Section 2.6: Applying Fundamentals

 

You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by

 

Day 224 24 Primus 6491, 10.65 centars
Battlestar Galactica, bridge Office

"The Security shuttle just came in on Alpha. Colonel Tigh's gone down to do the meet and greet." Adama smiled thinly in welcome as Apollo came into the office.

"I'm not sure why they bothered sending anyone, given what you told me last night."

"There are loose ends to be tied up. Don't take it so personally, Apollo and please remember that this is Council Security we're talking about. You need to be focused on that, not on the Council's decision to ask for a review of your reports."

"They have every right to a second opinion," said Apollo, stiffly.

"Yes, they do." His father waved him into a chair. "Look, I know that you hate politics, but it is past time for you to stop being so naïve about it—"

"I am not naïve about it!" snapped Apollo. "I just won't play those games. Things are too important for that."

"No-one disputes that this is important. The Council, though, has the right to have a range of opinions before making a final decision about what to do about Boeotia. I understand Colonel Jorgenson is a long-standing Unit analyst."

"Long standing? He's been there forever. He's safe enough, even for the Council. He doesn't have the imagination of a block of triple-density tylinium." Apollo paused, and his hand strayed to the belt pouch where he kept Felix's data crystals. "I guess that Project Molecay is over at last."

"I don't think the Council will have much appetite to pursue it," agreed his father. "I don't know what Colonel Jorgenson will conclude, but I don't even think they'll call you back to talk to you."

"You mean that they're all looking around desperately for a patch of sand to stick their collective heads in. Well, don't worry. Jorgenson will give you that."

"I mean that other things that I can't tell even you about are taking priority right now. And I mean that there isn't anything to gained by interrogating you when your report is crystal clear."

"And makes uncomfortable reading? Mind you, they've barely had time to read it, have they? Much less, you know, consider it properly."

"I've read it. It makes very uncomfortable reading and yes, you're probably right in thinking that Colonel Jorgenson's review will ramp up the comfort levels. I told you, Apollo. There are other things happening. It's likely that you'll get a formal order not to do any more work on this."

"So why bother sending someone out to talk to us?"

"I told you: loose ends. There are still questions that concern the Council."

"Well, the answers I've given obviously aren't satisfactory. Jorgenson will find you some nice comfortable alternatives, don't worry." After a moment in which his father looked increasingly impatient, Apollo added: "I'm going to take a break from the Unit. This project's been a disaster from the start. First the Pegasus, now this. They'll be cursing the day I ever started digging into the T18 data. Do you think they'll revoke my security clearance?"

"I don't think you need worry about it. Council Security answers to Anton, after all."

"Yes. I know."

"Anton is a good friend," said Adama. "Security has a job to do, that's all. I don't think it's personal, any more than seeking other views on your report is personal."

"Councillor Jethric will make it personal. He'll use anything he can get."

"I'm sure he will. But we have allies on the Council, you know, as well as Anton's support and Jethric knows what other considerations make all this moot. He may have snide things to say; of course he may. It's politics."

"I hate it."

"I know. But stop worrying. There are much bigger issues here, you have Anton on your side, and Jak certainly won't stand for you being made a scapegoat. You may be right about taking a break from the Unit for a while, but that isn't a bad thing. Let it go, Apollo. It's almost over."

"Do you think I'm wrong?"

Adama threw up his hands. "Oh Lords, Apollo! I don't—"

"When I left Molecay, that base was nothing but molten slag. There was nothing left. They couldn't have known that we'd rescued live prisoners."

"I know, Apollo."

"Somebody had to have told them about Boeotia. Maybe the same somebody who told them about lobotomies."

"I'm aware that your interpretation of the evidence points that way, yes."

"Uncle Jak told me that some people on the Council never wanted to approve the Molecay project in the first place."

Adama rubbed at his eyes. "And your mother calls me stubborn!"

"And other things are taking priority at the moment. You said at this morning's briefing that you'd be spending more time in Council meetings on Caprica over the next few sectars."

His father sighed audibly. "Apollo—"

"I'm not wrong. And despite what you think, I'm not being over-imaginative and needing the correction of Jorgenson or anyone else for that matter. There's something very rotten going on. But the Council will let this go, because it's politic to let it go."

"There are other things going on at the moment, Apollo."

"So you keep saying. Things like this… don't ever act surprised that I have nothing but contempt for politics."

Adama's smile was faint and rueful. "And politicians."

"Especially politicians," said Apollo.

A sharp rap on the door put paid to the sniping. They glared at each other before Adama turned away and called out permission to enter. Tigh ushered in the interrogator the Council had sent.

"Sub-Commander Reese of Council Security," the Colonel announced, giving Apollo a narrow-eyed glance and allowing the man to pass him. "I'll be on the bridge if you need me, sir."

"Thank you, Colonel. You have command." Adama got to his feet and held out a hand. "Sub-Commander. I don't believe that we've met."

Reese gave the impression of being a big man, but really that was all down to broad-shoulders and a thick-neck on a stocky body. He was younger than Apollo had expected, in the early forties maybe; his face smooth and unmarked. He reminded Apollo of one of his favourite pieces in the Kobolian Institute: the colossal carved head of Seti-sen-Ankhaten, one of the Pharaohs of the Exodus immortalised in red crystalline granite. Once Seti-sen-Ankhaten had ruled the known universe, now he decorated the main landing of the Kobolian's great staircase; the irony had amused Apollo every time he'd passed Seti on the stairs. Reese wore the same impenetrable expression as Seti; had eyes just as shuttered; a mouth just as thin-lipped and hard against the words behind it.

Commander Adama had the hands of the patrician he was; fine-boned and long-fingered. His hand disappeared in Reese's grip, and Apollo could have sworn he saw a slight grimace on his father's face. He found out why an instant later. Reese's grip was granite-strong, like the face.

Apollo took a seat at Adama's left, opposite Reese. He let his right hand drop into his lap and stretched out the abused fingers in the exercises the physiotherapists had taught him after Telnos. He looked down, watching his hand curl and stretch, curl and stretch. It was a centon or two before his hand stopped tingling.

By the time Apollo looked up again, Reese and Adama had run through the normal pleasantries. Reese was watching him, looking as speculative as something carved out of smooth rock could look speculative. His father was carefully expressionless.

Adama cleared his throat. "Sub-Commander?"

"Of course, sir," said Reese. "You know why I'm here—"

"No, not really," said Apollo. "I sent in my last report five days ago. There's nothing I can add to it."

Reese sketched the polite smile in Apollo's direction. "Your report raised one or two questions, Captain."

"It raised a lot of questions."

Adama reached out a hand under cover of the table and closed it around Apollo's right wrist. The old man's grip was strong, his hand dry and warm on Apollo's skin. It was surprisingly comfortable; a closing of the Adaman family ranks despite their differences.

"Yes." Reese sounded politely disinterested. "Well, the Council Intelligence Committee tasked the Council Secretariat with trying to resolve one or two of the unanswered questions; those that touch on Colonial security. The Secretariat briefed me."

"You've read the reports?" asked Apollo.

"I've been fully briefed," said Reese. "I know that you and Captain Felix were behind the mission to Molecay to rescue some captives who were apparently being experimented upon by the Cylons. I know that you destroyed Molecay. I know that the mission cost us the Pegasus. I know that the captives were taken to the Boeotian system for debriefing, and that Captain Felix was in charge of that, rather than Council Security." There was a brief show of emotion: Reese's mouth twisted into a slight grimace of disapproval. "I know enough to do my job and ask the questions the Council wants answered."

Ignoring the dig about the Pegasus, Apollo said: "How about these questions, then. Why did the Cylons decide to destroy the facility on Boeotia? They had nothing to gain by it. We already knew about Molecay and what happened there, and they would know, wouldn't they, that destroying Boeotia wouldn't destroy that knowledge. Why did they leave so much evidence behind? Why didn't they destroy Boeotia, the way I did Molecay? They've got weapons powerful enough to destroy small planets, but they didn't use them. Why did they leave the people there for us to find? Why didn't they take the two bodies I brought back from Molecay? Why was the IL-A Cylon casing the only thing that they did take? Why didn't they press home their attacks on the Colonies? Even if it was a diversion to take our attention away from Boeotia, they took a huge risk bringing three baseships this far into Colonial home space: the least you'd expect is that they'd take the opportunity to do some real damage. They could have made three Colonies virtually uninhabitable, but they just showed up to demonstrate that they could pierce our defences, set off a few fireworks and retreated before we could engage them properly. What was the point of that? What did they have to gain by a show of strength that didn't really achieve anything of military value?"

"Those are some of the questions, yes," said Reese, when Apollo paused for breath.

"But not the ones you're interested in."

Reese inclined his head, his gaze steady, fixed on Apollo. "No, Captain. Not those."

"Let me guess." Apollo couldn't help his mouth twisting. "The questions you want to ask are things like who told them that they could find that IL-A casing and the people we rescued on Boeotia? And—another guess, here—was it me?"

His father's grip tightened until Apollo had to fight not to wince.

Reese smiled. "Well, was it?"




"Ten centons," said Apollo. "They're taking Hypatia now and then they'll be back for you. You're the last."

"Is Salik coming with the good drugs, then?" Starbuck sorted through the little tub of ice-cubes on sticks.

"Those are for me," Boomer reminded him, voice thready with the effort. "Because I can't eat and I'm, you know, sick."

"Starbuck's just choosing one for you, aren't you, Starbuck?"

Starbuck shot Apollo a scowl. "Who are you, my mother?"

"Share nicely, children," said Apollo in Ila's best indulgent tone.

Starbuck pushed one of the cubes into Boomer's mouth. "Some people are so frackin' sanctimonious. Here you go." He twisted his head slightly to look at Apollo. "We weren't sure you'd get down here before the hospital ship left. You said you had a meeting."

"I did. It's over."

Starbuck frowned, but turned away and took one of the ice-pops for himself. He licked it greedily. Apollo shifted his weight to the other foot and looked away quickly, back into the main part of the Life Centre, watching the activity as Salik oversaw the transfer.

Boomer grimaced around his own ice-pop. "Hypatia going to make it?"

"Hope so," said Starbuck. "She's a nice kid."

"She's still in a coma, but Salik's hopeful." Apollo turned his attention back to his friends. Starbuck grinned at him around the ice-pop. Apollo resisted the temptation to roll his eyes and grin back.

"If it was me, I wouldn't want to wake up," said Boomer. "Not if I was never going to walk again."

"You will!" said Starbuck, tone sharp.

"Of course I will. I'm not worried about that. Salik can be a mean bastard, but he doesn't lie. He said it'd take a few sectons, but I'll be back. I will be back, Starbuck."

"You'd better." Starbuck's voice trembled.

"Hey," said Boomer.

Apollo took an involuntary step forward from where he'd been leaning on the doorpost, and stopped, uncertain. Boomer's eyes met his for a micron. Apollo returned to leaning, out of the way.

"Sorry," said Starbuck, and laughed shakily. "It's just that I know how lucky I was that you… that you didn't… well, you know."

Boomer looked very tired, worn out by talking, and with a visible effort he reached up and took the ice-pop stick from his mouth. "Nope. I'm going to make you say it."

"Smug bastard," muttered Starbuck. "All right, I'd have missed you."

"I know." Boomer allowed a micron or two for sentimentality's sake, before turning the conversation away from dangerous waters. "Guess we'll never know which's the best team, Apollo."

"You'll play again."

"Not this season," fretted Boomer.

"There won't be much of a championship, anyway." Starbuck glanced at Apollo, relieving his feelings with a grimace. "Pershing said he'd run a shorter version, when things settle down."

"Will you play?" Boomer reached out and snagged at Starbuck's sleeve.

"You won't be here." Starbuck turned his hand to grasp Boomer's forearm.

"Apollo will."

Starbuck hunched one defensive shoulder, looking unhappy. Apollo looked away, unwilling to get pulled in.

"I don't mind if you team up together," said Boomer. "You two play a lot alike."

"We'd just argue about which one of us gets to make the flashy moves."

"You'll make a good team." Boomer closed his eyes. "Until I get back," he added.

"Don't worry about it," said Apollo.

"I don't mind," repeated Boomer.

Salik barrelled his way in, making Apollo get out of the doorway. The doctor gave Boomer one sharp glance. "Scale of one to ten?" he asked, injecting something into the IV port.

Boomer roused himself a little. "Dunno. Eleven?"

Salik looked grimly amused. "This will take care of it. We'll be moving you in a few centons."

"Looking forward to it. " The tension bled slowly from Boomer's face. His eyes closed again.

"You won't know anything about it," promised Salik.






Day 224 – Day 326 24 Primus 6491 to 06 Quartus 6491
Battlestar Galactica


Starbuck surprised everyone, including himself, by turning out to be a faithful correspondent. It had him flummoxed. He hadn't at all expected that he would manage more than one or two letters to Boomer before the whole thing stuttered to a halt.

"I've never had any practice at it," he explained. "No-one to write to. Although I did write to a girl a couple of times."

"Am I surprised by that?" enquired Apollo.

"You can be surprised that I managed to write a couple of times. She was important to me, too. I went out with her for most of the final yahren at the Academy. She was kind of mad at me when it all fizzled out, but she wasn't posted here and—" Starbuck stopped and shrugged. "You know."

"Out of sight, out of mind," said Apollo.

Starbuck hunched one shoulder. "So far as Aurora was concerned? Yeah."

With Boomer, though, he enjoyed himself writing gossipy letters full of news and anecdotes. He wasn't, though, above seeking scholarly support to sustain the effort.

"I just need a few ideas."

"Novelty wearing off?"

Starbuck ignored the cynicism. "Naw. It's not like it's a chore, or anything. I like writing to Boomer. He's the only family I've got. He's like a brother to me."

"If you want a brother, you can have mine."

"That's not very brotherly of you, Apollo."

“You haven't met Zac. And it's better if you don't. I was hoping that you'd just take up the offer without wanting to see the goods first."

"You're not close then? I mean, I know that you and Athena are a bit distant."

"It's not the same. Zac and me are okay."

"So you do write to him? What about?"

"Things. He sends me lists."

"Lists." Starbuck frowned. "Laundry lists? Shopping lists?"

"Girls' names."

"Ah." Starbuck smiled. "Inventory."

"Yeah, inventory. You know, you really can have him, Starbuck. He's more like your brother than mine, anyway. You're both in arrested adolescence, for a start. He seems to think I've got nothing better to do than keep a running tally of his girlfriends."

"Mmn," said Starbuck, thoughtful, because (of course) every letter to Boomer had one paragraph in it about Apollo and he wondered if that was a bit like Zac sending lists of girls' names. But Starbuck, despite knowing Boomer to be a patient and forgiving man, was always careful to ration himself to just the one little paragraph because to do more was just sad and pathetic, and Starbuck didn't do sad and pathetic. The Apollo paragraph went something like this:

Did I tell you that in the end Apollo didn't go back to Caprica for the funeral? He said he'd been away too much already and that he didn't need to go to a service to remember Felix. He seems to have a lot more free time than he did, as well. He says that he's not doing much work for the Strategy people at the moment, so I guess whatever the project was that he and Felix were working on, it's been mothballed. I'm a bit worried about him, Boom-boom, because he's too quiet and intense about things, but I'm getting pretty good at distracting him without… well, you know, distracting him. A platonic sort of distraction. He had a happy five centons today yelling at me for being late for patrol (I hid on the flight deck for a few centons, to be sure). It made him feel better and it sure didn't hurt me.

And then the rest of each letter was full the things that he knew Boomer would be desperate to know about.

"You could always follow Zac's example," said Apollo, "and tell Boomer about your conquests."

Starbuck nodded gravely. "Me being not serious now and again, you mean?"

Apollo gave him a sharp look, and then grinned slightly. "Now and again? As far as I can see, you're being 'not serious' with that new comms officer… what's her name?"

"Magdala."

"And still with Hebe in Engineering, and that blonde nurse—"

"Hey! It's just that there's not a lot to do around here right now."

"And you get bored easily," murmured Apollo.

"Besides, Boomer knows all about them already. I suppose I can tell him about our missions and stuff?"

"If you can get it past the military censor, sure."

"Get what past the military censor?" grumbled Starbuck. "There's nothing to censor. It's frakking boring around here right now."

It's bloody quiet. I asked our resident spook if he thinks the tinheads are up to something, but he went all Shieldy and secretive on me, not to mention snarky about what I'm doing to stave off boredom. All we're running are training flights and I ask you, do I need training? I'm practically perfect. I don't like it when there's nothing to do. It makes me twitchy and my Viper's gathering dust and rust. Apollo says that next time I'm late for patrol he's going to make me lick it clean. Given that the psychologists have a lot of fun telling us that fighter planes are penis extensions or something, and Apollo says he's going to sell tickets so people can watch me lick mine, why does he think it'll be punishment ? For anybody? Mind you, he'll make a profit. I'm very talented.

"I need more ideas. You wrote that history book thing, didn't you?"

Apollo stared, and to his credit, refrained from hitting Starbuck. "I revised and edited one volume, yes. That history book thing is the great treatise on the Colonies' past, all eighty seven volumes of it. It's.. it's seminal to our whole culture. It's an entire literary training all on its own. You should try it."

"I don't want to read it!" protested Starbuck, alarmed. "I just thought that since you wrote a bit of it, you could tell me what to write to Boomer."

Apollo raised his hands in surrender. "Just tell him what's going on. Tell him about the squadrons."

"Oh, thanks. That's original and exciting. I can see why you write histories and not, say, porn."

"Each to our strengths," said Apollo, piously.

Apollo's made Jilly his second. Apollo says that she's got the seniority and she's a damn good squadron leader, so he's bumped her up to deputy and given Red squadron to Boah. Apollo says to tell you that he's looking after Blue. He's got Callum running Blue day to day, but he's keeping an eye on things. He wants you to have nice, shiny squadron to come home to.

"What have you got so far?"

"A paragraph on what we're up to, the training missions you make me do, the mindless threats you keep making about my timekeeping, the new pilots, a bit of gossip—" Starbuck brightened. "Hey, why am I worrying? This literary stuff's easy, really."

"I'll let you edit the next volume of the History, then. Talking of gossip, did you hear who crawled outa Jilly's cabin this morning?"

Starbuck gave him a pitying look. "Puh-leese. Just who is first with the gossip around here?"

Apollo raised his hand in the fencer's gesture that acknowledged a hit. "You are. Even if you have to make it up."

Lange's having another run with Jilly. Apollo says that Lange didn't run fast enough, and that maybe he needs to review our hazard training along with everything else. Jilly heard and did some really impressive flouncing. I wish I had the equipment for flouncing because, man, have I had it with training at the moment. Apollo says I flounce well enough without tits. Apollo says he couldn't cope with me, tits and flouncing. I think I'd be insulted if I hadn't worked it around to a compliment, because of course it means that Apollo thinks I'm perfect as I am.

"I'm on a roll," Starbuck remarked. "Not that you're being much help, but I'm getting this letter writing thing down to a real system."

"Like your Pyramid systems?"

"Well, yeah."

"Hopefully without the associated pecuniary disadvantages," sighed Apollo.

"You can hope. Talking of which, I've got this idea for a new opening ploy…"

We have new pilots. They've been skimmed from the rest of First, kids who were due a step up from destroyers. Some of 'em haven't been on a battlestar since their cadet orientation visits. Apollo says it's like all the primary schoolers getting to play with the Big Kids. He says he falls over 'em every time he turns around. I know what he means. They make me feel like I'm kicking puppies, or something, and they're always frakking apologising and blushing, especially when Apollo notices them .

Apollo glanced across the flight deck to where a Blue patrol was kitting up. "We've got a match against Ensign Groeneboon and Giles tomorrow, right? It'll be interesting to see how Groeneboon shapes up. Jolly told me that he's pretty good."

"We played the Patroklus people a couple of times last season," said Starbuck. "Greenbean's not bad at all. We beat them."

"Groeneboon. He's from Northern Friesland on Aries."

"He answers to Greenbean. It's close enough. And how come you know so much about people? It's downright spooky."

"I get to read the files," Apollo reminded him.

Starbuck winced. "Right. So you've read mine?"

"Cover to cover. I know all about your six-hundred and three disciplinary hearings, yes."

"Six hundred and five, thank you very much."

Apollo grinned. "He's taller than either of us. We'll have to think about tactics."

"Oh God, you aren't going to get the spreadsheets out again, are you?" Starbuck looked the patrol over. "I'd forgotten how tall he is. Stringy bastard, too. He must have to concertina those legs into his Viper."

"Don't make personal remarks about the new pilots. You know it makes them cry."

"It's a perfectly acceptable tactic, making your opponents cry," grumbled Starbuck. "You take all the fun outa Triad, you do."

Apollo's great with the new kids, though, making sure they're settling in. He gives them a lot of time and he checks every couple of days with their flight leaders to see how they're doing. He'll be a great dad someday, I told him. He said that he was grateful for the offer but I didn't have child-bearing hips. Ha-de-har. He's getting all too above himself now he's a bit more cheerful. Still, he is pretty good at the whole Strike Captain thing, you know. Different to old Sim. He's usually sober, for a start. Do you think I've got a thing for competence? That'd explain a lot.

"And there's always this to tell him about." Starbuck waved an arm to encompass the Triad court.

Apollo yanked open his locker door, reaching for his Triad kit. "Triad and gambling? Sure. You'll have plenty to say about the thing that's closest to your heart."

Starbuck grinned at him. "Yeah. I do."

We are the champions!!!! We are the champions!!!

No surprises there, then! We are the best, Boomer! Oh Lords, are we the best!!. We had a great, great final against Giles and Greenbean (remember him from the Patroklus team last yahren?)—not that Apollo and me were threatened or anything. They weren't that good.
The match was fantastic! I wish you'd been there. Apollo's right when he says that we make a damn good team—you were right about that too. Jolly says we ought to be split up because we are the business and no-one else gets a look-in! Fat chance. I like winning. Apollo says that if Jolly wants an easier match, he'll set them up with Ortega in Security (remember him? Built like a brick shuttlecraft). Jolly almost had a heart attack. I think Apollo meant it, too.

Mind you, Jolly has a point. Did I mention that we won?! Me and Apollo had Giles and Greenie all over the court—they didn't have the first idea what we'd do next. We creamed 'em, Boom-boom! And right before the final whistle went, Apollo scored the sweetest, sweetest Trinity and clinched it. It was almost as good as the one I got two centons before him. Apollo says mine was flashier. I think he may be humouring me.

You shoulda seen it! Everyone went mad! I could see the Commander pounding Colonel Tigh on the back and he was outa his seat and yelling. Athena was right beside him, cheering us on. And Apollo… he loved it. We both did. We jumped around that court like a couple of kids, hanging onto each other and screaming. (I know , right? I know.) It was like we were about twelve, or something, and seeing Apollo let loose that much—! It was just great. Anyway, we're still celebrating. And no, I didn't get drunk. Honest. And if Apollo tells you differently, it's a gross slur on my character and the reason he was holding my head over the flush at two-o-clock this morning was entirely due to the poisonous muck the Commissary served up for supper. So don't you dare believe Apollo's lies.

Me and Pershing cleaned up off the court, by the way. Don't tell Apollo. I like him innocent.

Boomer expressed himself as surprised as everyone else; gratified, but surprised. Starbuck was rather hurt by this unflattering (and widespread) perception of both his literary ability and his faithfulness. Apollo, when Starbuck complained to him, looked blank.

"To be honest," he said, "Based on the mission reports you turn in, I wasn't sure you could even write."

"You read my mission reports? I didn't think anyone read mission reports."

"Colonel Tigh stuck it into the job description. I read everyone's mission reports. I even grade them for spelling and grammar. Some of you lot are bloody lucky I don't stick you in remedial classes."

"You can't mean me." Starbuck shrugged at Apollo's raised eyebrow. "Well, all right, I don't exactly try when it comes to mission reports. It's not my fault. It's just that I don't find that missions reports are conducive to my literary genius."

"Lacking the porn element, you mean."

Starbuck grinned.

"And yet," said Apollo, "I can usually give you extra marks for imagination and creativity."

"Boomer says I don't have any imagination. He says I've got a one-track mind and why can't I write about something else? I don't even know what he means! I've told him about everything that's going on, the new pilots and Jilly's victims and how frackkin' brilliant we are at Triad. He's an ungrateful bastard."

“Brothers!" said Apollo. “They're all like that."




"Here." Apollo handed Starbuck a data crystal. "Your orders for the day."

"You're taking to writing them down? My memory's not that bad."

"You'll need it for Demeter flight control, to get a berth for the shuttle. The Deckmaster will give you a shuttle. Off you go."

"To Demeter?"

Apollo looked up from his computer and smiled. "It's just a boring little run to pick up some personnel on their way back from home and sick leave. We got the databurst from HQ this morning. I thought you might like to do the run."

"You're kidding!"

"Not this time. He's at Demeter, waiting for a ride home. Give him my love, tell him that we've missed him and tell him that to the great relief all of us, Starbuck, your literary days are over."






Day 357 : 37 Quartus 6491
Battlestar Galactica

It was something, said Starbuck, that Apollo wasn't a rowdy drunk. He didn't shout or sing, or tell bawdy tales; he didn't get aggressive and difficult to handle. And heaven forfend that he'd be a lachrymose drunk, because Starbuck couldn't deal with tears in women and would definitely balk at mopping up Apollo's. No, luckily for them both, Apollo was an introspective drunk, a drunk who was quiet and brooding and who, when you could get him to stop blinking at you and get him to talk, developed a little stammer and something suspiciously like a lisp.

Starbuck had to stop himself from saying that he thought it was sweet.

"Yeah, well good luck with getting him home." Boomer pushed gently against Apollo to keep the Captain upright in his seat. Apollo smiled at him, very sweetly and very innocently. Boomer grinned back, chuckling.

"I'm more interested in getting him to talk."

"Man, are you getting old. I remember the times you couldn't wait to get a drunk date home and it wasn't for the quality of their conversation." Boomer laughed when Starbuck flipped obscene gestures at him.

But a drunk Apollo still didn't talk about what he did with Shield. He stared and frowned instead when Starbuck asked, and shook his head.

"Not that I'm really trying, or anything," Starbuck told Boomer. "I just wanted to see if Apollo's guard loosens any when a few chemicals with an -OH ending are factored in. Scientific curiosity, that's all,"

"Of course," snorted Boomer. "You need a hand?"

"Nah. I'll get him back."

"Your turn to hold his head over a flush?"

"I told you that I wasn't drunk. It was food poisoning!" Starbuck flipped a few more obscene gestures and hauled Apollo to his feet to a good-natured chorus of laughter from the pilots around the table. "See you later."

Apollo was really very tractable. He didn't give Starbuck an ounce of trouble, and if Starbuck had to correct Apollo's wavering course a few times, the corrections were accepted with that sweet smile and once, scarily, something that was suspiciously like a giggle. Starbuck steered him back to his quarters, carefully scouting out the route ahead to avoid sundry colonels and commanders. "They just might view tipsy captains as a breach of good discipline," he explained, taking a centon to check out the command level corridor before turning into it from the turbolifts. "Even tipsy birthday captains. And we wouldn't want you to spend the rest of your birthday in the brig, now would we?"

"M' t-twennynine," said Apollo, leaning up against him.

"Congratulations." Starbuck gently propped Apollo against the corridor wall, regretting the loss of that warm, pliant body pressed against him. It had felt really rather nice with Apollo so close that Starbuck had felt Apollo's warm breath on his neck; the sixth-sense feeling of closeness and want and can't have that he'd lived with for so long and thought that he had under control, that he thought was tamped down to ash and embers. He could smell the faint spicy scent of the soap Apollo used, even with the smell of liquor over-laying it; so close that his nose was filled with it. Too close. His stomach lurched and he had to take a deep breath to settle it. He got Apollo's door open with one hand, the other very firmly on Apollo's arm. Even through the thick cloth of the uniform he could feel the warmth. "I don't know how old I am," he said, managing to find a normal, cheery tone. He yanked Apollo into safe haven, letting the door close behind them. "I don't have birthdays."

"Sthame." Apollo patted Starbuck's hand consolingly.

"It's all right. It just means I don't know how old I am. I'm going for a couple of yahrens younger than you, mind, because it makes me feel better and makes you feel bad."

"That's sthad."

Starbuck frowned. "You're putting that lisp on. No-one could believe for a micron that it's real!"

Apollo smiled at him cheerfully, casting a glance over his shoulder as he made his rather unsteady way into the centre of the room. Starbuck followed, arms outstretched in case Apollo's precarious hold on his balance failed him.

Suspicious, Starbuck looked him up and down. "You aren't really that drunk, are you?"

"I'm buzzed. Very buzzed." Apollo held out his hand. It was trembling. "Look! It's like having too much caff."

"I think I hauled your astrum home under false pretences, then," grumbled Starbuck. The stammer and the little lisp were gone he noted, sadly.

Apollo still looked lit up. He watched Starbuck intently. "High day and holiday."

Starbuck's heart thumped and his mouth dried suddenly. His stomach gave another uneasy lurch. He took a step backwards, breathing through the adrenaline rush. His mouth opened and closed and he had a vivid memory of Yule morning. "Right."

"Right," repeated Apollo. He smiled. The smile was less sweet, more the blindingly beautiful smile that Starbuck—anyone—saw so rarely.

Starbuck looked away quickly, avoiding Apollo's gaze. Apollo was very intent on watching him. Very intent. The sixth sense was back, a thrumming in Starbuck's chest that was like a drum, beating out the relentless rhythm of want and want and can't frakkin' have.

His voice started out a little croaky, but he was able to morph it into something light-hearted and careless. "If you aren't that drunk, was there a point to getting me to drag you home? Or are you coming back to the OC to continue celebrating?"

Apollo, the smile fading, shook his head. "No. I'm too buzzed for any more drink. But there was a point, yes."

Starbuck forced more cheer and obtuse good-humour into his tone. "Damned if I know what it is then! I'll head back, I think. I want to spend some more time with old Boom-boom. It's good to have him back."

"Yeah," said Apollo. "It is."

"So…. I'll see you tomorrow."

Apollo backed up a few feet and leant back against the tiny kitchen counter. "Okay."

Starbuck's heart slowed, no longer hammering. He could feel sweat prickling on the back of his neck, and his lower back was damp with it, as if all the want and can't have was zinging through his veins, bubbling along under his skin, and had to find an outlet somewhere. He swallowed. "I'll just—"

"You don't call me Pol much," Apollo said. "I said you could now and again."

Starbuck turned away quickly to the door. He stared at the smooth grey metal, not turning back, his hand hovering over the controls. The dry feeling got into his throat, and he had to cough. "No, I guess I don't."

"Why?"

Starbuck leaned forward a trifle and for a fleeting micron rested his head on the smooth grey door. It was cool against his forehead, helping him a little less nauseated. He felt a sudden burst of anger. It wasn't fair, ambushing him; not after an entire yahren. He was appalled that everything he'd thought damped down was rising up in his throat like bile.

"Well," he said, slowly, knowing it would hurt, "maybe that's because you're always Apollo here."

He touched the door control and bolted.




"That didn't take long," said Boomer. "Apollo okay?"

"Fine." Starbuck dropped back into his chair.

Boomer looked at him closely. "Are you?"

"Dunno. Did you ever think something was… oh, I dunno, safe and under control, and suddenly it turns on you and… so suddenly you didn't see it coming and one micron everything's fine and the next, it's enough to tear you to shreds?"

Boomer frowned. "My uncle's fat old daggit bit me once. I wasn't expecting it. It was always thought to be safe with us kids, too. Mind you, I was teasing it."

"Yeah. Maybe that was where I went wrong. I thought I was safe because I wasn't trying to tease. I've been very careful not to tease."

Boomer had that feeling in the stomach he got when the turbo-lifts dropped too fast. "So what bit you?"

"A high day and holiday."

"Right," said Boomer, deciding discretion was decidedly more his bag than valour. After a moment he added gloomily, "I still have the scar."

Starbuck's mouth twisted. "Scars. Yeah. Tell me about it."




Apollo had got rather careless about keeping track. It had to be a few sectons since he'd last done this. He'd got too comfortable, he thought; had become too accepting, or thought he was too safe. On analysis—and Apollo was very good at analysis—he'd made the fatal mistake of unconsciously coming to think that he might belong here. He knew better. He'd always known better, even with the false courage his birthday ambrosas had fired in him to ask for something he was no longer entitled to; he'd only refused to acknowledge what he knew. He was only grateful that he'd not asked outright.

He held the marker with steady fingers and caught up, putting firm diagonal strokes through each day on the calendar. When he reached the day's date, the firm strokes became harder and faster, until he blotted out the day completely, a mass of thick black ink. When he was finished, he raised the glass of ambrosa from his desk, where it rested beside the blotted out calendar.

"Happy birthday, Pol."




Three hundred and fifty-seven days, and counting.






Day 358 : 38 Quartus 6491
Battlestar Galactica, bridge Office, morning command meeting

"I wondered, sirs, if you have any news yet on my replacement?"

His father's coffee cup clattered back into the saucer. Tigh, who had been half out of his chair as the usual morning briefing meeting came to an end, fell back into it. They both stared at Apollo as if he'd grown another head overnight. He only wished he had. He'd finished the ambrosa before he'd dragged himself into bed, and despite precautionary pharmaceuticals, a savage headache lurked somewhere behind his right eye.

"As you know," he went on, "my yahren's service here is up very soon and I'll be returning to Shield." He paused, but they still stared. "It's a pity we lost Kyle. He'd have been ready to step up to replace me. Lieutenant Boomer will be a strong candidate when he's got a yahren or two as squadron leader under his belt. He hasn't got enough seniority just now, unless you're willing to bump him up regardless—"

"Replacement," repeated his father. He and Tigh exchanged glances.

Tigh got straight to his feet. "I'll get back to the bridge."

Apollo waited until the door closed behind him. "That was tactful," he said, surprised. Tigh didn't do tact.

Adama picked up his coffee again. His expression was calm. "We agreed a few sectons ago that when you raised this, he'd let me handle it. It's one of the few concessions he's allowed to fatherhood." He put down the cup, the coffee untasted. "I rather thought you'd have raised this before now. But most of all, I hoped that you'd stay."

"No, sir."

Adama's eyes narrowed. "Well, that's blunt enough."

"It can't be a surprise, sir. My posting was for a yahren and it's up at the end of next sectar."

"Apollo, can we switch modes, please? I'd like to talk to you, rather than my Strike Leader. There's only so much polite respect I can take at this time of day."

Apollo spread his hands and shrugged.

"Good." Adama blew out a noisy sigh. "Although I'm not sure where to start."

"We always knew I wasn't staying."

"I hoped… you've settled in so well. You're doing so well here, Apollo."

"Well, the squadrons are in good trim."

"They've never been better. Tigh says so too, and he's not one to be fulsome. He thinks you're doing well. Very well."

"I know. I know I'm good at what I do."

"Well, then? Why throw that away?"

"This isn't what I want to do. I'm still Shield. I'll always be Shield." He plucked at the fawn flight-suit he was wearing under the tan jacket. "This? It's the wrong colour. And being Shield isn't throwing anything away."

Adama folded his hands together on the tabletop, and regarded them steadily. "I didn't mean it like that and you know it. I've said this to you before, but it bears repeating. I have every respect for the Shield Regiment and not only do I count Martens as a friend but she has to be one of the most outstanding warriors I know. But the Regiment is too small. It's too constricted. You have command potential, Apollo, and you know it. But there's only one General in Shield. Your opportunities for achieving that level are much more limited than if you stayed here in Fleet. Just think about yourself and that potential and think about where you can have most scope. That's all."

The headache kicked into life, a little trip-hammer knocking gaily at the inside of Apollo's skull. These were old arguments, old disputes and it was discouraging that he and his father seemed never to get past them. He leaned forward a little, resting his chin on his hand. "I'm flattered by your opinion."

That earned him a dark glance. "There are other considerations—" Adama hesitated, then said carefully: "I told you a few sectars ago that things were going on that I couldn't explain. They still are. And they could affect the role of the Shield Regiment. They'll affect all the military, actually, but given the small size of Shield, the impact may be greater. It will be greater."

Apollo frowned. "Well, that was incomprehensible."

"I can't say any more," said his father, tetchily. "Everything will be clear very soon, maybe a few sectons. But I'm serious about how this could affect Shield. Your options there are limited already. This could limit them further. Do you want to stay a captain for the next ten yahrens?"

"At least I'd get my full title," Apollo flashed back at him, stung.

It was his father's turn to frown. "What do you mean?"

"I'm Shield Captain Apollo, even if Fleet refuses to acknowledge it, that's what I mean. You might make me wear Fleet uniform and drop my proper rank, but I'm not Fleet. I don't want to be Fleet."

"Apollo—"

"Look, I know that you always felt that I went into Shield for the wrong reasons. And maybe I did see it as a compromise between what you'd always demanded of me and what Joss wanted."

"What I demanded?" said Adama, as if he didn't know what Apollo was talking about.

"Oh, come on, Dad! You were furious that I took Shield rather than come into Fleet. Granted, you were still furious over Joss anyway, but the look on your face when you came to my graduation—" Apollo paused. "Actually, I didn't really expect to see you there, you know. I didn't think you'd got over it enough to bother." He cut through his father's protests. "And Joss? He was mad with me for not taking the Strategy Unit job, but even if he was cool about me fighting the war from behind a desk and with regular office centars, I wasn't. Shield was the best compromise I could come up with."

"Were my expectations so heavy?"

"Like lead," said Apollo, uncompromising. "All my life."

After a silence, Adama said, slowly, "So you did something that you thought met what I wanted and what Joss wanted. What did you want, Apollo?"

Apollo rubbed at his right temple as the trip-hammer picked up the pace. "Joss will tell you that I wanted it all."

"And Shield gives you that."

"Yes. It does. Don't get me wrong. I've learned a lot in the last two yahrens and I'm not ungrateful for that. I know I'm good at what I do and I know that even Tigh's pleased with me, but I don't belong in Fleet." He turned back the upstanding collar on his flight-jacket and let his fingers touch the small silver Shield that had been pinned to the inside since the day he'd reluctantly donned Fleet uniform. "This is the most precious thing I own. I'm prouder of this than any of the medals or the commendations or anything else you can mention."

Adama's strong fingers twisted the collar so he could get a better look at the Shield. "I didn't know that you still wore it."

"I've never taken it off."

The silence was longer this time. Adama straightened Apollo's collar and smoothed it, resting his hand on Apollo's shoulder for a micron or two. He nodded. "I'll be very sorry to see you go, Apollo. I'll speak to Headquarters today."

Apollo felt curiously disappointed. "Thank you."

His father patted his shoulder awkwardly. "Very sorry that you're going."

Apollo said, after another quiet moment, "It's not just being sentimental about Shield, you know. I had my own command in Shield and I'd like to get back to that. I won't get the Hype, of course, but there'll be something."

"Your own command? Yes. Yes, of course. You deserve that sort of responsibility." Adama looked down at his cold coffee and pushed the cup to one side. "I know it's been a hard yahren, with Molecay and everything that spawned. You've dealt with all that very well, you know."

Apollo grimaced. "Not my best yahren, no."

"You've dealt with everything very well." Adama repeated, with significance: "Everything."

"You think?"

Adama gave him a tight-lipped smile. "Yes. I do think." After a moment, he said, "I'll miss you. I've liked having you here. I was reckoning it up. I think this is the longest time I've had with you for twenty yahrens."

Apollo hid the grimace this time. "I guess… yeah, I suppose. The last time would be when you brought the Galactica back for a refit after she took some battle-damage."

"At Borallus," nodded Adama.

"You were home a long time. I was, what? Twelve? Not quite twenty yahrens, then."

"Close enough," said Adama. He patted Apollo's arm and sighed until Apollo was battling with quite irrational guilt. "Well, well. I'm very sorry, Apollo." He nodded towards the door. "You'd better get back to work."

And back to dealing with his other problem. "Yes." He offered the Commander a small reward, a small recognition of the generosity Adama was showing. "Thanks, Dad."

His father waited until he reached the door. "And Apollo? I was actually rather proud of you at your graduation and I'm proud of you now. I always will be."

"Even if I'm a captain for the next ten yahrens?"

"Oh yes," said Adama. "Even then."




"So," said Starbuck, eying Apollo warily. He let the Duty Office door close. "No hangover?"

Apollo dropped into his chair and let the little trip-hammer have its way for a micron or two. "A bit of one. Nothing I can't handle."

"Well, you got through the squadron briefing okay, I guess."

"I got a very knowing look at the command meeting, though." Apollo tried for the sort of insouciance that was second-nature to Starbuck, but very alien to him. "Did I get very drunk last night?"

"Buzzed, you said. You didn't crack under the interrogation, anyway."

"Told you yahrens ago, I'm trained not to talk under duress." He wondered if he looked as sombre as he felt. He thought back to what the Shield psychs had said, training them to withstand torture and interrogation: create the scenario in your head and live and breathe it until you believe it yourself. You won't stave them off for ever, you'll crack eventually, but you'll buy some time... The only scenario he could come up with involved a lot of denial. "I vaguely remember you getting me back to my quarters."

Starbuck had been avoiding looking at him. Every time his gaze met Apollo's, it had slid away again but this time he really looked. Apollo gave him a half-smile, encouraging and, he hoped, suitably self-deprecating; confirmation of the supposed blank spots in his memory.

"Yeah," said Starbuck, getting into his own chair, parked at the side of Apollo's desk.

"It's all a bit hazy. Actually, it's all very hazy. How many ambrosas did you force down me?"

"A few." Starbuck's shoulders relaxed and he slid down the chair into his usual slouch. "I don't remember any forcing, mind."

"I only drink in moderation," said Apollo with dignity.

"Says the man who serenaded the entire OC with High Kobolian love songs!"

"I don't remember that! I didn't do that!" protested Apollo. He frowned. "Did I? I didn't."

"Something else that's hazy, maybe," said Starbuck with a slight grin.

Apollo went for rueful. "There's a lot of last night that is. Thanks for getting me back, Starbuck. You didn't have to hold my head over the flush or anything?"

"Naw. You were a perfect gentleman." He gave Apollo an assessing look. "If it's that hazy, are you sure about handling that headache? I'm not cleaning up your Viper if you're wrong."

"I think Jordan gets that honour." Apollo held out a hand. "Painkillers?"

"I don't know why you think I'd be carrying hangover cures around with me—"

"I wonder why," said Apollo and snapped his fingers.

The last of the tension eased. Starbuck laughed and handed over painkillers, and Apollo could relax. By the time he and Starbuck left the Duty Office and headed down to Alpha deck to join Boomer's squadron on patrol, everything was back to normal. Apollo didn't think for a moment that Starbuck was fooled, but Starbuck was always willing to go with the flow. There'd be no fuss, no discomforted apologies, no uneasiness. They'd be okay; the way they'd been okay all yahren. You could barely see the cracks under the hurriedly-pasted, tissue-thin paper.

They were both surprisingly good at damage limitation.






Day 372 : 12 Quintus 6491
Battlestar Galactica, morning command meeting

"We're taking a Captain Lucia," said Tigh. "She currently heads up the protection squadrons at Demeter. She'll be here in Septimus, as soon as Demeter's found themselves a replacement." He glanced at Adama. "She was the best candidate we were offered. She's a ten-yahren veteran with an impressive record in Fleet."

"Right, sir. Can I tell the squadrons?"

Tigh nodded acquiescence. "I don't see why not. The sooner they get used to the idea of change the better." He handed over a data crystal. "The public records of Captain Lucia's service history. You'll find that useful background."

"How long a handover will we have?"

The Commander said, glacially calm, "I doubt we'll get any. We've agreed with HQ that you'll stay with us until the end of Sextus. They've got something lined up for you for early Septimus—they didn't say what, but Shield will doubtless tell you something about your next posting before then. You'll be gone before she arrives."

"Ah, right." Apollo nodded, slowly. "That's a shame, sir, but I'm sure she'll cope. I'm glad I'll be when be here when the new intake arrives from the Academy, at least."

Adama winced visibly and Tigh actually smirked. "Thank you, Captain," said Adama, so acid that it burned. He glanced at Tigh. "You'll still be able to go back with me for the Academy graduation ceremony, despite leaving us a few sectons later. I wouldn't want to prevent that."

"Thank you."

"Fleet is a very family-orientated place. I don't want you to miss it." His father's smile was pinched. "I know there isn't any point repeating all our arguments, but I did want you to know that both the Colonel and I are sorry that you're leaving Fleet. You've done very well here, Captain."

"Once I trained you a bit," said Tigh, but the Colonel had unbent enough to smile.

It wasn't often that Adama offered praise with someone else there to hear it and Tigh was not known for his sunny nature. Apollo felt absurdly touched. "Thank you, sirs; both of you. I'm… I'm sorry really, but—"

"We know," said Adama. "Shield is quite the siren call."

"It's home, sir."

"Yes," said Adama. He sat up. "That's all for the moment, gentlemen. Oh, and Captain? Reminding me about your brother's impending arrival is not the way to make amends for leaving us in the lurch."

Apollo grinned and got up quickly. "Sorry."

He saluted, a little more crisply than usual to mark the occasion. He was already calculating times and possibilities, and was off the bridge as quickly as he could manage it. Tigh did hold him back for a couple of centons, to repeat Adama's restrained praise, and the slight delay mean Apollo would have to run.

He intercepted Starbuck in the corridor outside the Duty Office. Starbuck was obviously on his way out to get to the squadron briefing, armed with the datapad that held the squadron duty reports. He looked surprised to see Apollo, and had every right to.

"Something wrong?"

Apollo turned him around and hustled him back into the Duty Office. "I want a word with you before Squadron Briefing."

"We'll be late," warned Starbuck.

"They can wait a few centons."

"Uh-huh. I hope you intend to put yourself on report for that? I distinctly remember getting my head chewed off—"

"I'm going at the end of next sectar."

Silenced, Starbuck stared, his face slackening. The corners of his mouth drooped in an almost comical expression of dismay.

"HQ just told us they've found a replacement. I'm going to tell the squadrons. I wanted you to know first."

"Okay." Starbuck's gaze slid away until he was staring down at the datapad in his hands. His grip tightened. Apollo could see the knuckles whiten. "End of next sectar."

"Uh-huh."

"It's a bit sudden. I mean, I sort of… I sort of lost track. If I'd been thinking, I'd have realised… I mean, it was always just for the yahren."

"Yeah. I think I lost track myself."

"Back to Shield?"

"It will be. I haven't heard properly yet."

Starbuck nodded and offered him the datapad. They stared down at it, Apollo frowning, Starbuck blinking a lot.

"Uh—the squadron reports."

Apollo took the datapad. "Thanks," he said, wondering if he was starting a head cold. His voice sounded scratchy and he had to clear his throat a couple of times to get it working at all.

After a centon, Starbuck nodded again. His mouth straightened from its downward droop, his lips thinning. "We always knew. We always knew you'd be gone at the end of a yahren."

"Yeah."

"We even got an extra sectar. I wasn't expecting that."

"Yeah," repeated Apollo. "Me neither."

Starbuck said, tentatively, "I thought you'd be happier about it, going home."

Apollo stared at him, feeling it like a punch to the gut, the sudden and devastating realisation. He stared so long that Starbuck took a step forward and his hands came up, slow and awkward to rest on Apollo's shoulders.

"Hey," said Starbuck.

Apollo just shook his head, beyond words. He tried to process this epiphany, this damned too-late realisation; tried to rationalise it, pulverise it back into submission. He wondered what Starbuck saw, because Starbuck's expression softened again.

"I think that I'm the one who's being left behind. Why am I the one comforting you?" Starbuck let his hands slip down Apollo's arms and back to the shoulders again. His smile was a lamentable thing, thin and sad. "Is it working yet?"

Apollo shook his head. He put one hand onto Starbuck's waist, and slowly, carefully put the other on the nape of Starbuck's neck. Starbuck's skin was warm, his hair brushing lightly against Apollo's fingers. He rubbed his fingers gently against the warm skin. "I… I—"

"I know." Starbuck leaned forward, meeting Apollo half-way, resting his forehead against Apollo's. He allowed Apollo to touch him for a few centons before freeing himself and stepping back out of reach. "I have to say that your comforting technique needs some work, Apollo."

"A lot of things need some work," said Apollo, glumly. "We'd better—" He gestured upwards, towards the command deck and the office he used for the squadron briefings.

"Yeah. We're late."

Very late. Too late. He'd got too relaxed, too confident that he and Starbuck had managed this so well, had transmuted the passion into friendship. That they could do that. Stupid. Really, really stupid. And too late.

It was far too late to realise that maybe he had more than one home, and the one he was leaving here on the Galactica might, in the end, be the most important one.

"Yeah," he said. "Very late."




The Commissary, later.

"Starbuck?"

He looked up quickly, surprised. Athena put her hand on the chair opposite him and smiled, faintly. She made to pull the chair out.

"May I?"

"Sure," he said, wondering. They'd remained friendly since their short romance, but it had been a long time since Athena had approached him like this. He half rose, politely, until she slid into the chair and he could drop back down into his seat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Boomer approach with a tray, do a double-take and sheer off to sit with Jolly and Greenbean. He wasn't sure if he was grateful.

"You're looking glum. Apollo's told everyone that he's going, I suppose?"

Starbuck took a deliberate drink from his mug of caff, taking a micron to gather all his fortitude. "He did." His voice, he thought dispassionately, had just the right amount of regret and nothing at all of devastation. "He'll be missed."

"Mmn." She rested her chin on her hand and stared at him. He remembered, when she had arrived almost two yahrens earlier, wondering at the anxious expression in her eyes. She'd grown in confidence, had Athena, but still whenever she looked at him there was something in her expression, something uneasy, as if she doubted herself when he was around. Or if she doubted him.

"Will you miss him?" he asked abruptly. "You two don't seem very close."

"I don't know him very well, really."

He thought that he'd surprised her into an answer. During the time she'd thought she was his one-and-only, she'd been properly reticent about her family, careful about guarding their privacy and never forgetting whose daughter she was. He could remember only once that she'd let something slip about Apollo and it hadn't exactly been comforting, learning about Apollo's relationship with Rosie.

"He's your brother," he protested.

Athena's mouth, never generous, thinned. "He left home yahrens ago. A long time ago."

"To live with Joss."

She didn't hide her surprise. "He's told you about Joss?"

"Yeah. Ages ago."

Athena frowned. "That's what I always thought was so odd," she said, evidently deciding not to close the discussion down, although he couldn't work out why. "You two are really good friends, yet Apollo's so serious and he's not exactly frivolous, is he? And— well, I wasn't sure that someone like you would get on with someone like him."

"Someone like me?"

"You have about three girlfriends every secton, Starbuck. Apollo… well, I don't really know what he felt about Rosie, but he spent more than eight yahrens with Joss. Eight yahrens with a man. I didn't expect that you'd have anything in common."

"Oh," said Starbuck, keeping it pleasant with an effort, "you'd be surprised."

He watched her face. She didn't look very much like Apollo at all, he reflected. She was a very pretty girl, there was no denying that, but she looked like a softer, feminised version of the Commander; thought like him, too, if the hints Apollo had let loose all those yahrens ago about his father's reaction to his homosexuality were accurate. At least some of Athena's distance from Apollo seemed to be down to her distaste. Religion? he wondered. He knew that the Commander was deeply religious, but unlike her father, Athena didn't wear any outward signs of the Kobolian faith. Her trim uniform was clean of anything like the Kobolian medal that Adama wore, day in and day out.

He wondered what this was about. It was a very long time indeed since she'd assumed that the seat opposite his in the Commissary was hers by divine right.

"Apollo's having supper with Dad tonight," she said, out of nowhere, dismissing his comment with a shrug.

Starbuck stared for a moment. "And you're not? I thought you had regular family suppers."

"Except that this is a special, male bonding event. Her thin lips curved upwards unconvincingly. "You'll be pleased, Starbuck. Dad's working on Apollo to try and get him to stay."

"I would be pleased," agreed Starbuck, jolted. "But I don't think he'll stay."

"No. Did you try to persuade him?"

"He's one of my closest friends, Athena. Of course I tried to persuade him to stay."

The anxiety in her eyes had given way to a brittle coolness. She eyed Starbuck thoughtfully. He thought it was a touch scornfully. "He won't listen to Dad. But I thought he might listen to you."

"You'd have thought, yes," said Starbuck, and he reflected that if he'd looked gloomy when Athena arrived, she'd made damn certain that he now felt it, as well. "But he's never been comfortable here. He's Shield through and through, I think."

"I suppose. And if your charm fails, then Dad doesn't stand a chance."

"I guess not."

Athena tapped impatiently at her bottom lip with one beautifully-manicured finger nail. He gave her a quizzical look, wishing she'd just come out and say whatever it was that had her so wound up. She smiled when she realised he'd noticed the little gesture and glanced around the Commissary. "Have you eaten?" she asked.

Starbuck smiled back, the easy, practiced smile that so many had taken for the real thing. So. It was about that, was it? For a centon he regarded her with detachment, adding up all the points he'd normally give a pretty girl: pretty hair, pretty eyes, pretty smile… . He gave a mental shrug: it made no difference. "Not yet." He half-bowed, and deepened the easy smile into something softer, more intimate and inviting. "I'd be honoured if you'd join me, Athena."

She smiled then, properly, with none of the reserve she normally showed. "Thank you, Starbuck. I don't mind if I do."






Day 385 : 25 Quintus 6491
Battlestar Galactica, morning command meeting


"Captain, I have some special orders for you. I want you to ensure, please, that as many warriors as possible are in the OC at eleven this morning. We'll be piping through a transmission and I'd rather everyone heard it at once. Minimal pickets only, please, no patrols. We'll transmit an audio version of the broadcast to the pickets."

Adama looked down the table to the son he loved but didn't really understand, and really didn't understand how to keep with him. Apollo, despite getting his own way about leaving, didn't look very happy, he noted. Adama wondered how the news would affect him, if it would persuade Apollo to stay. He glanced at Tigh, stolid and dependable at his side. Tigh raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, sir," said Apollo, making it an enquiry.

Adama smiled. "At eleven, the President will announce the results of discussions that have been taking place, through intermediaries, for the last yahren and more. It's an historic occasion; no-one should miss it." He took a deep breath. "Gentlemen, the Cylon Empire has sued for peace."