn't, not really." Adama's hand closed around Apollo's wrist, his big fingers dry and warm. "Apollo?"

"It's all my fault." Apollo met his father's eyes, wondering how many people had died; how many people at Cetes, at the three Colonies, twenty-nine of his pilots, Kyle's Viper disappearing in a sheet of flame, and the blackened twisted shape the fire-fighters had hidden behind a screen. And now Boeotia. All because he'd been so determined to go to Molecay. "This is all my fault."

Adama's hand tightened so hard that Apollo winced. "Get over yourself," he said, harshly.

"But—"

"This is nothing you could have foreseen. Now snap out of it!"

Startled, Apollo stared at him. Beyond Adama, he could see Tigh's speculative glance and narrowed eyes. Adama's hand slid up Apollo's arm to cup the back of his neck. He could feel his father's strong fingers stroking his hair, not nearly so harsh as the old man's voice. It steadied him as nothing else could, he realised, slightly surprised and rather ashamed.

"Sorry." After a micron he added, "I seem to need the occasional slap. I really am sorry."

"I told you before, it isn't all about you." But Adama's fingers were still gentle, his hand warm against Apollo's neck. "I know. I know how much this has affected you, but you didn't create this situation, Apollo."

"It's just—" He shrugged, helplessly.

"Yes." Adama's hand dropped away. "A sense of responsibility can be a curse. I know."

"They're sending us to…what? Clean up the mess?"

"We need to know what happened," said his father, mildly.

"I think we can guess." Apollo tried to remember Felix's schedule, to work out if Felix would be on Boeotia or safely back in Caprica City preparing for his summer wedding with Charis, but he couldn't think. He was suddenly very tired. He leaned his elbows on the table and propped his chin on them. "We can guess."

"You're the analyst. I don't think you think much of guesswork."

"No," said Apollo, wearily.

"There's nothing you can do here, Apollo. We won't get to Boeotia for nearly twenty centars. Go and get some rest."

Adama was right. There wasn't anything Apollo could do. At least, not about Boeotia and Felix—oh Lords, Felix!—not yet. He stood up, pushing his hands into his pockets to hide their shaking, thinking that he had to wall it away, think of something else. He had other things to worry about, other responsibilities that couldn't be put aside, that his father couldn't say weren't for him. "I'll be in Life Centre. I need to see who's hurt, check on everyone."

A brief flicker of amusement lightened his father's grim expression. "Yes, of course. But get some rest after that, all right?"

Apollo nodded. As he left the bridge office he could hear Colonel Tigh demand "And what in hell was that all about?", but all he heard from his father was an incomprehensible soothing murmur.

Felix would know the answer to Tigh's question. He just wasn't there to give it.




Boomer had a broken back, a compound fracture of the femur and a massive concussion. Barring complications, the doctors said, he'd be fine and back in a Viper in no time. At least, not exactly no time but he would be fine. Well, after several sectons at home in a back-brace, because not even bone fusion was entirely a miracle cure where backs were concerned. But he'd be fine with the back brace. Oh, and intensive physiotherapy, lots of physiotherapy.

And a nice long rest, added Starbuck, savagely, recounting the less-than-stellar news to Apollo when he arrived. Starbuck sat hunched by Boomer's bedside, and because watching Boomer sleep was all he could do, he did it with all the focus he was capable of.

Apollo had spent a little of his time in Life Centre trailing unhappily around looking at his injured pilots, keeping out of the way of the busy medics but stopping to say something to each conscious patient. He wondered, by the fourth, how many inane variations of 'It'll be all right' his brain could come up with. Most of them were, like Boomer, too doped up to notice anyway, staring at him glassy-eyed. One or two managed a vague response. It was a relief to get back to Boomer's bedside and keep Starbuck company, watching Boomer sleep, even if he was entirely too close to the private wards, where two of his pilots were critical. Red Squadron's Flight Sergeant Hypatia had a better chance of survival than Green's Lieutenant Aaron, but she'd been less lucky than Boomer. Her spinal cord had been severed.

When Boomer came up out of the anaesthetic, Starbuck's achingly obvious relief morphed effortlessly into resentment that Boomer seemed to be heading for an extended home leave, while missing the Triad championship. Boomer could be forgiven for agreeing, dopily, that it was entirely his fault that Starbuck was going to lose so much on the betting and that financial compensation was, of course, only Starbuck's due.

"Don't take advantage of him being on the good drugs, Starbuck. That's low, even for you."

"Hey, like with Boomer you can tell the difference? Taking money from him reminds me of candy and babies."

"Time you two left," said Doctor Parry, Salik's second, as she passed. It had to be the third or fourth time she'd said it.

Apollo glanced around. Boomer was asleep again, everyone else was quiet but for the odd unintelligible murmur, heavy sigh or laboured breathing, and there wasn't enough here anymore to keep his mind off Felix and Boeotia. There was a bottle of ambrosa in his quarters, however. Maybe Starbuck would like to share it.

Starbuck nodded agreement to the suggestion. He touched Boomer's chest gently when he stood up, obviously letting himself feel the slow rise and fall. "Maybe I'll let him off paying me back," he said.

Apollo thought of Felix. "That's what friends are for."

"But I won't tell him straight away. He'll need motivation in his recovery, a goal to aim at."

"Yeah," said Apollo, still thinking of Felix. "That's what I thought."






Day 219 : 19 Primus 6491, 06.70, ship's time
Boeotia Penal Colony

Apollo clenched his hands on the guard rail guard rail of the command dais until they hurt. Like everyone else, he watched the big scanner screen at the front of the bridge. When Galactica had come out of hyperspace on the edge of the Boeotian system, there was no sign of the Cylons. Nothing. The system was as quiet as the grave, the only evidence of activity coming from the heat source the sensors picked up. Down on the planet, the base was still burning.

The Telemetry desk officer straightened up, alert. "Commander! There's a ship coming into normal space on the far side of the system. I'm reading a MI corvette, sir."

"HQ sent an MI unit to secure the base," said Adama, calmly. "Hail them."

By the time they took up a geostationary orbit over the former penal colony, Apollo was pacing nervously between the comms desk, uselessly hailing the facility below them, and the telemetry desk where he could watch the data-stream coming up from the planet. He half-ignored his father's conversation with the corvette's captain, only tuning in when Adama joined him at the Telemetry desk.

"They'll make the initial run in and call us when they've reconned the base," said Adama, still with that monolithic calm. Apollo wished that the genes for that hadn't passed him by. "It'll be a centar at least, Apollo. You should have tried to rest, you know."

"I couldn't."

"No," said Adama. After a centon, he added, "I told the MI Lieutenant that we were looking at a population of around two hundred. I think that's right?"

"Near enough. There's a hundred and thirty people from Molecay, around fifty MI guarding them and Felix's scientists. A few over two hundred, maybe."

"That's what I thought, from the Council papers." He looked at the screen beside them. Away to the right, the Comms officer had given up, sitting back and shaking her head. "It doesn't look good."

"They're dead," said Apollo, with deep certainty. He thought of Molecay. "I hope. I hope to God that they're dead."

"Yes," agreed Adama. He hesitated. "I asked HQ—"

"I already know. He's down there. He's not due to go back to Caprica for another couple of sectons." Apollo glanced at his father, fighting to keep his voice even, to match the calm he hadn't inherited. "I rechecked his last letter. He said he'd be home for Charis's birthday but not before."

"His fiancée?" Adama hesitated again. "Did you tell him—?"

"Yes," said Apollo. "I told him at Yule that I'd stand with him at his wedding. Looks like I was lying."




A little over a centar later, the MI lieutenant confirmed the body count. Two-hundred and sixteen bodies, military and civilian, men, women and, of course, the children. No survivors.

"That's that, then." Apollo straightened. "I'd better head down there."

"I'll come—"

"No. Please, no. I'll do it." Apollo turned away. "It's okay. Can I take your shuttle?"

"Yes," said Adama, and beneath the calm was the anxiety that was becoming a familiar look for him. Apollo regretted being the cause. "There's a pilot waiting for you."

Apollo turned, surprised. His father gave him a slight shrug and smiled.

"Thanks," said Apollo.




They landed in the same outlying field where, sectons earlier, Apollo had landed his Viper. It looked almost the same, he thought, with the huge bowl of dark blue sky inverted over the immensity of the flat plain. The sun was low, deep red and gold on the horizon, making the edge of this vast land sharp in an almost limitless distance. The smell of smoke drifted over from the base.

A grim-faced MI detachment waited for them a couple of hundred yards away from where Starbuck landed the shuttle. They walked over to join the soldiers, Apollo acutely aware of the curious, not-exactly-friendly stares.

"They aren't glad to see us," said Starbuck, quietly.

"No," agreed Apollo, stepping forward to greet the Lieutenant in charge. "Lieutenant Parrish? I'm Captain Apollo."

"Yeah." The Lieutenant shook Apollo's hand, releasing it quickly. He nodded at Starbuck when introduced. "I was told to expect you. The base is secured, sir, and the fires are out. Most of the base is intact, actually. The fires were mostly in the fuel depot and the military quarters. Did the Commander tell you we'd done the body count?"

"I was with him when you called it in. Let's get this over with."

Parrish put out a hand to stop him. "It's pretty grim in the base, Captain. There are women and children in there."

"Yes."

"They were either killed in the initial bombing, or shot down by laser rifles. Except we found two that were different in some sort of lab. They'd been—"

"I know about those."

Parrish's expression hardened. "I don't know what's been going on here. Should I know?"

"You don't want to know. I need to see what happened and I need to see if any of the data is retrievable, but you… no, you're much better off not knowing. Believe me."

Parrish stepped back, deliberately, putting space between them. "Special Ops? There was a contingent of MI here."

"You don't want to know," repeated Apollo. "It's classified. Can we get to the base, please?"

The MI had brought a couple of open-topped landrams with them. Parrish led the way, mouth tightened against whatever he'd like to call Apollo. Starbuck walked close, one hand brushing the laser holstered on his thigh. Apollo would have liked to smile, wondering in what universe Starbuck thought he could take on a contingent of MI, but he was as touched by the protective gesture as he'd been touched by Starbuck's protectiveness ever since he'd arrived on the Alpha Bay to find his wingman powering up the shuttle.

Your Dad said you'd need a driver , Starbuck had said, and apart from the occasional agreement with Core Command about a course correction, he'd kept unusually silent all the way down to Boeotia, leaving Apollo to think and mourn in peace. Every time Apollo had looked up, Starbuck had been watching him, eyes thoughtful and anxious. Apollo wondered what Adama had told him.

"I'll check through the buildings," said Apollo to Parrish. "When I'm done with each one, your people can clear the bodies. The Strategy Unit's sending a recovery team, but it won't be here for a few days. In the meantime, seal them into body bags."

"I don't have enough refrigeration units for all of them." Parrish waited until Starbuck hopped into the landram beside Apollo, before nodding to the driver. "Nowhere near enough."

"You don't need refrigeration units for everyone. Bury the civilians here." Apollo looked at the wide land and the sky that went on forever. "They were almost free, here."