The Young Lords -- An Alternate Version

The landing - if you could call it that - had scrambled his
senses for
several centons before Lieutenant Starbuck was able to
remember *why* he had
crashed.  An ambush.  Four Cylon raiders, unexpected, had
dropped in out of
nowhere, it had seemed, as he and Boomer had been nearing
the end of their
recon patrol.  It had been so quiet and uneventful that he
had even indulged
in a bit of melancholy reflection, recalling the words of
his old flight
instructor.

"Starbuck," he had said, imitating the voice of his academy
instructor, "a
viper pilot only flies three fighters:  the one he trains
in, the one he
runs from, and the one he dies in. . ."

Well, not today, he mused as he managed to orient himself
and began to take
stock of his situation.  Most noticeable was the burning,
stinging pain in
his right thigh.  A glance down revealed why - the force of
the viper's
impact had rammed the nose and about a third of the viper
into the loose
dirt at the edge of a marsh.  Instruments had crumbled and
exploded, tearing
a long, jagged gash into his leg.

Looking at it made it throb even more, so he forced his
attention to opening
the canopy.  Not bothering with the normal release, he
pressed the emergency
switch and the canopy popped open.  About three
cenrimetrons.  Cursing, he
banged the switch again, and this time it was expelled free,
as it should
have been the first time.  As the musty, humid air filled
his nostrils, a
building apprehension told him to hurry.  The Cylons had to
have been based
on this planet, and it would have been pathetically easy to
track his
descent.  They were close.  He could just feel it.  He had
to get moving.

Tossing his blackened and scorched helmet aside, he started
to pull himself
up.  And froze as the pain from his thigh made his head swim
and his stomach
churn.  Oh, God, he thought.  Taking several deep breaths,
he tried again,
more slowly, the growing fear pumping enough adrenaline for
him to drag
himself up and over the edge of the cockpit. He slid down
the side of his
viper and collapsed into a heap on the sand.

Taking a deep breath, Starbuck started to survey his
surroundings.  Then he
heard it.  The scrunching branches under heavy, tromping
feet.  The steady,
low drone. Dragging himself up and glancing over the nose of
his ship, he
could see the flashes of sunlight off metal.  Fighting the
searing pain, he
hobbled in the only direct he could go - into the murky pond
water.

God, it hurt!  But the panic-induced drive to escape the
approaching Cylons
was greater.  Starbuck stumbled into the muddy water and
pushed himself as
hard as he could.  It felt like slogging through a dream,
though, where the
harder you try to move, the slower you go.  The pond was not
deep, but the
bottom was slippery with the soft mud.  He had no traction,
and his right
leg was next to useless.  He grabbed at the wispy reeds and
dragged himself
forward with one foot, acutely aware that the monotone
chorus of drones was
growing closer and closer.

Then he slipped and went under. Flailing wildly, he pulled
himself to the
surface, gasping for air, shaking the hair from his eyes,
and swimming with
his arms, desperate to keep moving.  At last, he reached the
opposite bank.
But as he emerged from the water, the dead weight of his leg
and the
drenched clothing was beyond even adrenaline-driven panic.
He stumbled for
several more metrons, grabbing at the thin branches, moving
forward more
from momentum, than anything else, until he collapsed into
the dirt and
leaves on a gentle slope at the foot of a tree.  Strength
gone, he grasped
at the injured leg, moaning and gasping for breath, hearing
the enemy's
relentless approach.

Then he saw them, the sunlight flashing off their armor.
The crunching of
branches and leaves reached a crescendo, and the lead Cylon
swung his laser
through the overhanging leaves, then stopped, leveling his
weapon at the
lieutenant.  Starbuck, fighting the feeling of sheer terror,
raised his
hands in surrender.

For a brief moment, no one moved; the only sound was the
incessant drone of
the Cylons' red light, so loud, so close.  The rest of the
forest seemed
deathly still.  Then the lead Cylon stepped forward and
placed the tip of
the laser's bayonet against the lieutenant's chest.

 "Hey!"  Starbuck breathed, fighting the horrible impression
that he was
about to be methodically impaled.  "Let's not do anything
that I might
regret!"

"Remove your weapons belt," It stated.

Starbuck did not move.  "Sure.  Gladly. No problem," he
said.  "Except it'd
be a lot easier without that thing poking me."

The Cylon withdrew the laser several centimetrons.  Biting
his lip against
the pain and ignoring the pounding heart in his chest, the
lieutenant
carefully unfastened his holster and leg strap.  Before he
could figure out
how to remove it, though, a second Cylon grabbed the belt
and pulled it out
from beneath him.  It took all of his resolve not to cry
out, but he refused
to give the enemy that satisfaction.

The lead Cylon motioned with the laser. "On your feet,
human."

"That's easier said," Starbuck said through gritted teeth,
"than done." He
nodded towards his injured leg.  He held his breath while
the Cylon seemed
to process the information. A moment later, without a word,
it turned and
moved away, while two more grabbed the lieutenant by the
arms, pulled him
effortlessly up, and slung him over the shoulders of yet
another centurion.
The motion made Starbuck's head and stomach swirl; the
excruciating wave of
pain sent him into unconsciousness.

*****************

He awoke to the sensation of someone repeatedly stabbing a
knife into his
thigh as he was
jostled with every step the Cylon took.  He groaned, opening
his eyes to see
the gleaming armor of the centurion in front of him, and he
remembered his
predicament. A quick glance around confirmed that it had not
been just a bad
dream; he was in the middle of a phalanx of Cylons, being
carried
none-too-comfortably, as they marched resolutely down a wide
forest path.

Between the pain in his leg and the feeling of nausea from
the dizziness in
his head, Starbuck could not contain the grunts and gasps.
"Take it easy,
will ya!"  he finally blurted.

"These humanoids are not well constructed," said the
centurion in front of
him. "They damage easily."

"At least, we don't rust," quipped the lieutenant between
groans,  annoyed
in spite of his
situation.

"Silence!"

The conversation effectively closed, Starbuck decided not to
push his luck.
Instead, he tried to concentrate on figuring out where and
which direction
they were heading, noticing his surroundings, counting the
mud spots on the
Cylon ahead of him - anything to shut out the constant fiery
burning in his
thigh.  Finally, the effort became too draining, and he
closed his eyes,
letting his head sag and bob.  The pain was intermittently
drowned out by
the waves of nausea.  Not much of an improvement, he
thought, swallowing
hard.  Eventually, he drifted into a bleary, half-conscious
state where the
relentless drone from the Cylons merged with random memories
-- nightmare
images from the Destruction of the Colonies.

********************
Unobserved by the Cylons, a small band of humans, hidden by
the trees and
forest growth and moving almost without sound, trailed the
phalanx as it
marched onward.  After a short while, they stopped, watching
as the
centurions disappeared over the crest of a hill.  The group
debated only
briefly whether they should intervene and rescue the downed
pilot - they had
heard the crash and arrived at the marsh around the same
time that the
Cylons had.  From that moment, they had followed and
observed.  Ambushing
the Cylon patrol would be easy, but would also cost precious
resources.
They could not afford that, they decided, not now.  Not
without regret, they
turned and headed back towards their well-hidden compound.


********************


Something was different, Starbuck realized.  The sounds.
More noises.
Different noises -- electronic. Different, new smells.  And
the incessant,
jarring marching had stopped.  The lieutenant opened his
eyes and saw the
dark, blurred images of even more Cylons moving about.  They
were inside
some sort structure, he finally figured. Before he could
make any further
sense of his surroundings, however, he was unceremoniously
pulled from the
centurion's shoulders.  Two Cylons held him tightly,
preventing him from
crashing to the ground. Each had one arm wrapped around
Starbuck's arms and
a hand clamped over his wrists, thus supporting his full
weight to keep him
upright.  His vision darkened as his head swam from the
intense pain that
coursed through his leg.

"Well, well!"  said a vaguely familiar voice.  "The Colonial
Warrior!"  The
voice was not the standard monotone drone of a centurion,
and it sounded
very pleased with itself.

Starbuck squinted and saw the IL series Cylon gazing at him.
The lights in
its bulbous head were flashing in obvious excitement.  Was
it rocking back
and forth in delight?  He had only met one such robot before
. . . and
through his mental fog, he thought, for a moment, that he
was back aboard
Baltar's baseship.  "Lucifer?"  he asked, his voice a dry
croak.  Yet, that
didn't seem right, either.

"I am Spectre," stated the robot, its lights flashing what
seemed an angry
red.  "How interesting that you know of my - associate -
Lucifer."

Starbuck's head was clearing just a bit.  Was that a note of
distaste in the
robot's tone? He studied the Cylon in front of him,
noticing, finally, that
this one wore more reddish robes, not the blue that Lucifer
had worn.  Ah. .
. Lucifer.  In spite of his loathing for the Cylons,
Starbuck had actually
enjoyed his conversations with the witty IL series robot,
when he had been a
"guest" of Baltar not so many sectons ago.  Lucifer, at one
point, had
explained the different classes and levels of Cylons.
Starbuck had been
curious that they actually had civilian Cylons.  He had
wondered what such a
robot did in its leisure time. . .

"Lieutenant."  Spectre's voice snapped Starbuck's attention
back to the
present moment. He focused back on the robot.  "I believe
you could furnish
me with some most useful information!" it continued.  "And
if you cooperate,
you'll find your stay with us much more pleasant."

This robot was definitely not Lucifer; its self-satisfaction
was almost as
nauseating as the lieutenant's own pain and dizziness.
Starbuck managed a
lopsided grin.  "And what 'most useful information' would
that be?" he
asked, fighting to keep his head clear.

"The present location of the Galactica and its Fleet."  said
Spectre, his
voice rather triumphant.

"Galactica?" Starbuck said with a straight face.  "I'm from
the Atlantia."

"That is impossible. The Atlantia was destroyed at the Peace
Conference."
Spectre's tone was not quite as confident.  "You and another
viper craft
were intercepted by my patrol."

"We got lost during that battle and have been flying out
into deep space
ever since then."

"That is not possible," Spectre stated.  "You would never
have had enough
fuel -"

"We've been lucky enough to find settlements and outpost
along the way."

Spectre's lights stopped for a moment before blinking
rapidly.  Starbuck
could tell that the robot was becoming flustered.  "Your
insignia is that of
the Galactica." it said.

"Really?  I need to speak to my tailor -" Both centurions
jerked at the same
time; Starbuck gulped to maintain his focus.

"Tell me the Galactica's current location."  Spectre's
lights were flashing
a bright, crimson red.  "Or it will be most unpleasant for
you!"

"Okay, okay.  But . . come closer . . ."  Starbuck said
weakly between deep
breaths as his head and stomach began to swirl again, "so
you can be . . .
sure to hear . . ."

Spectre, his lights now whirling purple in anticipation,
moved forward and
leaned close to the lieutenant's face, not wanting to miss a
single
coordinate.

Starbuck gazed at the slanted eyes and weirdly full "lips"
of the IL robot.
"Okay," he breathed, and let go of the violent wave of
nausea that had been
building.  The last image he saw, before slipping into
unconsciousness, was
Spectre reeling backwards, his arms flailing at the vomit
that now covered
his face and robes.

**********************

He awoke once more, slowly.  This time, it was more
difficult to fathom
where he was; at the moment, he remembered nothing.  The
first sensation to
penetrate his consciousness, though, was the smell -
pungent, rotting,
musky.  It was enough to send the contents of his stomach up
again.
Someone, something, rolled him over onto his side.  He
gasped and opened his
eyes, briefly, thought he saw a human face, before closing
them again.  The
smell . . . Someone was speaking, but it sounded distant,
unintelligible.
He drifted off once more.

The voices returned.  In his mind, his dreams, he thought he
heard a
conversation.  Something about needing water and medical
supplies . . .

Eventually, bit by bit, he returned to the conscious world.
The smell,
although, still putrid, no longer nauseated him.  He was
lying on his back
once more.  Beneath him, he thought he felt straw, and a
cool cloth was
brushing his forehead.  His eyes flickered open, and he saw
the blurred face
of a human woman bending over him.  "What -"

"Don't speak," she said softly but firmly.

Still confused, Starbuck stared around him.  Dark stone
walls, covered with
damp moss, forming a small enclosure -- and wrought-iron
bars, the telltale
indication that he was in a cell.  Dim light seeped through
one small window
in the wall.  Around him, he saw the shapes of about half a
dozen other
humans.
He returned his gaze to the face above him.  He frowned but
did not speak.

"I know you are confused," she said quietly, slowly.
"You're - we're all -
captives of the tinheads.  You were brought in last night.
We were told to
'mend you' so that you would be fit to be, um,
'questioned.'"

"'Tinheads'?"  Starbuck whispered, still confused.  "Oh. .
."  Then he
remembered.  "The Cylons."  Glancing down towards his thigh,
he saw that it
had been bandaged.  It throbbed, but the pain was not as
intense as before.

"Yes.  Cylons," the woman said bitterly.  She remained
silent for a moment,
her thoughts directed inward.

Starbuck, his eyes adjusted to the dim light, gazed around
him once more.
Besides the woman, he could see four other humans, two young
men barely
beyond adolescence, an older man, and a young woman.  All
wore tattered
clothing and bore the effects of an imprisonment without
proper care.  The
face above him was probably about his age, but it was
difficult to be
certain.  Yet, he noticed a fire in her eyes; as physically
exhausted and
battered as she might be, she was not defeated.  He could
tell.  "What's
your name?" he finally whispered.

"Megan," she answered.  "And I see that you are a Colonial
warrior."  The
bitterness was still there, Starbuck realized, and some of
it was directed
at him.

"My name is Starbuck," he said quietly.  "What happened
here?"

Megan sat back and glanced at the others. "About a yahren
ago," she said at
length, "the tinheads invaded our world here.  Back then, we
had five
thriving settlements.  We were farmers and of no possible
threat to the
Cylons. Yet, they came and destroyed our settlements, burned
our crops and
supplies, murdered as many people as they could. Anyone they
managed to
capture, from the very old to the youngest."

"I'm sorry," Starbuck whispered.  "Did you have
communications?  To ask for
help?"

"Yes.  And we did," she answered.  "But no one came.  No
one.  Apparently,
isolated outposts did not rate the protection of the
Colonies - or the
assistance of Colonial warriors."

"I'm sorry," Starbuck said again, and he was.  He could not
fault her for
her bitterness. And he could offer no explanations.

"What's done is done," Megan said, her expression softening
again.  She
sighed and rose to her feet, pacing as she spoke.  "Since
that time, we, the
survivors, regrouped and went into hiding. And we have been
fighting to
reclaim our world.  It has taken almost a yahren, but little
by little, we
have ambushed their patrols, destroyed their resources, and
have reduced
their numbers to what remain in this fortress.  Why
reinforcements were
never sent, I'm not sure.  But they weren't.  So we have
been slowly taking
our revenge and taking back our world."

Starbuck glanced at the faces around him.  "How . . .?"

"How were we captured?  Carelessness.  The five of us were
looking for food.
And they caught us.  Instead of killing us, they brought us
here.  That was
about three sectars ago.  They keep us as a 'deterrent'
against attacks.
'Hostages, ' I guess, would be the word."  This time she
looked disgusted at
herself.

"Has it deterred your people?"  Starbuck asked.

"No, only slowed them.  I believe they are more careful,
now.  More
methodical."  She glanced at her silent companions.  They
seemed wary,
willing to let her speak.  Starbuck sensed that she was and
had been a
leader to them.  "Though the tinheads tell us nothing, we
hear the
explosions.  And -" she pointed towards the window, "we know
that they have
moved all their petro supplies within the fortress walls.
That had been an
objective of ours."  She gave a resigned smile. "It is only
a matter of time
before we end this - one way or another.  Unless things have
changed
drastically in our absence, our people will be planning an
all-out assault
on this fortress soon."

Starbuck cautiously, slowly began to pull himself to a
seated position, but
Megan stopped him.  "No, you must stay lying down!" she
whispered fiercely.

Surprised, he put his head back down against the makeshift
pillow.  "Why?"
he asked.  "I'm feeling better."

"If the tinheads see you awake, they will take you, and they
won't bring you
back.  I'm certain that the only reason they put you with us
was so that we
could heal your wounds."

"Ah," said Starbuck, "so it's in my best interest to *not*
get better."  He
grinned knowingly at her.

"Yes," she said, smiling, as well, but then her expression
grew serious
again. "So how is that you come to us, Warrior?"

"Starbuck," he corrected gently.

"How is it that you come to us, Starbuck?" she repeated,
nodding slightly to
him.

He sighed.  "A lot has changed for the Colonies, too, in the
past yahren . .
." Starbuck described the Cylon's treachery at the peace
conference and the
fate of the twelve Colonies.  He saw the horror reflected on
the five faces
around him and he saw the deep anger, a renewed hatred, that
their own
plight was but a small reflection of the plight of all of
humankind.  But
the most intense reaction came when he explained that it had
been a human -
the traitor Baltar - that had made the crushing defeat of
the Colonies
possible.  As the lieutenant finished, the scorn burned in
Megan's eyes, and
she turned away until she could regain her composure.

The silence stretched for several centons.  Finally, looking
around at his
beleaguered cell mates, Starbuck asked, "Who are your
friends?"

And for the first time, the older man spoke, quietly. "I'm
Megan's brother,
Jonas."  He nodded towards the young woman, who sat huddled
against the
wall.  "Lily is my daughter."

"Xavier," said one of the young men.  He was thin and dark-
haired, with
gleaming blue eyes.

"Gabriel," said the other, who appeared to be shorter and
had light brown
hair and dark brown eyes.

Starbuck nodded and was about to ask another question when
Lily suddenly
raised a hand to signal silence.  "Someone's coming!" she
whispered.

"I hope you are a good actor," said Megan as she grabbed the
cloth she had
been using on his forehead and knelt down next to the
lieutenant.  "Try not
to move."

Starbuck closed his eyes and tried to let himself go limp.
Megan placed the
cloth across his forehead.  A moment later, he heard the
heavy clomping of
feet, the ceaseless drone that he had come to loathe, and
the lilting voice
of Spectre.  "Have you healed the warrior?"  The robot
asked.

Starbuck heard Megan climb to her feet and could tell that
she was standing
in such a way as to block the Cylons' view.  "He lost a lot
of blood," she
said. "And he suffered other injuries - internal injuries -
in the crash.
We don't have the proper knowledge or supplies needed to
help him."

Keys clanked in the door and hinges creaked as the Cylons
entered the cell.
Starbuck concentrated on staying limp and relaxed.  "He need
only wake long
enough to give me the information I need," said Spectre, his
voice sounding
none too patient.  "And I am not so sure that I can trust
you.  Perhaps we
should consult our own medical data banks."

One of the Cylons pushed Megan aside and started to drag the
lieutenant up
by one arm.  "You'll kill him if you move him again!"  Megan
said.  "That I
can promise you!"

The Cylon stopped, still gripping Starbuck's arm, lifting
him partially off
the ground.  With his limp weight pulling him down, he felt
the muscles in
his arm and shoulder stretching as if to tear.

Spectre was obviously uncertain.  Finally, the robot said,
"Fine.  You have
six more centars.  After that, we will do what we can or
dispose of him.  He
is useless to us unconscious."  The centurion released the
lieutenant's arm
and he dropped to the hard floor.

"Hey!"  Megan was furious.  "You'll never get your
information if you treat
him like that!"

"Six centars," repeated Spectre as the group left the cell
and locked the
door.

Starbuck heard their footsteps recede, then disappear as
another door banged
shut.  They were alone again.  He opened his eyes and rubbed
the back of his
head.  "Frak that hurt!"  he muttered.  He eased himself
into a seated
position and gave his protector a weary smile.  "Well, I
guess I can take my
pick now - torture or death.  Hm, lovely."


*****************
Megan was still glaring at the cell door.  "If I could just
-"  She stopped
and turned to face the lieutenant.  "Why would they kill
you," she asked,
"if they want information?"

Starbuck sighed.  "They want the last known coordinates of
the Fleet," he
said.  "It's probably too late, as it is.  After my patrol
was ambushed, the
Fleet most likely changed its course and heading - so that
no matter what
information the Cylons got from me, it wouldn't help them."

"Why not tell them, then?"  asked Gabriel, hesitantly.
"Maybe they would
spare you . . ."

"Would you?"  asked Megan, giving him a sharp, disapproving
stare.  "Would
you even consider giving those tinheads what they want?"

He looked away.

"Don't be so hard on him, Megan," Starbuck said quietly.
"Pain can
influence even the strongest of wills.  I mean, I'd like to
think I'd rather
die than tell them even a lie, if it appeared like I was
giving in, but,"
He gave the young man a sympathetic glance, "saying it is
one thing, living
it is another."

Megan was still angry, frustrated.  "Six centars.  What can
we do?  Maybe
it's  time we all end this, one way or another."

"Listen," Starbuck said, "my philosophy has always been to
take things as
they come. And never give up if there's even the remotest
chance.  I've been
in some tight spots before . . . we'll see, I guess."

"That Spectre!"  Megan stopped pacing, though, and sat down
near the
lieutenant.

"Tell me more," said Starbuck, trying to find a way to
distract both her and
himself from dwelling on what might happen later, "about how
you and your
people came to live on this remote planet."

******************
The dim light through the window was waning even more.
Nightfall was
approaching, as was the deadline.  Jonas, by noting the
position of the
shadows outside the window, had reckoned that the sun would
set in about 20
more centons.  Starbuck, glancing at his chronometer,
informed them that the
six-centar period would end in 17 centons - assuming that
the Cylons were
one, faithful to their word, and two, as punctual as
machines.

Starbuck also noted that it had been over a day since he had
crashed; he
knew that the chance that any rescue attempts would be made
were next to
nil.  Too much time had passed.  The Fleet needed to put as
much distance
between itself and this outpost as possible.  It would have
been crazy for
the commander to risk the safety of the entire Fleet for one
man.  Even as
the gambler that he was, he knew the odds were just too
great.  So that left
him with two goals:  do what he could for these people and
do his damnedest
to frustrate Spectre.

For the past centar, the group had said little.  The
silence, to Starbuck,
was almost as intolerable as the wait.  Finally, glancing
once more at his
chronometer, he said, "Don't they ever feed us?  The least
they
could do is offer a guy a last meal."

He received weary looks.  "They bring water once a day,
usually," Jonas
said, "and food when it suits them.  Just often enough to
keep us from
starving."

"What wonderful hosts," Starbuck said.  With a slow, careful
effort, he
climbed to his feet, leaning against the wall.  Gingerly he
tested his right
leg, gently putting weight on it.  With support, he could
stand, he decided,
but not walk efficiently.  "Frak," he muttered.

"What?"  Megan asked.

"I just wish I were more mobile.  I hate -"  He froze at the
sound of the
door down the passage opening.  "Uh, oh."  He checked the
time.  "Yep.  They
're punctual, I'll give 'em that much."  Megan started to
climb to her feet,
but Starbuck waved for her to stop.  "Just stay back," he
said to her, "and
don't give them any reason to harm you or your people."

"What you planning to do?" she asked skeptically.  However,
she sat back
down next to Jonas.

"Beats me!  I'm taking it one moment at a time -"  he broke
off as Spectre
and two centurions came into view, stopping at the cell
door.

"Ah, Lieutenant!" said Spectre.  "How good to see you on
your feet!"

Starbuck leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and smiled.
"Nice of you to
come visit."

"Does this mean that you are ready to tell me the
coordinates of the
Galactica?  That would be the most logical action for you.
I'm sure Megan
and her group would welcome your continued company."

"Let me see if I'm following you," said Starbuck.  "If I
tell you what you
want, you won't kill me?"

"Why should we?" said Spectre, the exaggerated tone of his
voice belying his
words.

Starbuck kept the smile in place and his tone casual.
"Well, gee, then it
would be 'most logical' for me to give you what you want."
Starbuck was
watching the excited swirling of Spectre's lights - violet
and orange.  He
was most pleased with himself again.

"Of course!" the robot said, practically bubbling with
anticipation.

"Of course," repeated Starbuck.  Megan, Jonas, Xavier,
Gabriel, and Lily
were following the exchange with growing interest.

"So," said Spectre, "what were the last known coordinates of
the Galactica?"

"I'm from the Atlantia, remember?"

Spectre's lights froze, then flashed rapidly.  "That is not
logical.  It is
foolish to persist with this lie, Warrior."

Starbuck's expression was calm and serious.  "I already
explained that I'm a
deserter who fled the Destruction.  My buddy and I have been
flying from one
outpost to the next.  Haven't seen any 'Fleets,' either."

"You lie.  Your insignia is that of the Galactica!"  Yet,
Spectre was
obviously confused.  Never had he dealt with a human that
did not emit
physical indications when it was not speaking the truth.

But Starbuck sensed that his game was near an end.  He had
stalled for
almost five centons, but Spectre was getting too flustered.
He would buy
more time, he knew, if he backed off a bit, let the robot
calm down.  Still
. . . "Okay, okay!" he said.  "What is it that you want to
know?  I forgot."
And he burst out laughing.

Spectre's lights blazed in a flurry of crimson.  "Guards!
Bring him!"

The centurion clumsily rattled the key in the lock.  Spectre
practically
pulled the cell door off its hinges when it finally opened.
He was rocking
back and forth with anger as the two guards entered the
cell.  Starbuck
remained leaning against the wall, still smiling.  Megan
looked furious at
him for his behavior, while the others just looked
terrified.  The first
Cylon grabbed the lieutenant's arm and yanked him forward.

A loud explosion rocked the fortress, followed immediately
by another, then
another.  The floor shook.   Bright flashes like lightening
illuminated the
interior of the cell.

Spectre whirled, almost lost his footing, and practically
screamed, "The
petro dump!  Those human vermin! Get them!  Stop them!"

The centurion released Starbuck, who fell forward in a heap,
and the two
Cylons rushed out of the cell.  The ground was still
shaking.  More
explosions, both near and distant, rattled the walls.
Before he left,
however, Spectre pulled the cell door closed and locked it
with the key,
then hurried off, still cursing.

Megan was on her feet, shouting, "Yes!  The final attack!
Yes!"  The group
rushed to peer through the narrow window.   They were
cheering, also.

Starbuck, pulled himself back to the wall and sat up,
watching, amazed at
his reprieve, however temporary it might be, from Cylon
"hospitality."  He
had been fully ready to torment Spectre until they killed
him.  Fully
prepared to die with that small victory.

The battle raged for nearly ten centons.  Smoke began to
flow through the
window and fill their cell, but even as they huddled close
to the ground,
coughing, gasping for clean air, their faces showed triumph.
As abruptly as
they had begun, the explosions ceased, and the night was
silent once more,
still, eerily calm.  The smoke was thinning.  Megan and the
others climbed
to their feet to peer through the window once more.  They
saw fires still
burning but no signs of anyone.

Then the door to the corridor opened and they heard the
pounding of running
feet - unmistakably human.  All gazed in excitement at the
cell door.
"Marcus?"  Megan shouted before their rescuers came into
view.

"Megan!"  A tall, muscular man, with pale hair pulled back
into a braid and
rugged features covered by a thick beard, stopped at the
cell door.
Starbuck guessed that he could have pulled the bars free by
hand, if he had
tried.  However, he waved for those behind him to stay back
and said, "Cover
you faces!"  Using a confiscated Cylon laser, he blasted the
cell door.

Megan rushed to greet the man and they embraced.  "You did
it!" she
exclaimed when they finally released each other.  The others
had crowded
around Marcus, and more humans had appeared outside the
cell.  Starbuck
watched the joyful reunion and celebration with a smile,
still sitting back
against the far wall, still not believing his incredible
luck, but also
beginning to feel the reality of his situation.  Liberated,
free - but
stranded.

"But what about the tinheads?"  asked Jonas.

"Gone!  They fled in their last transport like scared
daggits!"  Marcus
said.  Then he finally noticed the warrior.  "You're here!"
he exclaimed.
"I have a couple of people who will be eager see you."

Starbuck, surprised and confused, asked, "What do you mean?"

But Marcus had turned and moved back out into the corridor,
shouting to
someone beyond the far door.  A moment later, Starbuck saw
two faces he had
been convinced he would never see again:  Apollo and Boomer.
He pulled
himself to his feet and shook his head, uncharacteristically
speechless.

***********
The goodbyes had been necessarily short.  Despite the great
possibility that
the Cylons would return, Marcus and Megan and all of the
people had
unamimously chosen to stay and rebuild their settlements.
They had fought
for too long, sacrificed too much, to leave.  It was not
until Starbuck was
aboard the shuttle, with Apollo at the controls and Boomer
flying escort in
his viper, that he finally had the chance to ask the
captain:  "Why in Kobol
's name did you come back?"

"The commander gave us this one shot," Apollo answered.
"When the Fleet
changed course, he gave us a rendezvous point and time.  And
we're cutting
pretty close."

"It wasn't logical," Starbuck stated. "I can't believe he
agreed."

>From his position, strapped to a stretcher, he could not
see the captain,
could not see his expression.  "I didn't leave him much
choice," Apollo
answered eventually.  "After leaving Zac behind . . . I said
that I couldn't
leave you, too, not without at least trying to find you.
And we got lucky."

"But how . . .?"

"Luck, buddy, pure luck!  We landed near your crash site and
feared the
worst.  Then Marcus found us, took us back to their hidden
compound.  It
turned out that they had been planning to attack the
fortress.  They told us
that they knew the Cylons had taken you there.  So we agreed
to help them,
not sure if we would find you or not."

Starbuck laughed in sheer relief, remembering Spectre's ire.
"You almost
didn't.  You almost didn't!"