Battlestar Galactica: Confessions Virtual Season 3, Episode 12 By Senmut July, 2012 From the Adama Journals: It has been seven full days, now, since the departure of the Calosiv warship, the sudden appearance of which nearly resulted in our total destruction. Appearing in our space without warning, and by no means known to us, it was a close thing. However, now, with them gone, heading back towards their own space, our damage repaired and our ships once more on the way to Earth, we can put the entire episode, still filled with many unexplained aspects, behind us. Except for my family. Upon returning to the Galactica, Apollo looked as I have not seen him but once before. When he and Sheba returned from their encounter with the Derelict vessel of Count Iblis, and it's crew of lost souls. His eyes had the same traumatized, one might almost say abused, look in them. As one who has looked into the very abyss. I have only once attempted to probe further into this, but aside from his After-Action report, my son has said nothing. In fact, he has been remarkably uncommunicative, something which I am growing anxious about. As has Sheba. It has been said that the only thing that travels faster on a Battlestar than a launching Viper is gossip, and this is no exception. While to an outsider she appears the same as always, I sense a change in her. A deep one. Our conversations have not varied from the basic superior-subordinate exchange, and it is clear, even to a layman like myself, that, like Apollo, she has experienced some deep, wounding trauma. Possibly it stems from their encounter with Iblis aboard his vessel. I don't know. I have heard everything from alcoholism, to drug use to marital infidelity, on the part of both of them. Hopefully, I shall not have to intervene, as regards the rumor catapult, as it appears to even be affecting Boxey. And, while so far, neither has shown any serious overt shortfalls in the performance of their duties, for which I am thankful, yet I have the gnawing feeling that soon, somehow, something is going to happen. Something...oh, I don't know how to put it. Something wrong, something...I just don't know. All I can do is hope and pray that my son, who has never been one to keep secrets from me, will finally see his way clear to coming, and confiding in me, as he has so often in the past. He, or Sheba, before...why do I say this? Lose my children. Oh for the Wisdom of Heaven itself! Lords of Kobol, inform my ignorance! "Apollo?" asked Lieutenant Starbuck, in the Galactica's OClub. The Strike Captain was sitting alone in a corner, tankard in hand, staring into the contents, seemingly utterly lost in whatever lugubrious musings possessed him. For a long moment, Apollo didn't respond. This might have deterred lesser beings, but not the dashing Lieutenant. Starbuck opened his mouth to speak again, willing to give his friend another chance, but Apollo was first. "Yes?" he asked quietly, both tone and posture screaming that he would prefer to be left alone. Not that Starbuck would be daunted by that. Ever. "Mind if I sit?" asked the Lieutenant, not waiting for an answer, and plopping himself down across from Apollo. "Well sure. Thanks. Don't mind if I do." "You already have," said Apollo, not looking at him. "A drink? Sure, I'd like that, too. Good idea." Starbuck turned and signaled Freeman the barkeep before pulling a fumarello out of his flight jacket. He clamped it between his teeth, unlit, while searching his pockets, presumably for a light. "So, what's up?" "Excuse me?" asked Apollo, turning to look at him, with a scowl that could rust a Cylon. He pulled the fumarello from his mouth. "Come on, Apollo, admit it. You've been in a funk for sectons. Ever since that alien ship with the flipped-out Commander turned up and almost wiped us all out." He frowned, patting down his pants pockets. "So?" "So?" Starbuck repeated. "Well, I hate to have to tell you, buddy, but it's out of character. This isn't like you, Apollo. Right now, you're lower than Baltar's astrum. If that's even possible. Lords, you even shaved, and while impressionable young women across the Fleet are celebrating the reappearance of your cheekbones, it's pretty disconcerting to those of us who know predictable old you. Come on. What gives?" Apollo sighed. "I don't suppose if I just asked you to drop it, you would?" He looked at Starbuck. Starbuck said nothing, but instead just wedged the smoke back between his teeth, looking as though he had nothing better to do than to sit there for all of eternity awaiting an answer. "I didn't think so." "So." "Starbuck, can't you take a hint? Ever?" "I used to, but they won't cash those in at the pyramid tables anymore," he said around the unlit fumarello. Apollo shook his head. Trust Starbuck to always have some flippant comeback. "So, lighten up, and fill me in." He paused at the ensuing silence, and then pointed at his chest. "Me. Starbuck. Your friend." He leaned forward slightly. "You remember, we talk about things?" Apollo took a breath, but Starbuck was faster. "Either here, or in your office. And I have a nice bottle of something to help lubricate the catapult, Apollo. Come on." He began to get up. "You aren't going to just let this drop, are you?" "Umm, well actually..." "OUT!" Apollo barked, and after a moment, Starbuck nodded, standing up. "Aye, Captain," he replied, saluted snappily, and slowly left the room, tossing a coin in her direction before turning away the barmaid who was trying to deliver his drink. Starbuck... Cursing inwardly, Apollo downed the rest of his drink, and left. "Hi," Starbuck chirped, as Apollo entered his tiny office. The brash Lieutenant was sitting in Apollo's chair, leaning back with his feet on the desk, fumarello burning merrily. "Thought you'd never make it," he chirped around the smoldering weed. "Starbuck," growled Apollo, slamming the door, "I ought to..." "Yeah, but you won't, old buddy, or you would have done it yahrens ago." Starbuck leaned forward, removing the fumerello from his mouth, taking his feet off the desk, and began to pour into two glasses. Apollo didn't need to see the label to tell that it was Lagavulin from Brylon Five. Obviously, his friend had kept plenty of the good stuff for personal emergencies. "Damn it, Starbuck!" growled Apollo, dropping into the seat across from him. "You are such a fracking pain in the..." "I know," said Starbuck, sweetly. "That's what Matron at the orphanage always said. So did Captain Kronschnable from the Caprica City Security Force. Even Prior Anselm, Heaven rest his soul. Got to be my second name, in fact. You knew they had an entire interrogation room named for me?" "Lords, I can't imagine why," sighed Apollo. "You? Say it isn't so." "Denial is how it usually begins," smiled the other, sliding the glass across the desk towards him. "I know the pattern well, old buddy. Hades Hole, I virtually perfected it. They stood no chance." He sat. "Now." "Now?" "Yeah," said Starbuck, raising his glass to his friend before knocking back his drink in one slug. "Let's hear it." "Hear what?" asked Apollo. "Your life story. How you short-sheeted Athena's bed when you were kids. The itching powder you put in Zac's shoes. Your lecture on the manual last secton. How you keep your breath so minty fresh. Maybe that song you did at the Armaments Day Festival your last yahren at the Academy?" Starbuck grinned evilly. "You know, the one where you took the Admiral's..." Apollo blanched. How in Hades had Starbuck heard about that? This was not going to be a good day. "Starbuck..." "Look, Apollo," said the other, his aire of frivolity vanishing. "Ever since that alien ship turned up and nearly had us for dinner, you haven't been you. And, neither has Sheba." Apollo looked up at him, eyes flashing anger. "Uh huh. Yeah, I noticed, and if I can notice, you can bet I'm not the only one. Now look," Starbuck went on, raising his hand, "I'm not talking about the intimate stuff. Not my business. But ever since that day, neither of you have been yourselves. You shaved for Lords sake, after declaring how much you hate razors, and any other grooming tools created since Sagan wore sandals and long hair was considered a sign of both strength and piety." Apollo looked at him in surprise. "Got your attention now, huh? Well good. Because the other day I caught Sheba in the Ward Room, crying." He waited a beat. "Yeah. Sheba. Our likes-to-act-like-she's-tougher-than-Cylon-hullplate-Sheba. She didn't know I saw it at first, but she threw a data pad across the room, swearing like her father, and started crying, buddy, muttering something about 'they're gone, they're gone'. Sagan's sake, Apollo, she saw me before I could slip out in my usual discreet way, and I didn't know what to do. Now damn it, I'm not good with tears. Especially the female kind; they scare me more than Ziklagi shapeshifters. Next thing I know I'm offering her a shoulder, and she soaked my tunic clear through." He tugged at the left shoulder pad. "Hades, these things aren't even drip dry, you know. She mumbled something about having to see Tarnia, but wouldn't tell me a thing about what was going on. Hades, when I have a problem, it's discussed thoroughly from upper command straight through to the rumor mill down in the galley, and everyone but Muffit is in my face offering me support, whether I want it or not. With you two it's always some mystery" "Starbuck, please..." "Look, you don't shed tears like that over ripped trousers, so what gives? Come on, I'm not the IFB, Apollo, I'm your friend. Believe it or not, if you want me to keep quiet, I can do that. You and Sheba have been there for me from my best moments to my worst. That's what friends are for, or so the goddamn song says. Anyhow, the way I figure it is it works both ways, or at least it's supposed to." He waited a beat. "Hey, if this goes on, you know as well as I do what it means. Eventually, she'll end up being relieved." He waited few microns. "And so will you, Buddy. And if I'm going to lose two of the best fellow pilots around, Hades, two of the best Warriors I've ever seen, I want to know why. And I want to know now." Apollo looked at him a long moment, then downed his drink. After a silent centon, he sent another drink in search of the first one. With a barely perceptible smile, Starbuck refilled his glass, waiting for the liquor to do it's work. Apollo was quiet for some time, staring into his glass. "Starbuck," he said aloud, "Remember that time I had to wake you up when an alert sounded, and you were actually.....crying for a centon after that?" Starbuck blinked slightly, not having expected that. "Ah.....well yeah. Now that you mention it, yeah." "Because that little alert disrupted what you later said was the.....Mother of all great dreams. The best you ever had?" "Aw, c'mon Apollo," the Lieutenant began to blush with embarrassment. "It was just a dream about the best winning streak I ever had in a Chancery. The one on Pinias. My winnings were up to a half million cubits and I was about to increase that by tenfold. I mean, yeah, it hurt at the time to have it end that abruptly, especially when Aurora was about to go d...uh, well, yeah...but......it was nothing. Just a dream." "But it seemed so real to you, didn't it?" he pressed on, "That was why you went on about it, for a centar. It was so blasted real to you when you experienced it and you'd been enjoying yourself." "Well, yeah, but....dreams can seem like that sometimes, especially when you really need them to. But you get over it." "Not always, Starbuck," he slowly felt the effects of the drink taking hold. "Not always." "What are you getting at?" Starbuck had actually understood this conversation when it had started. At least he'd thought so. Now... Apollo let out a long sigh and refilled his glass. "Do you want kids, Starbuck?" he asked at last. The Lieutenant was taken aback a moment, having expected many things, but not this for an opener. "Do you and Cassie ever think about that?" At first, the brash Lieutenant thought of making a quip about how thinking about getting sealed was usually more in order before one thought of having kids, but he decided that given Apollo's state, the less flip he was, the better. "Well...someday. Maybe. We've talked about it, some. But a few things in my life need to change before that." He smiled slightly, looking whimsical. "I might just adopt half the Orphan Ship. Maybe when we finally get to Earth. Why?" "That time she thought for a while she might be pregnant...were you disappointed when it turned out to be a false alarm?" "Well..." Starbuck stuttered, unsure of what to say suddenly. In truth, he'd been relieved enormously when it had turned out to be not the case. Of course, he hadn't expressed it quite that way to Cassie... "It hurts," said Apollo. "It just damn hurts when you lose kids. No one should ever have to lose a child. How did Father manage it?" He raised his glass. "Certainly not three." He squeezed his eyes shut a moment, and it was obvious that the alcohol was working. Overtime. "Three?" asked Starbuck. What was going on? Apollo only had Boxey, and Serina certainly hadn't lived long enough...Hades, Sheba... This was getting seriously weird. "Three," said Apollo, speech beginning to slur ever so slightly, as he took yet another slug of the Zykonian liquor. "Three...beautiful children. How could they be anything but? With Sheba for a mother, how could they?" Sheba? Mother? Holy frack! "Uh, yeah," said Starbuck, flatly, topping up his friend's glass once again, only this time with a splash of water. Apollo didn't seem to notice. "You tell me, buddy. I'm listening." . "Starting over, from wood and stone. Making everything by hand. Sweat of our brow, and what was it all for?" "Tell me," said Starbuck, gently. "Did.....Sheba have a dream like that?" "Oh mong!" sighed Apollo. "I mean, hey...a dream.....you can get over that. But not...not what he did." "What who did?" The Lieutenant's bewilderment deepened. "That alien ship. He sent it here." "He did?" "Damned right he did!" Apollo shouted. "Just like before. Like the Derelict. Trying to trap us in his lies!" Him? Lies? Who... Oh frack!!!!! "Then, we got hit, and crashed on that planet. Only it wasn't really there!" "Okay," said Starbuck, wondering where all this was going, and whether he shouldn't have just kept out of it. "It wasn't there." "No," said Apollo, having another shot of the Lagavulin, this time pouring it himself, straight up. "Wasn't on the scanners, at all! But there we were, our ships wrecked, and no way to leave. Then after sectons and sectons, Sheba's pregnant! I mean, we were so happy! So...so damned happy, despite everything!" Apollo squeezed his eyes shut again, pounding a fist on the table, and Starbuck thought he was going to break down. But after a moment, his eyes opened, and he took a deep breath, continuing as if he'd forgotten anyone else was there. Starbuck listened, with a growing, almost morbid fascination, as Apollo went on, describing a life, and a world, that seemed like something out of a dream. How he and Sheba, unable to leave the mysterious planet, had adapted to life in extremely primitive circumstances, and begun, not only a slow climb back to civilization, but a family, with nothing but their hands and brains to help them. How they had brought into that world three beautiful, healthy offspring, with a fourth expected, with no more help than what nature provided. Of how everything, absolutely everything, was just what they had, in their private moments, most desired. How that world, and their lives in it, had been perfect, perfect, perfect. Too perfect. After close to a full centar of rambling, Apollo told of how a "Colonel Delembre, from the Callisto" had appeared, as a Being of Light, and helped Apollo to discover the truth. That the world they inhabited, the world that had fitted every concept of perfection for them, had been, in truth... A lie. A complete and total lie. An illusion, a sick, vile, diseased fantasy, created by Count Iblis, in his latest attempt to ensnare the couple. How Iblis had manifested himself in various animal forms, then his usual Human persona, and had laughed, sadistically mocking Apollo for believing that any of it could have ever been real. Claiming, haughtily and angrily, that Sheba was his. Starbuck listened, riveted in spite of himself, as Apollo, quite far gone in drink now, spoke faster and faster, culminating in the fight, literally, over Sheba, and Apollo's freeing her of the venom that had infected her body, eating away at her resistance, and her soul. Of the final moment, when armed only with the most primitive of weapons, Apollo had, so it seemed, sent Iblis back to wherever he belonged, only to find himself in the next blink of an eye back in his Viper, battling the Calosiv vessel. Starbuck continued to listen, any sense of flippancy gone, as he took it all in. Apollo finding Sheba in their quarters, after the Calosiv had stood down, almost a basket case, actually having attempted to take her own life. Only Boxey's intervention it seemed, unwitting though it had been, had brought her back from the brink. "She wants her kids back, Ssstarbuck," said Apollo, not looking up. "Our kids. Bethany and Zac and Athhhhhhena." He belched loudly, and took another drink. Starbuck gently moved the bottle away. "She wantsem back, and I can't do that!" He suddenly went from a quiet, slurred voice to a shout. "Damn him! Damn Iblis!!" He got to his feet, none too steadily, placing his hands on the desk to steady himself. "I can't bring them back, Starbuck! Don't you shee? I hafta do it! I can't..." "Hey Buddy, calm down," said Starbuck, growing alarmed and slowly standing. "If Iblis..." "Don't!" Apollo raised a pointed finger, shaking it at Starbuck. "Don'tchu ever speak that name to me!" Venom dripped from his words. He was sweating, and a vein bulged from his forehead. "Never again!" Starbuck shook his head in disbelief, holding his hands up in front of him. Apollo lurched away towards the door. Too fast. It bounced off his head, half closing again. "Where do you think you're going?" Starbuck skirted around the desk to ward him off. Drunk and disorderly, stumbling out of the duty office . . .it really wouldn't look good on Apollo's permanent file. Or his, for that matter. Guilt nipped at his conscience. It was fortunate he kept it in a hard to reach place. "Iblis! I'm going to..." "Look, Apollo. You're going nowhere," Starbuck said, turning his friend by the shoulder and redirecting him back the other way. "Certainly not like this." "I'm..." "Mong-faced drunk, is what you are, Apollo," he gripped the Strike Captain's arm, keeping a grip on him as he turned and closed the door again. "My fault, but there it is. I forgot what a cheap date you are. Put me on report if you like. Tell Colonel Tigh, but for now, you're sitting back down, and..." He turned back to his friend. Smack! Starbuck's head snapped backwards and he stumbled back a step as the front of his face imploded...or so it felt like. "Ah felcercarb!" he said, checking his nose. Sure enough, it was bleeding. "Was it something I said?" "Damn it! Get out of my way, or..." "Okay, buddy, this will probably hurt me more than it does you, but..." With eyes watering and his face stinging like Hades, he went into defensive mode against a blurry Apollo, grabbing the fist still dangling threateningly in front of the Strike Captain and twisting it painfully until Apollo obediently followed his lead. Self-defense, it was like a well-synchronized dance, both partners knowing the steps. A micron later, Apollo's back was sandwiched against the Lieutenant's torso, his arm twisted up behind his back. Starbuck thrust him forward, bending the drunken man over the desk, using his weight to keep his friend down. "That...wasn't very nice, Apollo. Not very captainly either," Starbuck managed, getting his flammable temper under control as he felt the onrush of warm blood spill from his nose, a metallic tang on his tongue. He straightened up, tipping his head back reflexively. Beneath him Apollo was breathing hard, his chest bellowing after his sudden exertion. He suddenly heaved up, pushing an unsuspecting Starbuck away, and turned, swinging. Despite his intoxicated state, his fist connected with a crunch, and more blood spattered from the Lieutenant's face "Frack off! Let me go! I'm going to get..." He stopped, as Starbuck landed first a knee to the gut, then an upper cut to the jaw as he doubled over. Apollo's breath exploded out of him, and he flopped bonelessly into the chair, then slid to the floor. "I am tho fwacking pithed!" lisped Starbuck, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do you know how hahd it ith to get bwood out of a beithe-colored tunic?" "Starbuck . . ." Apollo muttered, an arm wrapped around his middle, blood dripping from his lip, all the fight suddenly gone. His voice was coarse as he curled onto his side into a fetal position. "What am I doing?" "You mean athide from making me talk like thith?" Starbuck returned, releasing his nose, preferring some semblance of dignity over staunching the flow of life's blood from his affronted beak. "That and shredding the book of regulationth, not to mention maxthing out my makeup and laundry budget for the thectar? Frack..." he muttered as blood began flowing freely again. "If I get grounded for thith for meuhical weathonth. . ." Apollo closed his eyes despondently, obviously realizing that without medical intervention such a likelihood was almost inevitable. Shooting out of launch tube pulling high G's had a way of making a battered nose bleed, as more than one pilot had discovered after a brawl. "How did I go from having it all, to being an utter frack-up all in the space of . . ." Apollo muttered despondently, his words trailing off as he shook his head, unable to meet Starbuck's eyes. "Half a bottle of liquor uthuawy duth it," Starbuck replied with a sigh, pressing a cloth to his nose. Despite the blood flowing down Starbuck's face, despite the fact that his best friend had just belted him, despite the vacuous vault that usually boasted a brilliant array of Tigh-proof excuses for any eventuality, Apollo was suffering far more than Starbuck could be by comparison. He could see it in his friend's posture. In his eyes. It terrified him as much as it angered him. You're okay, buddy," Starbuck reassured him, taking the cloth away, determined not to let Count Iblis win this round. "Or at least you're going to be." He waited a moment. "Do you want to get up? Or do I need to get serious with you?" Apollo let out a choked breath. "Yeah." Starbuck backed off, giving Apollo space. Sadly, he needed more than just that. Apollo had reached that abrupt sort of sobriety that only came from doing something incredibly stupid. He stared up at his friend in an anaesthetized state of disbelief, that had seemingly disabled him. Starbuck sighed, leaning down to help. He kept a grip on his friend as the Captain stood upright, somewhat of his own volition, rolling like a sea-bound ship. He looked at Starbuck miserably. By now, blood was trailing over the Lieutenant's lips, and down his chin. "I'm going crazy," Apollo said, shaking his head in horror as he slowly realized just what he'd done. He looked at his hands, knuckles skinned and bloody, then up at his friend. "I...I have no idea who I am!" "Well, ath long ath we're in full agreement about that," Starbuck murmured, releasing Apollo and wiping at the blood with the back of his hand. "What is wrong with me?" Apollo almost seemed to wail, staring into the distance that only he seemed to be able to see. "I can't be...no! But they were..." he stopped, soft, choking sobs welling up. "They were mine too!" He began pounding his fist on the desk, losing his balance and slumping into the seat that Starbuck deftly pushed under him, before he crumpled onto the floor again. "I forgot Boxey! Mine, and I forgot! I can't protect any of them. I...I can't protect Sheba! Like Mother and Zac and Serina! I can't protect any of them! I'm worthless!" He dropped his head into cradled arms. His shoulders shook. "You're not God, Apollo," Starbuck told him gently, gripping his friend's shoulders from behind, and swiveling him around in the chair to face him. "You aren't even close. You can only do your best, and that's all that any of us can do. No more, no less. Hades Hole, I'm starting to sound like a high priest! Still, it sounds to me like if it hadn't been for you, both of you would still be living in some kind of dream world of Iblis' choosing. Is that really what you want?" He looked at the other. Apollo raised his head, his eyes glistening. He shook his head slowly. "You need help, Apollo. Both of you do. You aren't a Cylon. You can't go through an experience like that without grieving. Sagan's astrum, nobody could! Frack, I'd probably feel the same if it was Cassie and me." Holy frack! I must be losing it! "And you can't grieve by keeping everything pent up inside of you and pretending it didn't happen; trust me, if anybody knows that, it's me. You keep that up, and you'll explode like Carillon. You might even start hitting your friends." Apollo swallowed hard, grasping the fabric of the Lieutenant's tunic frenetically. "But Starbuck, that's just it! This didn't happen. Not really. It's not right for me to grieve for something that never existed," he said adamantly, his grip unrelenting. "I have to be...to help Sheba learn how to put it behind her, too. My head knows that, but frack, the rest of me.....the rest of me," he seemed on the verge of collapse, trembling, voice gruff. "I know how I should treat this. Why can't the rest of me?" Starbuck let out an uneasy sigh, as he finally added things up. "Buddy," he said, "You're overcompensating. You and Sheba both. But you, especially. Now I know why you shaved that shrubbery of yours and cut your hair, because you figured it would help you get over what happened quicker. Huh?" He paused a moment, waiting for Apollo to fill the silence that fell uneasily between them. Apollo sighed, easing his vice grip. "I thought if I looked less like I did there...more like the old Apollo . . .that it would be easier for Sheba to forget. . ." "But Apollo, that's not the way to go about it. You can't make it just go away by changing your style, or lack thereof. All you've done is set yourself and Sheba up for making the whole thing worse. And Iblis' still there between you, his diseased fantasy driving you apart." Then, it was as if he suddenly saw something Apollo could not. "And that's just what that crawlon's astrum wants! He wants you both to break down like this! He knows you're stronger together, so he did all this to tear you apart." He swallowed hard. "From somewhere, somehow, he's still yanking your chains, probably laughing his horns off, and considering this some kind of personal victory." "Then what the frack am I....we... supposed to do?" there was an almost pleading wail in the Captain's voice. "Don't let him win," Starbuck replied, gritting his teeth, and almost growling. "I think maybe he already has," Apollo admitted. "I don't believe that," Starbuck almost yelled, shaking him. "You can come back from this, you both can. Damn it, you can!" He shook Apollo again. "I believe it, now you need to, buddy." "But how, Starbuck? How?" But for that alas, Starbuck had no answer. Even after he put the semi-conscious Apollo in the tiny bunk in the office, cleaned up, "borrowed" a fresh tunic from the closet, and posted a Noxious Contamination Declaration notice on the door, he couldn't come up with an answer that would suit Apollo's dilemma. One that gave step by step instructions with achievable goals and expectations, complete with an itemized set of guidelines and rules. Life didn't generally work that way. After an "undocumented" visit to a reluctant Dr. Cassiopeia, while walking the corridors of the Galactica, trying to make some sense of everything he'd heard, he still couldn't think of a solution. It was all just too unreal. Up until Over-Lieutenant Korax of the Ziklagi Empire, Starbuck had been the typical "go have a drink, have a good time, preferably of the female variety, and get over it" kind of guy, very different from Apollo. Or Sheba, for that matter. None of the usual patented Starbuck nostrums seemed to apply, here. Even as he went down to the launch bay, checked in with his plane-captain, signed off on the maintenance log, checked tomorrow's duty roster, hit the gym, the turbowash, had a light meal, and then tried to decide what to do next, he was still at a loss. He checked in on Apollo, afterwards. The Captain was gone, but that was okay. He moved along the corridor, towards the hatch to their quarters. He listened as best he could, but heard not a sound. Not even Boxey's mechanical remora. Do I go to the Commander? Hades Hole, I ought to. Apollo needs help. So does Sheba, but I report any of this, they could be finished. Their careers ruined, and I can't do that. Then again, I don't do anything, and they'll both go down in flames. All else aside, the Fleet needs them too much. Boomer? Athena? Cassie, even? Tarnia couldn't tell me a thing, even if she wanted to. I say a single word, it could destroy them both, but if I do nothing... God On High, what do I do? "Starbuck." The Lieutenant looked up, and saw Commander Adama, not three metrons in front of him. Hands behind his back, face grim. Almost reflexively, Starbuck took a step backwards into the shadows. He felt like hiding, not only the evidence of Apollo pummeling him, but his unease with the situation. Adama, well-versed in Starbuck, picked up on it at once. "Uh...Commander. Uh, yes. Sir. I..." "We need to talk. In my quarters." "Uh..." "Now." "Yes, sir. Right away." Frack! This is not going to end well. Adama sat, quietly, after Starbuck finished his story. Starbuck's great reluctance to relate anything of what he'd heard to the Commander actually pleased Adama somewhat. For all his diabolis-may-care, shrug-it-off aire, Starbuck valued a confidence highly, even for something learned through such an unorthodox venue as Zynonian Lagavulin. Perhaps he shouldn't have insisted that the Lieutenant divulge what he had learned, but all the way to his son's quarters, intending to get to the truth, albeit in a less-intimidating setting than his own cabin, he kept wondering if that were truly the best way. But seeing Starbuck there, and having already heard rumors of a loud, acrimonious confrontation between them, he decided that Starbuck was, perhaps, the better route at this point, providentially put in his way. Interesting. "Don't let it eat at you, Starbuck," Adama counseled him. "You value Apollo and Sheba too much to keep silent." "I know. It's just..." "How will Apollo react if he finds out we've spoken? We'll, he won't learn it from me, Starbuck. I shall continue to pray that Apollo and, or, Sheba, find the strength to come to me, of their own volition, and open up. Anything to do with Count Iblis is a serious matter." "It's like Sheba's mind is being eaten away, Commander. From what Apollo said, and what I've seen. And I've never known Apollo to be like this. Ever. It's like he's lost his self-confidence, his hope... Frankly, sir, it scares the pogees out of me and I don't know how to help." He looked at the older man imploringly. "How do we fight that? There must be some way." "With heart, faith, and prayer, Starbuck." Adama smiled. "Yes, I know that isn't exactly your area." "Well..." Starbuck shrugged. "Learn faith, Starbuck. Always consider the possibility that there are more things unknown, than known. That the truth consists in more than what we can see and touch. The universe you fly your Viper through is but a tiny part of the true, ultimate reality." "I'll try, sir," said Starbuck, not really feeling any conviction about the idea, but not wanting to offend his commander and mentor. After all, he'd always depended on lasers, thrusters, and a good ship to solve many of his problems, and he'd usually succeeded. Hades Hole, a quick wit was often as good as a fast gun. The Unseen... "Oh, and Starbuck?" "Sir?" "Your...altercation, with Apollo?" He raised an eyebrow. "Don't worry. We can just forget that. Just as soon as you report to the Life Station. Understood?" "Yes, sir. Thank you." What altercation, Commander?" Talk about your answers to prayer! He managed to look as innocent as an altar boy. "Exactly." Adama smiled, rubbing a hand over his jaw and suddenly looking almost uncomfortable. He let out a long breath before speaking again. "There is one more thing." "Sir?" "Commander Moray has asked Baltar that a Colonial Warrior, be assigned to the BaseShip as a sort of...Liaison Officer." "Assigned to the...the BaseShip," Starbuck repeated woodenly, abruptly standing again, even as his heart sank somewhere into his boots. "The BaseShip?" He glanced out the viewport, even though he couldn't see the Cylon behemoth, then drew himself erect. He opened his mouth once more, then abruptly clamped it shut. "Yes." Adama nodded patiently. "In fact, the Command Centurion specifically asked for you." Oh my God... Had any Warrior in the history of the Colonies ever thought he'd hear those words from a superior officer? Adama looked at him, as if wondering what was going through the Lieutenant's head. "Uhhh..." "It would only be for a few centars a secton, Starbuck, to establish better interpersonal communications with Baltar's crew in a professional capacity. Apparently, you've made an impression on them. You understand that you wouldn't actually be permanently stationed there." "Yes, sir," Starbuck replied, looking at some point above Adama's head. "Not enough turbo-flushes, I imagine." "Starbuck...sit down, son," Adama said, getting up from his chair and walking around his desk. He placed a hand on the young man's shoulder, gently but insistently pushing him downward until he reluctantly took a seat. Then he perched himself casually on the desk in front of the pilot, leaning forward, holding the young man's gaze. "You were a prisoner there once. That very ship." Starbuck narrowed his eyes slightly, looking bemused. Then his lips quirked upward at the corners. "I'm not worried about that, Commander. It wasn't exactly hard time." Internally, Adama relaxed. "What then?" "Just...I'm not sure I'm liaison material. Maybe Boomer would be better . . ." "I disagree. You sell yourself short, Starbuck. You're a fine Warrior, but you have the potential to be a great one if you apply yourself. But you need to challenge yourself, to put yourself in situations where you must remain in complete control of your . . ." Adama smiled slightly, clearing his throat, leaving the thought hanging in the air between them. Starbuck didn't disappoint. "My big mouth. A problem I admit, given how much I dearly love Baltar." "Well said." Adama chuckled, feeling no better about the Traitor of Humanity than did the Lieutenant. Still... "Having said that, if it wasn't for your 'big mouth' you wouldn't have drawn the attention of Commander Moray, nor potentiated an historical situation between Warrior and Centurion, Man and Machine. I'm trusting that you will control your more... reckless impulses while you exemplify what an average Colonial Warrior is and how we might come to relate and co-exist with our Centurion allies in a closer professional relationship." Starbuck let out a deep sigh, shaking his head in disconcertment as he thought about it. "Sagan sakes, Commander, you sure know how to take a guy's mind off his best friend's troubles." "I've been meaning to talk to you for some time, Starbuck, or so Baltar keeps reminding me. This had nothing to do with what you confided to me about Apollo and Sheba." "If you say so, sir." "I do." "Yes, sir." He looked down at his boots, then back up at Adama. "Do you think we'll ever know just why these Cylons developed their independence, Commander? Why they became sentient?" "I don't know, Starbuck. I'm no less curious about that than you are. But truthfully...I just don't know." Slowly, he nodded, then stood up. "When?" "You are to report to the BaseShip at 0800, tomorrow. All the material we have likely to be of help has already been forwarded to your work station. I recommend you hit the rack early. You'll want to be fresh for the day." "I see, Commander. You can count on me." He winced slightly before asking, "Anything else, sir?" Starting with Apollo and Sheba's living nightmare, and ending with being assigned as liaison officer to the BaseShip, it hadn't exactly been Starbuck's best day. "God forbid, Lieutenant," replied Adama, deadpan. Starbuck looked upward instinctively. "I sure do hope so, Commander." "As do I. Dismissed." "Apollo." "Father." The Strike Captain of the Galactica entered his father's quarters, and took the proffered seat. He looked, Adama reflected, contrite, much as he had when small, and been caught at whatever it was. "I'm ready to hear whatever it is, Apollo," said Adama, taking his own seat. On his desk was the final report on the encounter with the Calosiv vessel. After four days of repairs, investigation, and "settling accounts" (the Calosiv crew had made "reparations" for the damage to the Fleet with a large payment in auric bullion), the alien vessel had bid them farewell, and begun their long journey home, while the Fleet had resumed it's own journey. In the days since, all had been quiet. They could, thankfully, close the chapter on that bizarre episode. Almost. Adama was certain that Apollo's story would fill in many gaps concerning the surprise attack by the alien warship. "All right then," Adama said, "You said you had some......information regarding the attack that in the interests of security needed to be kept out of the report." he paused. "Obviously, I have to decide whether that's justified, based on what you have to say about it." "Father, I'll come straight to the point. Iblis," Apollo said, almost exhaled, as he began. "It was Iblis." "Iblis," repeated Adama, leaning back. Not a question. "Go on." "Remember what I told you, about our encounter with the Derelict? Iblis'ship?" "Of course." The Commander's expression was that of one whose inner hunch had just been validated. "Well, so much for the matter of whether this ever goes into the report or not. Henceforth, we can consider this entirely off the record, just as we've done regarding......the last time the matter of Iblis came up." "It's directly related to that last time, Father." "To the Derelict?" Adama lifted an eyebrow, "How so?" "Well...Lords, I'm making a total Orion Hash out of this," Apollo exhaled, leaning forward, his hands clasped in front of him. "During the fight with the Calosiv ship, I was hit. Or so it seemed. My Viper was crippled, and I found myself crashing on an uninhabited planet." "Crashing on a planet?" Adama shook his head, frowning. "But there were no planets anywhere near the battle site, Apollo." "No, sir. That's part of it. There was no planet, but I'm getting ahead of myself. I ejected before my ship blew, and my cockpit hit the ground, and when I awoke, Sheba was there. She pulled me from my cockpit, and patched me up. But when we tried to take off, her Viper refused to power up, and..." Adama sat, for centars it seemed, listening to his son's tale. How Sheba had joined him, and both found themselves trapped on the unknown but stunningly beautiful world. Of how they had reverted to the level of primitive Man, crafting tools from wood, stone, and clay, and begun a family in those circumstances. Of how his and Sheba's love for each other deepened with every passing day. How for six yahrens, they occupied themselves with the business of living, blissfully unaware that it was all a lie. A vile, sick, Hades-vomited lie, perpetrated by Iblis, in his latest attempt to seduce them to his dominion. Giving them everything they believed that they wanted, making every wish seem to come true on a planet that offered every resource they could conceivably need. No apparent aging, no disease, even Sheba's pregnancies and childbirth free of any real dangers. All a lie, created so that Iblis could, Apollo theorized, achieve his goal of claiming both their souls, but especially Sheba's. "I don't get it all, Father, and Colonel Delambre left out as much as he explained, but Iblis has some...some fixation about Sheba. Even in the animal forms he wore, his lust was plain to see. He wants her, and he's plainly willing to do whatever he's permitted to do, to get her." "This is...well, incredible is too weak a word, Apollo," said Adama, after a moment's reflection. With what he'd heard from Starbuck, this was like being slammed by a laser blast. "Six yahrens of utter..." he spared his son a wry look, "paradise, yet taking only the barest of microns. I had no idea such things were even possible, though.....I suppose that ability to freeze or alter time would be within Iblis's capacity." "Well, Colonel Delambre said that there are these pockets of what he called null-time, scattered throughout the universe. I checked with Doctor Wilker, not telling him anything of course, and he says it is theoretically a possibility. Time passes there so slowly as to be virtually no time at all. Iblis just took advantage of one that happened to be close to us, and put us there." He was silent a moment, and Adama respected his silence. But as it dragged on, he knew he had to prod him just a little. "I felt like a total boray," he said, quietly. "Go on, son," Adama said, "You've clearly got more that you want to say." "Yeah," Apollo nodded. "Yeah, there sure as Hades are. There are two things that just....make me want to hate myself because of what happened." "It's never good to feel that way, Apollo," Adama said, "But tell me." His son sighed, "I......should have figured out there was something wrong with that whole setting from the beginning. Or....well maybe not from the very beginning but a lot sooner. A lot sooner than what seemed like six yahrens for Sagan's sake." "Why do you think that?" Adama asked with paternal gentleness and not reproach. Apollo looked him in the eye, "Father, I'm trained to be a Warrior. A professional. Someone who's supposed to have a sixth sense instinct about things to help him make critical judgments at critical moments. That's what helped you see the trap at Cimtar, then pulling the rest of us out of the deathtrap at Carillon. But here.....I just gave into the whole pleasure of the experience without even so much as a micron's hesitation. Talk about thinking with your..." "You were dealing with something far more sinister in nature than the Carillon deception was, Apollo," Adama said. "And certainly nothing that any normal, healthy young man in love has never felt. It was no different than.....well then being brainwashed. And you've already seen with men like Croft how that can happen to even good men who are good Warriors despite that." Apollo lowered his head again, "Maybe, but.....there were times when the doubts finally did start to enter my mind after a long while, that there were things not right or that there were contradictions about the place and the setting, but......I just wanted to push them aside. Delambre must have spent the equivalent of five yahrens entering my subconscious, screaming at me to remember, but.....the bottom line Father is I kept refusing to listen. I put aside my instincts as a Warrior and......" "Son," Adama interrupted, quietly and gravely, "if it comes down to a question of hating yourself because you didn't act on your doubts sooner, I want you to consider this. You respect my abilities and skills as a Warrior and as a Commander, don't you?" He frowned, "Well......of course I do, Father. Who in all the Fleet could match your achievements?" "You once told me in fact that your ideals rise and fall on my standards," Adama sighed, "But remember, Apollo. I had my doubts about the Peace Talks with the Cylons. I felt my sixth sense as you put it, telling me there was something not right. I had the power to act on those doubts. But in the end......like you were seduced by the beautiful vision of this Paradise you were placed in, I was ultimately seduced so much by the thought of permanent peace becoming a reality that I didn't want to act on those doubts, and use my place as a member of the Council to try and rally public opinion against Adar and against what Baltar was up to in those so-called 'peace negotiations.' That's a burden I have to still carry with me until the day I die, but...one thing I learned long ago is that while the burden will never completely go away, you must never let it consume you to the point of hating yourself. Not if being a Warrior really still means something to you, which I am sure it does." He let the force of his words hang in the air, hoping they had made an impact with his son. The long silence indicated that Apollo was taking the words to heart. And finally, there was a reluctant nod from him. "I.....understand what you mean, Father," he said finally, "That maybe I can.....learn to forgive myself, both as a Warrior, and as a man. But....even so. That's not the only thing that's made me feel like a total boray." He began to idly rap his fingers against the side of his chair. "How can I ever forgive myself for forgetting about Boxey?" Adama was silent as he saw his son clench his fists, rapping them even harder against the side of the chair. "All that...bliss, all that paradise, three new children born who weren't real, while the child...I forgot Boxey." He clenched his fists, shaking with a quiet anger. "No other way to put it, really. The child I love like he was my own blood, the son I swore to Serina on her deathbed I'd protect, I forgot him like...like a passing stranger in the street." "But that was part of what Iblis intended, wasn't it?" asked Adama. "To make you forget everything that had gone before?" He then added; "In time you even forgot all of us didn't you?" "Yes, but it still doesn't make me feel any less like a... piece of felcercarb for forgetting him." His father let out a sigh, "I can't give you as direct an answer on that, as I did the other matter, Apollo. But.....that may be something where you have to acknowledge the magnitude of the power you were up against, and how even the best of us in that kind of situation, are not likely to emerge having acted the way we think we should have." "I guess so," Apollo rapped the chair leg again, knowing his father couldn't say anything more on that point, "Lords of Kobol, I just wish..." "What?" "I wish I understood how Iblis could be defeated so...well, easily. When Starbuck shot him, back on that planet where we first encountered him, he and Sheba told me he that wasn't even touched. Yet..." He shrugged. "It was the holy things, Apollo," intoned his father. "Holy things?" asked Apollo, and his eyebrow went up almost as soon as he'd said it. "Of course. The altar..." "Exactly. If Iblis had to agree to allow you and Sheba to engage in worship in that reality, then he must also have been forced to submit to it's other limits. The ancient seers and mystical divines would have said that by sacrificing on that altar, you made it, and whatever was on it, holy. Remember the original meaning, Apollo. To sacrifice meant to make sacred. Whatever was part of that worship..." "Became holy," said Apollo, mind reeling. Why had he never thought of this? "Yes. The knife of sacrifice was proof against the venom still inside Sheba's body. The ashes, the same. The blade, even the spears, was imbued with a sanctity that Iblis could not endure. When you attacked him, he was as vulnerable as the weakest mortal, and had no power to withstand it." "My God," whispered Apollo. "I had never even considered..." "You and Sheba were never alone in that place, Apollo," said Adama. "And I do not mean just this Colonel Delambre, God bless him. You were beyond the help of any of us, but never the power of God, my son." "When Iblis vanished...the ugliness! It was like seeing him as he truly is. I still feel sick when I remember it." "Then do not, Apollo. Iblis is wherever he is, and we are here. Hopefully, it shall always remain so. But we have discovered yet another weakness in him, Apollo. Let us not forget it." "No, Father. Never." "How is Sheba?" Gulp. "Not good. Oh, some days she seems fine, although I can see the tension, inside. Other times, she just seems to lose the thread of what she's doing, or her temper. Or both. She just stares into space sometimes, or I have to repeat myself." "Is that the reason you shaved?" he asked gently. Apollo nodded. Nothing gets by him! "Yes. Part of the...idea was that I would never shave again, nor she cut her hair. At first, after we'd...returned, she couldn't look at me, with the beard, so..." "You shaved the same day." "Yes. She seemed to recover some, but since then..." "It's as if she's slowly losing her mind," said Adama, pointedly, perhaps diplomatically, avoiding more personal questions. Apollo looked at his father. How did he always seem to understand...? "That's what I'm afraid of, Father. It's as if she's shriveling up, like a dying flower. Dying bit by bit in front of me, and I can't do anything about it." "Don't think I haven't noticed, Apollo. Either one of you, or the effect that it's been having on Boxey." "Yes. He doesn't say much, but I know it affects him. And it affects her work, too. The other day, she exploded when some cadet blew it on an exam. Ripped his head off, basically. I haven't said anything to her about it, which is a failing on my part, but if this goes on..." "She'll have to be relieved." "Which I'm afraid will only compound her emotional problem." Apollo stood, moving to look out the port. The stars moved by, as always, seemingly unchanged and equally uncaring. "I just wish....I just wish I could understand, I mean really understand, what it is she's feeling. I mean we were both there, in the same illusion, but it's as if..." "As if there's a barrier between you. Something that perhaps only another woman could understand." "Yes, maybe. Maybe I'm just too close to it. After all, they..." He swallowed hard, and shook his head, feeling a wave of disgust wash over him. "They were my...children, too. Why don't I see it as deeply as she? Or am I just too stupid to see it?" "You're a man. That's a big barrier." "But I'm also her husband. If I can't help her, I'm afraid she'll try to kill..." Apollo stopped, catching himself. He hadn't meant to broach that subject. "Apollo?" asked Adama, clearly taken aback by this. "She tried to kill herself?" Obviously, Starbuck had left out a detail or two. "Yes." He explained how, when they were finally alone that evening, how he'd seen the bandage on her wrist, and found the glass fragment on the floor in the turbowash. Putting it together with Boxey having heard what sounded like breaking glass, it wasn't a hard connection to make. "Then Boxey..." "Yes. By calling to her, he possibly prevented her from slashing her wrists." Apollo looked like a lost daggit pup. "I haven't said anything about that to him, of course." "Naturally," Adama nodded. "What about some sort of medical help?" "Cassiopeia told me that Sheba had come to her, the day of the battle, but she can't tell me anything more than that. She hasn't been back to LifeStation since then." "I see. What I was thinking was perhaps some sort of psychological help. What about Tarnia?" "I have thought about it, but I wasn't sure how she'd take it, Father." "I think you need to consult her, Apollo, on behalf of both of you." Apollo looked up sharply. "You too need support through this, son. Sheba isn't the only one who has been affected by this. Tarnia can be counted on for confidentiality. Try and get Sheba to see the need for therapy. If she agrees, all the better. If not..." "You'll relieve her?" "I may have to, Apollo. Any lapse, whatever the reason, at a critical moment, could endanger both her, and the rest of us." "God, I hope it doesn't come to that." "And I, so. And I." Fleeing from the Cylon tyranny, the last Battlestar, Galactica, leads a rag-tag fugitive fleet on a lonely quest. A shining planet known as Earth.