Battlestar Galactica: Missing
Virtual Season Three, Episode Five
By Lisa Zaza
casazaza@shaw.ca
May 21, 2009

Prologue

     Starbuck pressed himself against the wall, instinctively trying to
make himself smaller. He scarcely dared even breathe.  Footsteps were
drawing ominously closer, and he paused only a moment to determine what
direction he should head, before he raced away, cursing the loud clapping
that his boots made, giving him away, as he fled down the corridor.  
     It had been just a harmless bet.  How do you get yourself into these
predicaments, Bucko?
     He could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he repeatedly tried
each of the hatches he came across, in order to escape, or at least buy
himself a little more time.  Each one stubbornly denied him entry, and he
raced onward, sure he could hear the sound of pursuit snapping at his
heels.  He had to get away.  He'd never live...
     "There he is!"
     Starbuck made a break for the ladderwell, taking a leap of faith and
sliding down the side supports until he hit the deck hard.  He hissed as
he went over on one ankle, toppling to the surface sideways.  Above him
he could hear their voices getting louder and closer.  He pushed himself
to his knees, gritting his teeth as he forced himself upright.  Pain shot
through his ankle, yet he pushed onward, limping heavily and occasionally
using the bulkhead for support as he sped around the corner, hoping to
shake them.  Idiot!
     "Did you see which way he went?"
     "Split up!  You guys go that way, we'll go this way!"  
     He wrenched yet another handle to another hatch, but amazingly, this
one gave way.  Finally, the Goddess of Luck was back with him...
apparently out for a luncheon with her friends for the last centar, where
they had likely been looking down on him and laughing uproariously over
their glasses of ambrosa.  He pushed his way inside the dark room,
pivoting to close the hatch and twist the latch to lock it.
     That done, it broke off in his hand.
 
Chapter One
 
     Thank the Lords he was on furlon, so he could be there for this. 
Boomer had missed quite a few of these check ups, caught up in the new
and many responsibilities of being the Red Squadron Leader.  He squeezed
Athena's hand as together they watched their babies on the medical
screen.  Athena was only a couple sectars from giving birth now, and
often quipped about the unfairness of only having one good sectar of the
pregnancy before chronic back pain from carrying two babies on her
usually slender frame, had replaced the constant nausea she had suffered
in the first trimester.  
     "Have you settled on any names yet?" Cassie asked, running the
medical analyser over Athena's belly while she entered measurements into
her data pad.
     "We have a top ten," Athena replied elusively.  Everybody knew they
were having a boy and a girl, so they were keeping the chosen names to
themselves.  It was Starbuck who had insensitively joked over dinner one
evening that if everybody already knew the sexes, all that was left was
to find out was if the babies were adorable or ugly.  Of course, he had
ended up wearing Athena's fruit juice, with a melon rind chaser, and had
found out firsthand not to mess with a woman with raging hormones.  
     "How are your studies going, Cassie?" Boomer asked, feeling a little
guilty that every time they were together, they ended up focussing on the
twins almost exclusively.  
     "At the end of the secton I take my oral exams, then submit my
written dissertation. I'll officially go from medical student to a
resident, which is pretty exciting," she smiled.  "Providing I pass, of
course."
     "I'm sure you'll do fine," Athena replied confidently. "You've aced
every test and exam so far.  What's the difference, anyway?  Being a
resident?" 
     "Well, essentially I go from having to run everything by one of the
physicians to actually having some measure of autonomy," she admitted.
"Of course, it's a lot of responsibility, as well."
     "You'll be Dr. Cassiopeia?" Boomer asked.  
     "Has a nice sound to it, doesn't it?" she smiled, with a nod.  "Of
course, there's still a long way to go before I'm a fully qualified
physician.  And I'm already beginning to think I'll want to do a
fellowship, and then go on to specialize."
     "How's Starbuck dealing with it?" Athena chuckled.  They all knew
that Cassiopeia had dedicated more and more of her free time to her
studies, and correspondingly less of it to Starbuck.  Fortunately, that
seemed to coincide with the lieutenant taking that opportunity to be with
his father, seeing Chameleon through a difficult time, after
Claudia-neither Cassiopeia, nor Athena for that matter, would ever feel
comfortable referring to her by her real and now reclaimed name of
Ayesha-had left the reformed conman to return to her husband, Baltar, on
his Base Ship, theoretically keeping the former Traitor of Mankind in
check.
     "Surprisingly well," Cassie replied.  "Starbuck doesn't seem to have
a shortage of things to do."
     "Isn't he running a card game tonight while we're at the baby
shower?" Athena asked.  Cassie had organized the celebration for Athena
in the Gemonese tradition, planning it before the babies were born.  It
was an opportunity for friends to get together and spoil the mother-to-be
before the reality of two demanding infants changed Athena's world
inexorably.  
     "Yeah," nodded Boomer.  "He's convinced most of Blue Squadron and a
handful of other guys that his luck has taken a turn for the worse, and
they have half a chance."
     Cassie giggled.  "You don't sound convinced."
     "In my experience, Starbuck loses when he's sure he'll win, and he
wins when he thinks he's down on his luck."
     "Are you going?" Cassie returned.
     "Not this time.  I have better things to spend my cubits on," he
smiled at his beautiful wife, glancing again at the screen.  "Besides, I
have a backlog of after-action and fitness reports to file, and a roster
to finish."
     "I thought you were on furlon?" Athena frowned.
     "I'm starting to learn that furlons are for the squadron, not the
squadron leader," he replied ruefully.  "Besides, if you ladies are
getting together in our quarters, then I think it's only proper that I
make myself scarce."
     "He means he doesn't want to be in a room full of women fawning over
baby clothes and drinking nectar," Athena interpreted with a laugh.  
     "I didn't say that..." he chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. 

     "No, but you were thinking it," she returned, as he pulled her hand
to his lips, kissing it.
     "Oh, that reminds me," Cassie added.  "Sheba telecommed. 
Apparently, Boxey is going to the Astrodon Freighter to spend a couple
nights with a friend from instructional period, whose parents recently
found larger quarters there."
     "Sounds like Sheba isn't coming to the shower, after all," Athena
smirked.  While she would miss her, it didn't bother her unduly.  After
all, it wasn't often that Apollo and Sheba were able to get a couple
nights alone together.
     "Exactly," Cassie nodded, giggling, as Boomer began studying the
medical scan intently.  
     "And I'm betting big brother won't be playing cards tonight either,"
Athena added with a grin.
     "It would be a waste of empty quarters," Cassie nodded.  "If we've
taught Sheba anything about romance, then I'm betting there will be
candlelight, dinner for two, and that lacy, black peignoir that she found
on the Rising Star last secton."
     "I'm still here," Boomer mentioned, clearing his throat.
     "So you are," Athena laughed. "I thought you'd run off to the
Officer's Club, or something.  Are we making you uncomfortable?" 
     "Well..."
     "We're just getting warmed up for this evening," Cassie added with a
grin.
     "Duty Office, here I come," he returned decisively, as they laughed
at his expense.
 
     Starbuck sighed, shaking his head in disbelief as he blinked in the
dark, holding the broken latch in his hand.  Yeah, he might have escaped
pursuit for now, but leave it to him to end up trapped in a room with a
broken lock and a twisted ankle.  Still, there should be an internal
keypad to release the lock.  Supporting most of his weight on his
uninjured foot, he ran his hand blindly along the wall until he found the
light switch in its customary location, turning it on, so the room was
illuminated.  
     Of course, he shouldn't be too hasty.  He'd escaped capture by the
skin of his teeth, and hanging out in a storeroom could bring back
memories of pleasant diversions of the past.  After all, a storeroom to
an innovative cadet or Colonial Warrior was about as close as Starbuck
had ever come to a bachelor apartment.  It afforded a little privacy in
an environment that sadly lacked it.  Some heated romance, the odd card
game, a secreted bottle of cheap ambrosa... the only problem was you had
to choose your storeroom carefully, and occasionally book ahead to beat
the rush.
     He glanced at his chrono, deciding he'd delayed long enough, and
finally entered the routine override code on the keypad.  
     Beep!  
     He curled a lip in disdain when nothing happened.  Although the
light was on which indicated the keypad was functional, nothing was
happening.  He tried again, using every code he knew for doors all over
the Galactica, including Apollo's command code, which he'd accidentally
witnessed his friend using.  Nothing.  He breathed out a short breath of
frustration, cursing Colonial maintenance, as he took a good look around. 

     It was the storage room from Hades Hole, filled with useless old
mong that "Corporal Clutter" didn't have the brains or the brass to get
rid of, and bereft of anything in the way of a comm unit.  Not only that,
but it appeared heavily fortified, probably used a hundred yahrens ago to
house some kind of explosive material.  
     "Real cosy, Bucko," he murmured, turning and kneeling down to
examine the stump of the handle sticking out of the door. Broken off
cleanly, there was nothing he could grip to try and reverse the damage he
had done.  He pressed his ear to the door in faint hope that he could
hear someone beyond the third-of-a-metron thick cast-tylinium hatch. 
Preferably someone not chasing him.  Not surprisingly, nothing in the way
of sound penetrated the thick barrier. "Frack."
     Well, the day was early and he wasn't near ready to quit yet.
Casting a glance back at the shelves covered in outdated and retired
parts, not to mention about five yahrens worth of dust, he limped
forward, determined to find something in all that junk that could get him
out of there.  Lords, why had he opted to leave his laser behind, secured
in his locker?  It would have taken a while, but if he had adjusted the
setting on his missing weapon, he could have eventually cut through the
broken lock with the laser, and escaped.  By then his pursuers would
probably have been long gone.
     "Obviously, that would have been too simple, pal," Starbuck mocked
himself, checking his chrono.  The big card game would be starting in a
few centars, and he had every intention of being there.  Determinedly, he
began rifling through storage containers.
 
     "Didn't I tell him to be back by 1600 centars?  Didn't I?" Apollo
asked his wife testily.  "Does he think I'm just talking just to hear the
sound of my own voice?" he added, glancing at the backpack that the child
had packed for his secton-end visit at Zaden's on the Astrodon Freighter. 
He sighed, knowing he should check the contents.  More likely than not it
contained Boxey's "essentials", which while fun to play with, wouldn't
necessarily ensure him a clean pair of briefs to come home in.
     Sheba smiled in amusement.  "My father used to say that."  
     "Well, we are the product of our parents' teachings..." he murmured,
opening the pack.  Sure enough, there were enough toys and electronic
games to open a store, and certainly to keep Boxey and Zaden busy for a
secton.  "No pyjamas, no clean clothes, no toothbrush..."
     "Well, I guess it's a good thing you looked," Sheba returned,
crossing to the boy's room to begin gathering the missing items.  Boxey
was already running late.  He wouldn't have time to pack as well as
receive a lecture from his father on responsibility, especially in light
of his two-night trip.
     "How come the average seven-yahren-old seems to have the attention
span of a Diptera?" Apollo muttered in frustration. "And a seriously
brain-damaged, or senile one at that?"
     "How come you're getting so worked up over it?" Sheba returned
gently, returning to tuck a few more belongings into Boxey's pack.  "This
is supposed to be a fun secton-end for him.  And us."
     Apollo sighed, loud and long, considering it.
     "I had a friend on Caprica with a couple kids," Sheba continued. 
"She once told me that she was always more likely to lose her patience
just before she tucked them into bed for the rest period.  Especially if
she was tired or stressed." She smiled slightly.  "Then she'd spend the
first twenty centons of her downtime regretting that she'd lost her
temper, or hadn't had the perfect 'goodnight scene' that she thought she
should be modelling." 
     "And?" Apollo asked warily.  
     "You've... you've been through a lot lately.  The whole detente with
the Cylons.     Handling that tragedy with Mattoon.  And then finding
Captain Byrne and his daughter on a disintegrating planet.  Spending each
day keeping our pilots on an even keel and coordinating integrated
patrols with our former enemies..." She turned, slipping naturally into
his arms, and running a hand down his bearded face as he instinctively
embraced her. "Even you need a little break, Oh Hero of the Fleet.  A
chance to just relax for a change."  She glanced at the wall chrono. "And
by my calculations, it should be starting any centon when Boxey bursts in
that door.  I have something special arranged for us this evening," she
whispered huskily, before leaning forward to teasingly nip at his bottom
lip.
     "Special, huh?" he murmured with a smile, running his fingers
through the silky strands of her hair.  "I hope we're staying in."
     "Oh, yes," she replied.  "So why don't you take a nice, hot turbo
wash, pour us a couple glasses of that nectar I found, and let me worry
about getting Boxey to the shuttle on time?  Hmm?"
     "Sounds nice," he replied, well aware that occasionally the hefty
responsibilities of a senior warrior's life did have a way of making him
lose his perspective.  What was the worst thing that could happen if his
son didn't brush his teeth or change his briefs for two days?  Besides
what Zaden's mother would think of him as a parent... 
     The door slid open, and Boxey burst inside with Muffit on his heels. 
"Hi Dad!  Hi Mom!  I'm ready!" he grinned hugely.  Running over to his
bag, he picked it up and slung it over his shoulder, not even noticing
his father cast a disparaging glance at the wall chrono.  1616 centars. 
The shuttle would be leaving in fourteen centons.
     "I'm going to take you to meet Zaden's mother at the shuttle,
Boxey," Sheba inserted quickly.  "Your Dad has a few things he needs to
do."
     "Okay," Boxey consented easily.  He was practically vibrating he was
so excited at the prospect of spending time with his friend.  Not even
pausing, he headed for the door.  "Bye, Dad!"
     "Not even a hug goodbye?" Apollo reminded him, grinning when the boy
threw himself into his arms for a momentary embrace before running for
the door once again, like a whirlwind briefly sweeping through.
     "See you soon," Sheba smiled, as the door slid shut behind them.

     "I take it all back," Starbuck muttered, propping a container under
his throbbing ankle to elevate it, as he settled down amidst the parts he
had strewn all over the deck.  He'd opened every storage container in the
room, other than those ones perched high above him on the top shelf, that
he simply didn't want to risk breaking his neck to get at.  "You're not a
big pile of mong, after all," he apologized, picking up an archaic
transmitter that looked older than Sagan's great-grandfather.  There were
several parts missing, but he was sure he had seen a few things that
could work, using a little initiative and the corroded tools that were so
old they didn't even have a power source.  "You're a big pile of mong
with potential."
     After inventorying the parts at hand, he was optimistic that he just
might be able to rig a crude communication system.  He even had the parts
to boost the signal, knowing that it wouldn't otherwise penetrate the
reinforced walls.  The small air duct high above him was his capstone. 
There was at least one part of the room that wasn't fortified, and he
should be able to concentrate the signal in that direction, although God
only knew how many other large hunks of metal, cables, coils, or electric
motors stood between his transmission and any transceiver in the area.
     Of course, he couldn't rule out that by the time he had achieved all
that, someone would have noticed his absence, and they would be looking
for him anyway.  After all, there were several people that knew what he
was up to, not to mention countless others that would miss him.  He
sighed, not really looking forward to his "rescue".  Of all the
predicaments he had landed himself in, this would be right up there
amongst the most humiliating.  In the meantime, rather than drive himself
crazy with boredom, he picked up the transmitter and began disassembling
it for a rebuild.  Never let it be said that Starbuck took things lying
down.
     The lights flickered above him, creating a strobe effect for a few
short microns before dying altogether, leaving him in darkness.
     "Oh, frack!"
 
     In the billet, Jolly threw in his hand, reaching forward to take a
gulp of his grog before glancing at his chrono.  "I'm getting the feeling
that Starbuck isn't coming to his own card game."
     "That may be fortuitous," Sargamesh opined, tossing in his hand as
well.
     Giles grinned, raking in a handful of cubits, lifting them up, and
letting them filter between his fingers before he began piling them in
front of him.  His eyes glowed with pure glee.  "I have to say, I'm not
really missing him."  A few others chuckled in accord.
     "Do you think maybe something happened?" Cree suddenly asked, his
brow crinkling in concern.  "I mean it's just not like Starbuck to miss a
game."
     "Yeah, something probably happened, Cree.  And I'm guessing she was
blonde with blue eyes," Bojay snorted in amusement. 
     Cree smiled, picking up the cards and shuffling.  "I guess you're
right.  How much trouble can a guy get into on his own Base Ship?"
     Jolly sniffed.  "Then again with Starbuck, you never know."
 
     Rebuilding a transmitter by feel, and then by the light of
Starbuck's chrono, hadn't worked.  He'd even briefly considered using his
ignitor to build a fire, but couldn't find anything in the way of
flammable material to use for fuel.  Of course, the way his luck was
going, he'd be just as likely to suffocate when the room filled with
smoke, long before anybody responded to the fire alarm and showed up with
boraton.
     "Idiot!" he spat incredulously, pulling his boot off the storage
crate, and grimacing when the blood rushed back to his foot.  The boot
had grown increasingly tighter, but at least was acting as the nearest
thing he would find to a splint in this dump.  Protectively keeping his
injured foot off the deck, he slowly and carefully pushed himself up onto
the other, using a storage crate as a necessary support to get him
upright.  Gingerly, he put some weight on his sore foot, grunting between
his teeth as everything below his shin began to throb. Abruptly, he
shifted his weight, while reaching inside his flight jacket to pull out
his ignitor.
     He flicked his trusty Flintex, the Premium Name in Flame, and it
flared to life. He held it high over his head, hoping that the heat and
the faint smoke would be enough to set off the fire alarm that was in
every compartment aboard.  He squinted, unable to see along the ceiling
the telltale little red light that indicated the detector mechanism was
functioning.
     "That's because it's dead, Bucko," he sighed, lowering his arm and
staring into the flame that a moment before had symbolized hope.  "A
corroded latch, at least five yahrens worth of dust, spare parts destined
for a museum, and you're fool enough to think someone's maintained the
fire alarm in here."  More than likely the biosensors didn't work either.
     Slowly, he lowered himself back to the deck, propping himself
upright against the wall.  With a feeling of impending doom, he began
undoing the fasteners to his boot.  After standing and putting some
weight on the foot, his toes were beginning to go numb, and he was
getting the worst feeling that his ankle wasn't merely twisted, it was
broken.  
     But by comparison to his bladder that was about to explode, it was a
relative inconvenience.  Why couldn't he have been trapped in a turbo
flush?
 
     Boomer paused before his quarters briefly.  He'd spent a few centars
catching up in the Duty Office, finally clearing one side of his desk,
and leaving with a feeling of accomplishment that would last right up
until he dragged his astrum back there tomorrow to tackle the rest.  He
smiled ruefully, actually considering popping down to the billet for old
times sake, and checking out the card game.  By now, they'd be far into
their cubits, and further into their tankards, and it might actually be a
good time for Boomer to sit in on a hand and catch up with the guys.
     His door sliding open did away with any chance of that happening, as
Brie opened her eyes in wide surprise as she hesitated in the
entranceway.
     "Oh!  Hi, Boomer.  I was just leaving."  She stood aside to let him
pass into his quarters, and he couldn't help but notice her flushed
cheeks as she disappeared into the corridor.
     "Have a good time?" he asked the room at large, moving inside and
seeing Cassiopeia finishing tidying up, as Athena came out of the
nursery. His wife's face lit up when she saw him, and any thought of
spending time with the guys was swept from his mind.
     "Oh, Boomer!  You should see all the adorable gifts for the babies!"
Athena enthused, one hand on her lower back.  She grinned over at Cassie. 
"Not to mention the ones for me."
     He crossed to embrace her, kissing her tenderly, before he turned
her in his arms, beginning to slowly rub her back as he pulled her back
against him.  "I can't wait to see it all," he told her, touched by her
happiness, and by her friend's consideration. "Thank you," he told
Cassie.
     "Oh, we had as much fun as Athena," Cassie admitted, her own cheeks
a bit flushed.  "I don't suppose you stopped by the game?"
     Boomer shook his head.  "Not this time." He glanced at his chrono.
"It's probably still on."
     "Probably," she agreed, reaching for her wrap.  "Just as well.  I
have a few final study modules to get through before tomorrow."  She
crossed to them, embracing Athena for a long moment. When she stood back,
Boomer was sure he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes.  "I'm so happy
for you both.  For you all," she whispered.
     "Thank you, Cassie. For your friendship, your kindness, your
support," Athena replied, also suddenly teary.  "For everything."
     Nectar and raging hormones together were a dangerous thing, Boomer
reckoned.


Chapter Two
  
     Cassiopeia's eyelids fluttered open, as she slowly stretched out a
hand, and touched the cool sheets beside her.  It was strange how the
promise of a new day could be overshadowed by uncertainties and
unfulfilled expectations.  Despite the fact that she knew Starbuck was
playing cards with his fellow pilots in the billet the night before, she
had made it perfectly clear to him that after the baby shower, she would
welcome his company.  After all, it was getting increasingly more
difficult for them to get together, with the demands of her studies and
his duties, not to mention the additional time he had been spending with
his father.  
     Then again, what was clear common Colonial Standard to her, might
have been Gemonese Abstract to Starbuck. Like most men, he could be
conveniently obtuse at times, and the subtle approach was generally
wasted on him.  Maybe he was taking it harder than he was admitting, the
fact that she wanted to be a doctor.  Perhaps there was some truth in the
conjecture that while Starbuck could easily picture himself with a
socialator or med tech, that pairing up with a physician was a bit much
for his flyboy image.
     "That's not fair, and you know it," she chastised herself, even
while niggling doubts ran rampant over her pragmatism.  
     The truth was that she was so preoccupied with her studies and
duties that there just didn't seem to be a lot of time or energy left to
devote to Starbuck.  Relationships had their ups and downs, she reminded
herself.  The ironic thing was that usually their "downs" were the result
of some Starbuck-driven drama.  An ex-girlfriend-or two, if she counted
Athena.  A mission gone wrong.  A crash landing.  A termination
accusation.  A murderous shape-shifting alien.   
     Lords of Kobol, they had survived all that!  Surely they could
survive her becoming a doctor?
     Beep!!
     Hope fluttered in her chest, as she rose from her bed and crossed to
the telecom.  "Yes?" she asked expectantly.  Just hearing his voice, and
making some plans to get together after their shifts would make her feel
better about this.  It was probably a classic female example of her
putting too much thought into what was going on in Starbuck's head, when
in reality, he wasn't the least bit concerned about their relationship.
     "Cassiopeia?"
     She frowned, recognizing the med tech's voice.  "Yes, Tone?"
     "Is there any chance you could come in early?  Dr. Salik is in
ultra-sonic scrub for an emergency limb reattachment and he wants you to
assist."
     "What is it?"
     "Accident on the Foundry Ship.  A hand.  Just arrived."
     "I'll be right there, Tone."
     "Thanks, Cassie."
     She hadn't had much hands-on experience in microvascular surgery,
but the field had fascinated her as a med tech.  To be able to reattach a
limb, or reconstruct a defect as the result of a trauma or disease... it
was the specialized field she was seriously considering after she
finished her residency.  It would take three yahrens beyond the two
yahrens she was starting shortly, even with the accelerated program
necessitated by their situation. Yahrens of dedication and hard work, but
to be able to come out the other end as a qualified microvascular surgeon
would make it all worthwhile.  
     Even the sacrifices. 

    The throbbing of Starbuck's savaged ankle awakened him, much as it
had been doing every few centons most of the night.  He shifted his leg
on the storage container he had propped it up on, trying to keep the
swelling down, now that it was free from the confines of his boot,
simultaneously checking the time on his chronometer.  
     0600.
     After all those yahrens in the service, his mental alarm chrono
worked almost as well as the bustle of the billet when it came to
awakening him.  However, waking up in the tomblike darkness and dreary
silence of the storage room, didn't exactly make a guy want to jump up
and start the new day.  Neither did his broken ankle, for that matter. 
He shifted, pulling his flight jacket out from under his head, and slowly
shrugging into it as he sat up.  The coldness of the deck had seeped into
his bones during the night, leaving him chilled.  He had actually mourned
the absence of his military issued blanket without the body heat of a
squadron of men to warm the room up to a more comfortable temperature.  A
gnawing hunger and thirst were also tormenting him.  Worst of all, he
knew he'd have to get up once again to use the impromptu "urinal" he had
devised from a watertight storage container he had put to one side.
Either that or master urination from the supine position.  In retrospect,
it might be the most interesting part of his day, as he lay there in the
murky darkness waiting to be found.
     Where the frack was everyone?

    How often could Apollo take the precious few centons that he had
afforded himself this morning, to just lie there quietly and watch his
wife sleep?  He smiled, sure that Starbuck would have all kinds of
quick-witted, and no doubt off-colour, remarks to make about a man who
would sooner enjoy the peace and quiet of his innermost thoughts, while
he luxuriated in a perfect moment, rather than wake the tousled beauty at
his side.
     It was times like this that made him realize that no matter how
insane life became, as long as he had Sheba by his side to keep him
grounded, that he could cope with damn near anything else.  Sagan's sake,
he hadn't realized how much his power cells needed recharging, until he
had awakened this morning feeling curiously refreshed.  One idyllic night
with Sheba-all talk of duty formally forbidden-it had been more important
than he had first realized.  They had re-established that intense
connection that only lovers share, not even aware it had been waning.
     For a centon, he could almost imagine living a life without Cylons,
without lasers or Vipers, so secure and optimistic he felt beside her
just now. Fleetingly, he tried to imagine waking up with Sheba each
morning, perhaps on Earth, with the sun shining through their window, not
having to think about defending a Fleet or surviving an enemy attack. 
Enjoying the simple pleasures of life in some tranquil setting of quiet
solitude.  One day...   
     Beside him, Sheba stirred, stretching like a felix, and then
innately curling up against him again.  He gathered her close, breathing
in the fragrance of her silky hair as her eyes slowly fluttered open.  
     "Good morning," he murmured, leaning close, into her ear.
"Sleepyhead."
     "Mm hmm," she replied, snuggling that much closer, and burrowing her
head into his neck.  
     Tenderly, he smoothed her hair, kissing the top of her head. "It's a
beautiful day," he whispered.
     She opened her eyes, looking up at him curiously, before nodding
slightly and smiling beguilingly.  "It certainly is." 

     The brightness that abruptly flooded the tiny room almost knocked
Starbuck's eyeballs out.  He grunted loudly, shielding his face with his
arm, as he waited for his vision to adapt, while pondering why he
suddenly had light again.  Power fluctuations?  A circuitry problem that
had never been identified?  It was entirely believable on this old
bucket.  Or maybe it was a rerouting of the power supply?   
     Sagan, the ship was so ancient that anything could be possible. 
Such problems were better left to people who really cared, like the techs
responsible for maintaining this old bird.  He'd be sure to file a
requisition for them to figure it out just as soon as he got out of
there.
     In triplicate, of course.
     That decided, he sat up and reluctantly took a look at his ankle,
which he had largely ignored since last night, after spending the better
part of a centar trying to carefully pry it out of his strangulating
boot, doing his heroic best not to scream like a little girl.  And
failing.  He sucked in a breath between his teeth, as he realized the
extremity had almost doubled in size despite his efforts to elevate it. 
A brilliant purple and yellow hue, with subtle transitions into a light
maroon, covered most of his foot now, and extended up under his pant leg. 
Both sides of his foot fluctuated between tingly and totally numb. 
Definitely broken, Bucko.
     As if in reaction to the dismal confirmation, he became suddenly
light-headed, nausea washing over him, even as he reflexively lay back
down.  His mouth watered uncomfortably, as an acrid burn rose in his
throat.  The good news was he hadn't eaten anything since midday the day
before, so he was unlikely to toss his mushies.  The bad news was his
stomach was trying to do just that, regardless.  He drew a ragged breath,
waiting for the lights behind his closed eyes to stop sparkling, and the
room to stop spinning as he willed his stomach to cease rolling like
turbulent waves rolling on a stormy ocean.
     Thanks for that imagery.
     Finally, he opened his eyes, wiping the bead of sweat from his face. 
His gaze fell back on those storage bins on the top shelf that he
couldn't reach... unless he stacked some containers on top of each other
and risked climbing up there with a broken ankle.  It was rash, reckless,
just the other side of crazy... the very things he was generally known
for.  He sighed, as they mocked him from above.  Nanner, nanner, nanner! 
 Yeah, it would be just his luck that within the mocking crates lurked a
direct comm link to the Bridge, some painkillers, and endless bottles of
refreshing water that could ease his dry mouth and parched throat.  There
might even be a few issues of Buxom Beauties to keep him entertained
until help arrived.
     Finally, he glanced over to the pile of electronic felgercarb that
he had swept to the side in frustration the night before, when the lights
had gone out.  C'mon, Bucko!  You can lie here fantasizing and feeling
sorry for yourself, or you can do something constructive to get out of
here!  It would be marginally less embarrassing than having to be
rescued, after all.  
    Slowly, he sat himself up, picking up the old transmitter and once
again beginning to rebuild it.  At least it would pass the time, making
the solitude a little more tolerable. Having spent most of his life
sharing quarters in orphanages, the Academy or numerous billets, it
reminded him of how much he disliked being on his own.  Being shut in on
four sides made it even worse.  Even the previous darkness was better
than the immuring presence of those walls closing in on him.  Darkness,
like the expanses of space that he loved so well, had no definable
boundaries.  It was calming.  However, being trapped like this took him
back to a couple juvenile detention centres, Baltar's Base Ship with
Lucifer watching him, the Proteus Prison, the Galactica's brig, and that
bloody detention cell in the Guardhouse on Brylon Five.  Oh, don't forget
the Hole in the Katorrgah, pal.  If it hadn't been for Apollo and
Boomer's timely arrival, he probably would have died there.  And more
recently, when he'd been forced to crawl through the cramped confines of
the duct vents to act as a sniper against Sergeant Mattoon, he'd had to
spend a long stretch of time watching and waiting.  Weirdly, the close
confines hadn't fazed him then, not like they were threatening to do now. 
However, this was different.  In the duct vents, he was totally
distracted by the job at hand, and if something had gone wrong, they knew
where he was.  Unlike now.
     By now, surely to God someone would have missed him.  Wouldn't they? 
He could see that maybe one evening could go by with his friends and
lover not noticing his absence.  But by now, someone would be wondering
why he hadn't shown up at his own card game, or why he hadn't arrived
later at Cassie's quarters, or why he hadn't shuttled over to meet his
father today as planned.  Yeah, any centon now help would arrive.
     In fact, help would arrive in ten, nine, eight, seven...

    Chameleon sighed, glancing at his chrono once again.  You were gone
for over twenty yahrens, old man.  Holding it against Starbuck that he
didn't show up this once is hardly fair.  Most likely he's spending his
furlon with Cassiopeia, and simply forgot about getting together with
you, which is just how it should be with young love.  Remember how it
was, eh?  
     After all, Starbuck had been hovering over him almost protectively
since Claudia had gone out of his life, and back to Baltar, as though he
was somehow afraid that his father's loss would become his undoing.  That
he'd revert to his previous dubious pastimes and indiscretions.  Or,
closer to the mark, that he'd just give up.
     Little did his son know that Chameleon was made of sterner stuff
than that.  He'd lost the love of his life in Umbra, had spent twenty
yahrens trying to forget her, and had then been fortunate enough to not
only find his son, but to later on meet Claudia.  As far as the chapters
of his life went, the first and the third were stellar.  He'd just as
soon forget the yahrens in-between.
     He tossed back the last of his drink, and slowly rose.  Looking
around, he headed for the telecom, deciding to leave Starbuck a message,
and tell him they could do it another time.  Hopefully, the boy was
having fun.  By the Lilium Moons, after what they'd gone through the last
few sectars, he deserved to!

     Ninety-nine pieces of mong on the deck, ninety-nine pieces of mong,
find a fit, make it transmit, ninety-eight pieces of mong on the deck... 
     Starbuck shook his head, looking dubiously at the partially rebuilt
transmitter. He was still missing a few pieces, and lacked the proper
tools, but it was slowly and tediously coming together, this archaic
piece of electronic felgercarb that looked like an old instructional
period science project from his childhood.  The one he'd used to hack
into the overhead comm system in his primary school, inputting an
digitally altered sentence or two that he'd recorded of the head master,
and dismissing class early on a bright and sunny day before summer break. 
He grunted, figuring this particular transmitter would be about as useful
as a screen door on a Battlestar, when it came to getting him out of
here.  Still, he wasn't ready to concede defeat.  Starbuck never conceded
defeat!  Once again his gaze flickered upwards to the mystery bins on the
top shelf, as he mused what might be inside. 
     A fumarello, cold Sagittarian ale, and a Colonial laser.
     He let out a sigh, willing to settle for a few crucial electronic
parts just now, although some water wouldn't go unappreciated.  Unable to
get the idea out of his head, he knew he had to go up there.  Okay, so
maybe there wasn't a direct line to the Bridge in those oddly
clean-looking crates, but it would follow that there would probably be
more technical equipment that just might come in handy.  Maybe even his
missing parts.  He raked a hand through his hair, weighing the odds.
     Well, you always did favour the point spread on the underdaggits,
Bucko.  
     Carefully stretching his injured leg out before him, he tucked his
other foot under him, using a crate lid as an impromptu crutch, and
quickly pushed himself upwards before he thought better of the idea. 
Pain raged through his foot, and he groaned aloud, leaning against the
bulkhead, while he tried to adapt to the throbbing pressure.
     "Frack, frack, frack..." he muttered, aware it wasn't feeling any
better as the microns passed.  Indeed, once again, nausea swept over him,
and he could feel a cold sweat covering his body.  He sucked in a ragged
breath, wiping his clammy forehead with a shaking hand while he used the
old lid to support his weight as he struggled forward. 
     Gritting his teeth against the pain, he started sliding storage bins
against the shelf, keeping in mind that if he fell and broke his
neck-along with his ankle-that he'd really be in trouble... Actually,
you'd be dead, Bucko!  Which might be a completely new realm of trouble,
or none at all, depending on your perspective.  It was always good to
keep your options open.
     Balancing his uninjured knee on a container, he hefted another atop
of it, building a sort of stairway to the top shelf.  It looked so secure
that Sagan's grandmother could have made it to the top...and if she
suddenly showed up, he'd be willing to let her go before him just to
prove what an engineering marvel it was.
     Unfortunately, Old Grandma Sagan-like everybody else he had been
wondering about since yesterday-didn't enter on cue.  Or off it.  Without
any other choice he started climbing the few levels to the top, pausing
at the top, intending to remove the lid from the first mystery bin and
reveal the treasures inside.
     It was locked.
     "Oh," he groaned.  "Why did I figure it would be?"

     Boomer looked up from his data pad at the sound of a light rap of
knuckles against the door.  Apollo was framed in the doorway of the Duty
Office, leaning against the bulkhead casually, arms crossed, shaking his
head.
     "Furlon.  It's a leave, Boomer."  He smiled.  "You need to leave the
duty office to take your leave, buddy."
     "Oh, yeah." He stretched, stifling a yawn. "Is that how it works?"
     "That's the rumour." Apollo pushed away from the doorframe. 
     Boomer snorted, leaning back in his chair, lacing his hands behind
his head as he swung his legs up on the desk. "That's the official story,
yeah.  But hey, you're one to talk. You have a computron under your
pillow, and recite progress reports to Boxey to get him to go to sleep."
     "Totally untrue."
     Boomer raised an eyebrow. 
     "I program Muffit to do it."
     "You would."  He looked from Apollo, to the last of the work piled
on his desk.  
     Apollo chuckled, closing the door behind him, and taking the other
seat.  "Behind, I take it?"
     "You know how it can be. And it's amazing how much work I can do
without anybody around to interrupt me."
     Apollo nodded.  He knew only too well what the difference between an
open and closed door in the Duty Office could be.  If they could see him,
inevitably, someone would drop in with yet one more issue that needed the
strike captain's attention.  Now.
     "I just want to be on top of everything," Boomer continued. 
"Cassiopeia told us that with twins, it's not unusual for them to come
early."
     "Oh?"
     "Apparently, fifty percent of them are premature."
     "Ahh," Apollo nodded his understanding, before asking, "Did you make
the game last night?"
     Boomer shook his head. "No, I passed."
     "Me too. I sort of expected Starbuck would be showing up this
morning, giving me a hard time about it." The strike captain smiled
whimsically. "Used to be that he considered it sacrilege for one of us to
miss his games."
     "Exactly. If I wasn't losing my cubits to him in a game, I was
spotting him for his next one," Boomer chuckled. "How it could be that he
was holding half of my wages on sectons end, and was broke by First Day
was beyond me."
     "I think it was beyond Starbuck, too," Apollo grinned,
surreptitiously looking over his shoulder, and then feigning a look of
relief. 
     "Oh, don't give up on him just yet," Boomer chuckled. "I think he
mentioned something about going to see Chameleon today.  Something about
helping Commander Byrne and his daughter integrate into the Fleet."  The
two just looked at each other for a long moment. "Yeah. There's gotta be
a scam in there, somewhere.  But don't worry.  He'll be along."
     "I wouldn't have it any other way," Apollo replied with a smile as
he glanced at his chrono and climbed to his feet.
     "Patrol?" Boomer asked.
     "Yeah," Apollo replied, opening the door. "New cadet trainee.
Sahurunwas. Got top marks." He paused. "You know my sister is going to
blame me if you spend all of your furlon down here catching up on your
work."
     Boomer grinned, falling back on an old favourite. "You are the
captain."
     "That's why they pay me the capacious cubits." Apollo raised a hand
in farewell. "Later, Boomer.

     Not only were the locked storage containers conspicuously
clean-leading Starbuck to suspect they hadn't been there all that
long-but they were also damned heavy.  The longer he thought about it,
the more it just didn't add up.  His curiosity outweighed his discomfort,
at least for the moment, and he quickly devised a plan to get them down. 
He resorted to a less than graceful solution, scooting down his makeshift
"staircase" on his astrum while muscling the bins alongside him, one at a
time.  By now his head was beginning to throb dully, in tune with his
pulsating ankle.  Alternatively, he would feel light-headed when he stood
up too fast, and at this point his perception of "fast" wasn't about to
break any records, even among crippled snails.  Likely, it had something
to do with the fact that he hadn't had anything to drink in over a day,
his tongue reminded him, as it stuck to the roof of his mouth.
     Finally down, he collapsed on the deck, panting with exertion.  By
now, his ankle was going supernova, and he was half ways considering
amputation with a tylinium blade, not that he had one, but he might be
able to rig up something.  Desperate for relief, he sat up, using both
hands to carefully cradle his leg, elevating it once again on an empty
crate.  Maybe it was just his imagination, but the ankle now seemed to
weigh more than both bins put together.  Sweat pooled in uncomfortable
places, and his hair was plastered to his head.  He shrugged out of his
flight jacket, before lying down to catch his breath, dropping into a
boneless heap.
     Several centons later, after waiting for the pain to ebb, he finally
pushed himself upward.  The locking mechanisms on the containers were
sophisticated, requiring a coded combination of unknown digits.  He
sighed in frustration, scooting over sideways to take a closer look now
that they were directly under the light.  Yeah, the lock was advanced...
but it had been attached to the standard storage bins in a crude manner. 
In fact... he picked up a prybar, lowering his injured foot back to the
deck for the excruciating moment it took to prop himself up on his other
knee.  He drove the butt of the metal bar into the lock with all his
strength.  Bang, bang!  The lock crashed to the deck in pieces.
     Crude, but effective.   
     Finally, it was the moment of truth.  What magnificent treasures lay
inside?  Water wouldn't be so bad.  He let out a breath, once again
lifting his leg up on his designated crate, preparing for the dramatic
unveiling.  Might as well be comfortable, pal, at least within reason. 
He lifted the lid, peering inside...
     And frowned in bewilderment, before cold dread wrapped itself around
his throat and squeezed.

     Barton chuckled, as he watched them wandering in one or two at a
time.  There was little in life as debilitating as a Colonial Warrior
trying to squeeze a sectons worth of pleasure into a couple days worth of
furlon.  Drinking, gambling, womanising, triad matches... the rest of Red
Squadron was stumbling in, looking like they had partaken of them all in
excess, yet had survived to tell the tales.
     "Who's up for first patrol tomorrow?" Ensign Kamalias asked, rubbing
his hand over his reddened eyes.
     "Starbuck and Boomer.  Guess they're taking it easy on us," Barton
replied with a look at the duty roster. "Not that I'm complaining, you
understand." 
     "Either that or it's Red Squadron's turn to try our hand at one of
those integrated patrols."  He made a face. "I can see Captain Apollo
starting with those two."
     "You think? I wonder if Starbuck knows."
     "Danged if I know.  I haven't seen him for the entire furlon,"
Barton shrugged. "Funny."
     "Ten to one, he's with his lady," Lieutenant Boyle replied with a
meaningful leer. "Not that I could blame him, truth to tell."
     "Oh, I heard him mention something about seeing his father," Ensign
Jeb piped up.
     "I'll bet he parked his astrum on the Rising Star, and is still
there," Kamalias suggested.
     "I'll take that bet!" said Jeb, flashing a coin in the other's
direction.
     "I'm in!" said the ensign.
     "Cough up some cubits!" grinned Jeb, tossing his down on the table.
      

     "Ohhhh..."  Why couldn't it have been a lifetime supply of whipped
topping?  It would certainly put a different spin on this... 
     He still couldn't believe it.  A storage crate full of pressurized
tylinium canisters, that in theory could have contained just about
anything, but the only time that Starbuck had seen anything remotely like
them, at least in an industrial sense, had been while learning about
chemical warfare either at the Academy or yahrens later, while in the
service.  For the most part, chemical warfare was a thing of the past,
most battles occurring in space between capital ships and their fighters. 
But centi-yahrens earlier, before global defence systems had been
adequately developed, the Cylons had certainly experimented with a
variety of lethal chemicals and organisms on their enemies, human and
otherwise.  Entire cities, hundreds of thousands of Colonial citizens at
one go, had perished when exposed to the toxins, the historical archives
revealing the gruesome details of their horrible deaths.
     He let out a ragged breath, while picking up one of the canisters. 
About the size of a Life Station oxygen tank, but stubbier, it was heavy,
but probably more due to the tylinium constitution of the tank than the
contents.  It had a valve on it with a universal connector, which opened
up a wide multitude of possibilities as to how it was supposed to be
discharged.  What the everliving frack were these doing here?  It was
clear that they weren't old relics, loaded aboard yahrens ago back in the
Colonies, and long forgotten with the rest of this felgercarb.  Someone
had recently stowed these here. The lack of dust and grime on them made
that obvious.  It was the "why" and the "who" of it all that were scaring
the pogees out of him.  Not to mention whether this was a lethal or a
debilitating agent, a persistent or a non-persistent variety.  Was this
meant to kill people, or just make them helpless long enough to... to
what?
     Was this Sergeant Mattoon all over again?  Someone else a few Vipers
short of a squadron who had gone off the deep end, free-falling into some
kind of sociopath nightmare?  Or had a few of Commander Maris' Special
Forces nut-jobs been resurrected, awakening from a dormant state when
their "programming" suddenly kicked in?  Sagan, why limit yourself, pal? 
Those are just the most recent choices.  He'd met more than a few
bedlamites in the Fleet, besides them.  Of course, there was always the
unlikely possibility that command knew about this.  After all, they'd
known about Over-Lieutenant Korax of the Ziglaki Empire.  Don't go down
that flight path... not again.    
     Then where had this stuff come from?  Had it been formulated
somewhere here in the Fleet?  Had it been picked up on Brylon Five?  He
looked the cylinder in his hands over carefully.  The usual military
identification codes were missing, not even a "CAUTION" or "DANGER" to be
seen.  Or were these left over from yahrens before, carefully stored,
until the right moment came along?  
     Lords of Kobol, just how close to the right moment was he?  Leave it
to you to stumble into something like this, Bucko... 
     Carefully, he replaced the canister in the storage bin, equally
lacking in markings, letting out a deep breath.  Now, more than ever, he
needed to get that transmitter working, before whoever was responsible
for the tylinium canisters showed up to lay claim to them.  It was
possible that this was an isolated stash, but it could also be Fleetwide. 

     But whose stash? Something Matoon had planned, as a backup? Perhaps
there had been others in on the plot with him. Or maybe...
     Hey, maybe it was being locked in a storage cupboard with what could
be enough chemical toxins to potentially terminate every man, woman and
child on the Galactica, but suddenly he was a little nervous.  Lords, he
hated it when the stakes were suddenly raised, and he didn't even know
what game he was playing, let alone who was dealing.

     Bone tired.
     Eight centars assisting in surgery, meticulously reattaching and
repairing arteries, veins, nerves, tendons, bones... an entire hand, all
visualized through microscopic goggles.  Then Dr. Salik had suggested
they experiment with an innovative new temporary surgical implant that
could monitor both arterial and venous flow of the reattached limb,
ensuring the blood flow and drainage were adequate.  It was insurance for
their efforts.  The only problem was that not a single med tech in the
Life Station was familiar with it.
     A centar later, everyone present had had a crash course in the
Doppler Probe, including physicians and med techs.  Lords, the patient
knew almost as much about it as the medical staff.
     However, the intensive monitoring requirements meant the Life
Station was understaffed, and, as usual, overworked.  Cassie had
volunteered to stay on and extend her shift, anxious to see her patient
through those first crucial centars.
     Extending her shift had somehow transformed into a "double" shift,
and by now, as she stumbled into her quarters, all she could think about
was a turbo wash and her bed.  Fleetingly, she realized that Starbuck
hadn't even dropped by to enquire as to when she would be off duty.
     Apparently, she wasn't high on his list of priorities right now.

Chapter Three
 
     It was the third time that Boomer had found himself walking
completely around his Viper, giving it a "once over".  In exactly ten
microns, Starbuck would be officially late for patrol, and while there
had been a time long ago when the seemingly insouciant lieutenant would
routinely leap off the turbo lift at the final micron with his hair still
damp as he tucked in his tunic, while fairly sailing for his ship, as far
as the Red Leader was concerned, this was out of character for his
friend.
     A couple of the hangar crew glanced his way curiously.  It was Red
Squadron's first integrated Cylon/Colonial Warrior patrol, and the deputy
squadron leader hadn't showed.  Boomer could just see the rumours ready
to start flying around this tub. While Starbuck, like most of them, had
initially reacted in incredulity after the d‚tente with Baltar's Cylons,
to put it mildly, he had finally managed to come around, at least in
public, keeping his opinions to himself where it mattered, while venting
to his heart's content while with his close friends.  Lords of Kobol,
Colonel Tigh would strip and module him when he learned the news.  Twice! 
After Apollo was finished lambasting him, that was.
     "Where in Hades hole are you, Bucko?" Boomer murmured with a frown,
as his chrono counted down.  He sighed, marching towards the comm system,
following protocol.  "Bridge?  This is Lieutenant Boomer.  I need an
overhead comm for Lieutenant Starbuck to report to Alpha Bay on the
double."
     "Affirmative, Lieutenant."  
     "And have Lieutenant Doyle and Flight Sergeant Barton report to
Alpha Bay to stand by," Boomer added.  If Starbuck didn't show up in the
next centon, then something was wrong.  In his gut, he just knew that
Starbuck wouldn't pull this kind of stunt at this point in his career. 
Conversely, if he did make an appearance, Apollo and Tigh would have to
get in line, because Boomer had every intention of forcibly stuffing
Starbuck into a missile pod under his left wing, and launching him into a
world of disciplinary punishments that he wouldn't ever forget.
 
     His leg exploded in pain, and Starbuck jolted himself awake, as
complete and utter agony enveloped him.  He gasped for a breath,
realizing his foot had fallen to the deck when he had turned over in his
sleep, his astrum probably terminally numb from having reclined on it
for... for almost two complete days!  At some point during the usual rest
period, he had unconsciously succumbed to an exhausted sleep, the
incomplete transmitter forgotten on his lap.  Shakily, he repositioned
his throbbing leg, wondering how it could possibly feel twice as bad as
the day before.  He shifted his weight absently, and wondered if there
was an indelible imprint of his astrum in the deck, or if it was just his
imagination.  
     Blearily, he glanced at his chrono.  He had to blink several times
to finally focus on the digits, after he rubbed the crusts from his eyes. 
 Lords, he had actually managed to get several centars of sleep, although
his intention had been to finish the transmitter and get the frack out of
there.  He sighed as he ran his hand over a couple days growth of beard. 
His mind was hazy, as though it was full of mushies, and his head
throbbed dully.  Sagan, he would just about kill for a java right now. 
It seemed as though at some point during the night, every bit of grime
and dust in the storage room had infiltrated his mouth, leaving it as dry
as a Borellian desert, and just about as palatable.  His skin felt hot
and tight, as though it was a size too small, while his stomach ached
with a conspicuous emptiness that felt more like a faint nausea than
hunger.  The very thought of food was revolting.
     At least by now it would be official that he was missing.  Absent
without leave, technically.  If nobody had taken his absence seriously
during the last two days, then this would be the turning point. 
Ironically, it would probably be Security looking for him, rather than
his friends.  At this point, he didn't much care.  In fact, the first
Blackshirt through the hatch, he was going to give him a great big hug of
gratitude, whether it was appreciated or not.
     In the meantime, he decided he'd skip morning primaries and his
usual turbo wash and shave, and get straight back to the transmitter...
Nose to the grindstone, Bucko.
 
     Adama looked up expectantly as Boomer made his way purposely across
the Bridge, Apollo and Sheba just behind him.  When Starbuck hadn't
responded to an overhead comm ordering him to the launch bay, Lieutenant
Doyle and Flight Sergeant Barton had taken Boomer and Starbuck's patrol,
leaving the Red leader to track down his errant Deputy Squadron Leader. 
Not surprisingly, he'd picked up a couple extended family members along
the way.
     "Well?" Adama asked.
     Boomer blew out a breath, looking nonplussed.  "Starbuck's missing,
Commander.  Nobody's seen him for two days."
     Adama reined in his disbelief.  Starbuck was practically family. 
How could they have not noticed his absence in the course of a couple
days?
     "We checked with Cassiopeia, and she said that she thought he was
going to stop by her quarters a couple nights ago after Athena's shower. 
She just assumed the card game had run late when he didn't arrive back
there," Sheba continued.
     "But he never arrived at that card game," Apollo elaborated.  "I
checked in with Jolly and Giles.  At the time, those guys assumed he was
with Cassiopeia.  And I double-checked the terminal in his office.  None
of the reports and evals he was supposed to do have been finished, and he
hasn't logged in for almost three days."
     Adama raised his eyebrows, moving to the next logical choice. 
"Chameleon?"
     "There's no record of Starbuck ever leaving the Galactica," Boomer
returned. 
     "What about the transport device?" asked Tigh. "Could Starbuck... I
mean if the machine was on?"
     "I checked, Colonel," replied Boomer.  "The whole system has been
off-line for over a secton.  We've also checked the transport logs.  I
even checked the airlocks.  He's somewhere aboard," Boomer replied. 
"Greenbean is trying to contact Chameleon on the Senior Ship to see if
he's heard anything."
     "Somewhere aboard the Galactica?" Tigh echoed, his brows knit in
annoyance.  Admittedly, it was a big ship, with a lot of out-of-the-way
places one could find oneself in.  "Then why isn't he responding...?"
     "We're assuming that he can't," Boomer returned pragmatically.  "For
whatever reason."
     Tigh glanced at Adama.  "I recently reviewed Starbuck's latest
scheduled psychological and physical assessment, Commander."  Due to his
history of Combat Stress Reaction, the lieutenant had evaluations every
three sectars, and would continue to do so until the Chief Medical
Officer was satisfied.  "After all he's been through, Dr. Salik did have
some concerns that the lieutenant was obviously still drinking, although
Starbuck claimed to have it 'under control'."
     "Commander, you know that Starbuck has moved past all that," Apollo
immediately came to his friend's defence.  "He's no more likely to be
drowning his sorrows than me or Boomer."
     "Apollo..." Adama began, raising a hand to temper his son's
outburst.
     "I completely agree, sir," Boomer averred.
     "I'm merely raising it as a possibility, Apollo. Boomer," Tigh
explained.  "You can count me as among those who would rather not believe
it, but we have to consider all the possibilities.  Do you have any other
leads?"
     Apollo drew in a long breath, exchanging a glance with Boomer and
then nodding, somewhat mollified.  "Ensign Jeb said he saw Starbuck at
his locker in the billet two days ago.  He figured it was about 1300
centars."
     "Then maybe we should start there?" Sheba suggested.
     "Perhaps... Apollo and Boomer should," Adama suggested discreetly.  
     Sheba smiled in amusement.  "It's just a billet, Commander."
     "It's the bachelor officer's quarters, Sheba," Apollo replied
diplomatically.
     "Yeah, you don't want our bachelors to lose their aura of mystique,
do you?" Boomer asked, remembering being visited once in the middle of
his rest period by Apollo, Starbuck and their respective ladies, and
suddenly realizing he was at a disadvantage as he stood there in his
briefs talking to them.  
     "Oh, believe me, they lost it a long time ago, Boomer," Sheba
countered lightly.
     "I'm not sure I like the sound of that," Apollo murmured with a
glance at his wife.
     "Probably because you had something to do with it, buddy," Boomer
informed him wryly.
     "Find Starbuck," Adama told the young people. "And keep us
informed."
     "Yes, Commander," they replied in concert, before turning to go.
     "And Apollo?"
     "Yes?"
     "Take Cassiopeia with you, if she's available.  With a med kit. 
Just in case."
     "Sir."

     "Okay, one more time..." Starbuck murmured, thinking the stubborn
circuitry through once again, but more than aware that he was having
trouble processing what would usually be simple information; the sort of
electronic ideas kids Boxey's age got in primary school.  
     By his calculations-done on all ten fingers and five of his toes-on
a Battlestar in a controlled environment, he should have been able to go
several days without water, before any confusion had had begun to set in. 
Then again, admittedly he hadn't figured in the complication of his
broken ankle, and the angry looking red streaks that were making their
way up his leg.  His skin was hot, but dry... probably because he was too
dehydrated at this point to break a sweat.  He'd already pulled off his
tunic, his survival training kicking in to tell him that he needed to
cool down a temperature that had to be well above normal.
     Maybe you can rig up a rotary to cool yourself off when you're done
with the transmitter... Right after you order an iced Tropica Sunset from
the barkeep.
     "Yeah, right," he murmured, once again forcing his attention back to
the transmitter.  "So... if I connect the data buffer's output to the
transmitter module left/right control pin, and connect the output of the
receiver module back to the data input through the buffer circuit..." He
frowned, as his hand shook while he manipulated the small tools to do his
bidding.  "C'mon..."
     Behind him, where he was now leaning up against the hatch, he heard
a noise, and felt a slight vibration.  As though someone was trying the
door.
     "HEY!" he immediately yelled, dropping the transmitter back into his
lap, and picking up the prybar to bang it against the hatch a couple
times.  The sound probably wouldn't carry through from the insulated
room, but if someone was actually out there, trying to get in, they
should be able to detect something.  "Yo!  I need help in here!"
     The pivotal question was who were they?  Colonial Security?  Apollo
and Boomer?  Or the guys that were storing the gas canisters? 
     Right now, he'd settle for the guy with the Tropica Sunset. 
     He shifted his astrum to one side of the hatch, tightening his grip
on the prybar, just in case.
 
     Starbuck's locker was typically that of the average warrior, a breed
known for packing light and staying mobile.  Standard issue uniforms, his
dress uniform, toiletries, smoking paraphernalia, and a small wooden
chest in the bottom containing his worldly treasures. The only thing out
of place, at least in Apollo's mind, was the Colonial laser and holster,
which is why the captain had had to use his security override code to get
into the normally accessible locker.
     "Why would he lock up his laser?" Boomer asked, his words echoing
the strike captain's thoughts as he came back from checking Starbuck's
messages.  They had all theorized that Starbuck had come up against
something he couldn't handle on his own, but now this made him wonder
otherwise.
     "He was on furlon," Sheba replied.  
     "The only times that I've seen Starbuck lock up his laser, are when
he's having a formal dinner at the commander's, he's playing triad, or
he's turbo-washing or sleeping," Boomer replied. 
     "Boomer's right.  Since being charged for Ortega's termination,
Starbuck doesn't just leave his laser sitting around unattended," Cassie
nodded.  "And since I've known him, he's rarely without it. 
     "Did he have any messages?" Apollo asked.
     "Just one from Chameleon," Boomer replied, feeling a little guilty
that none of them had thought it necessary to check on him despite
noticing his absence.  "As we already figured out, Starbuck didn't make
it over to the Senior Ship yesterday."    
     "Well, where does that leave us?" Sheba returned, glancing at the
box in the bottom of the locker that no one had touched so far.  She
picked it up, frowning, feeling oddly as though she was violating
Starbuck's privacy.  So she handed it to her husband.
     Apollo nodded, releasing the small clasp and opening the lid.  A
small case inside, which he knew held Starbuck's military medals, sat on
top of a handful of holoptics and mementos.  He rifled through them, not
finding anything out of the ordinary, or helpful, before pausing to show
Boomer a strip of old shots of the three of them, prior to the
Destruction, faces covered in goofy expressions, crammed into one of
those cheap holoptic booths on Pineus.
     "Didn't you lose about a secton's pay about a centar after that?"
Boomer reminisced, taking the strip and shaking his head at the amusing
poses of three slightly inebriated young men on a well-deserved furlon.  
     "Uh huh," Apollo nodded.  "Betting on one of Starbuck's systems."
     "Couldn't lose?" Cassie smiled slightly.
     "So he said."
     "Skipper?" a voice from the billet entrance came, as Jolly walked
in.  "Any luck on Starbuck?"
     "No, Jolly."
     "Look, I don't know if it will help, but I just remembered something
that at the time didn't really seem all that relevant... but now..."
     Apollo nodded expectantly.
     "I saw Starbuck in the mess about midday the day of the game," the
lieutenant continued.  "He mentioned something about losing a bet and
having to pay up. He didn't look too happy about it."
     "You didn't ask about the particulars, Jolly?" Boomer enquired. 
Starbuck hadn't mentioned it to him.  Cassie and Apollo also shook their
heads, apparently unaware of the circumstances surrounding this mystery
bet.
     "Oh, I did, but he wasn't exactly forthcoming, and seemed to be in a
hurry," Jolly explained.  "You'd think he was about to go clean out waste
pipes with his toothbrush."
     "No details?"
     "Sorry, Apollo," Jolly replied.  "As I said, at the time it just
seemed inconsequential.  If I knew he was walking into some kind of
questionable situation and needed back-up, I would have been with him in
a micron."
     "Of course, you would have," Apollo replied, squeezing the other
man's shoulder, and wondering how settling a bet could have transformed
into one missing Colonial Warrior. Would this have happened if Starbuck
had still been in Blue Squadron, or would his old friends have been more
attuned to his absence?  After all, his social circle seemed to still
centre on his old squadron mates, not his new ones, Boomer being the sole
exception to that rule. "Look, ask around and see if anybody else heard
about this bet.  Starbuck doesn't usually keep that kind of action under
wraps."
     "That's for sure" Jolly nodded.  "Usually, he's dragging the rest of
us into his bets to increase the take." He smiled ruefully and added,
"His take."
     "Has he been involved in any disputes or disagreements lately? Is
there anybody out there harbouring any hard feelings against Starbuck?"
Sheba asked.
     "Not enough to do him any harm," Jolly replied.  "In fact, he's been
pretty up, ever since we came back from rescuing the Earth guy.  And hey,
you know Starbuck.  He shoots his mouth off now and then, but generally
gets along with just about everybody.  He doesn't like to burn his
bridges."
     Apollo nodded, only too well aware of that.  Starbuck had admitted
once that he liked to keep the number of people around him as large as
possible.  It was that disposable orphan mentality that he had cultivated
since childhood.  Don't isolate yourself, and you'll never really be
alone, no matter who leaves you behind.  "We need to go back and trace
Starbuck's activities for the previous few days before he went missing. 
Who did he see?  What was he doing?" Apollo plotted.  "Check with his
squadron mates, the hangar crew, support staff, Chameleon, anyone that he
comes in contact with on a regular basis."
     Boomer nodded.  "This could take a while."
     "Not if we go through channels and put out the word that Starbuck
could be in trouble.  We'll have every warrior and support person that
Starbuck knows helping us out," Sheba suggested.  "We're on a ship. 
Someone has to have seen him."
     "Right.  Let's try to stay calm, and keep things in perspective,"
Apollo reminded them with a look at Cassiopeia.  She looked fragile
enough to shatter. "Right now we're assuming that he's in some kind of
trouble, but it's also possible that we're overlooking something
obvious."
     "Like what?" Cassie asked, hopefully.
     "All I can say is that after knowing Starbuck for over a
deca-yahren, I can confidently say that he has a knack for finding
trouble, be it big or small."
     "Hmm," Boomer grunted.  "I think he'd defend himself by saying that
Trouble has a knack for finding him.  Hey, for all we know, he got
trapped in a service turbo-lift that was shut down for repairs.  I could
see him ignoring any warning signs, or just being too preoccupied to
notice them."
     "Exactly," Apollo nodded at his friend and brother-in-law.  "It
could be as simple as that."
     "I'll check in with maintenance," Boomer said. "There have been a
few teething troubles, since we left Brylon Station.  We should also
check with the Bridge.  If they look back over the routine scans of the
internal sensors for bio scans of the normally unoccupied areas,
something might come up." 
     "Good idea, Boomer.  Let's split up the leads, and stay in touch,"
Apollo took charge, assigning them, as he returned Starbuck's box to his
locker and closed the door.  He reached for Cassie's hand as she turned
to go.  "Don't worry, Cassiopeia.  We know for sure that he's aboard. 
Sooner or later, we'll find him."
     "I know," she smiled tremulously.  She had started to think that
Starbuck was drifting away from her, instead, the truth was she was so
busy with her own ambitions and duties, that she hadn't taken the time to
discover that her lover was missing as she wallowed in a resentment of
her own creation.  It left her feeling self-absorbed, and disappointed in
herself.  And it was a classic case of a woman wasting far too much time
speculating what was going on in her man's mind, instead of just asking
him outright.  Naturally, she was currently following that up with
immersing herself in guilt and regret, as any self-respecting woman would
do.  Tears pricked her eyes.
     You know better than that, Cassie! A lot better!
     Sheba gave her a hug, holding her tightly for a long moment, before
telling her, "We'll probably find him trapped in the storage room behind
the OC, smoking a fumarello, and sampling the grog."
     "Good point.  Did anyone check the OC?" Boomer quipped, putting an
arm around the med tech, and giving her a quick squeeze.  "Talk about
overlooking the obvious."
     "I volunteer," Jolly spoke up far too quickly, his timing perfect,
as the others chuckled in response to the tension breaker.
 
     It had been quiet for almost a centar, and Starbuck was beginning to
wonder if he had been delusional when he had thought that someone had
been trying to get inside.  Was it desperation?  A hallucination?  His
imagination?  Some other suitable "ation" that he couldn't think of just
now?  He sighed, dropping the prybar to his side, and wearily running a
hand through his hair as he returned his full attention to his project. 
The transmitter was about as finished as he could get it, without a power
source.
     Luckily, the standard power outlet was easily accessible, even for a
guy only capable of sidling across the floor on his astrum.  Now all he
had to do was to divert the energy source without electrocuting himself
to death, or overloading the transmitter and blowing it to Hades hole. 
He sighed, reminding himself that he was a Viper pilot, and not an
electrical technician.
     Hmm...but at this point, you're probably delusional enough that it
doesn't much matter.
     He peered closely at the small circuit board, trying to glean
whatever information he could.  Besides the manufacture's name and model,
it was just a bunch of meaningless code numbers.  Frack!  But, as he
scrutinized the device, he decided that from their size and age, the
components probably couldn't handle a high level of current.  He looked
over at the power tap.  If he recalled correctly, those put out a nominal
system volponage of about a hundred volpons, at around fifty cyclons per
micron, at a current of... of felgercarb.  He couldn't remember. 
Probably should have paid attention more at the Academy, Bucko, instead
of panting over what's-her-name in the next row!  But, he would
doubtlessly need something to drop the current enough not to fry the
transmitter. What...
     He went through the containers again, but nothing he could use came
to hand.  He blew out a short breath, about to start conversing with God,
or any other deity likely to listen, when he looked down at his swollen
foot... and his other boot.  Maybe...
     Lifting his boot up, he looked over the buckles.  Nothing.  All
wrong.  But what about his jacket?  He picked it up, and examined the
clasps.  Maybe.  Maybe he could find a way...  Using the prybar, he
smashed one on the buckles, hitting it till it came apart.  Colonel Tigh
could add it to his bill.  Once destroyed, he fingered through the bits,
till he found what he wanted.  The spring inside was a fairly thick wire,
made of a nickel/chromium alloy.  Or at least the old ones were, before
the military went on its cost-cutting binge.  He bent the wire and
twisted it into a short length, then to be sure, smashed another buckle,
extracting another wire.  He wound them together, and then wound fabric
from his jacket around them.  That done, he scooted over to the power
tap, and with care, pried the cover plate off.  With a piece of one
destroyed clasp, he unscrewed the tap, and pulled it out, giving him a
length of wire to work with.
     "Either this works," he told the walls, since they were the only
ones paying him any attention, "or I blow it to Hades Hole, and probably
electrocute myself."  Suddenly, it was like being back in a cockpit, his
ship barely holding together.  This is no time for trainees Athena.  I'm
in real trouble!   He connected the phase wire first, then making sure
his bare foot was off the metal deck, connected the other.
     Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...

     "Internal scans were negative.  As for what Starbuck was doing the
last few days before he disappeared, as far as I can tell, it was
strictly routine.  The billet, the mess, the duty office, Alpha Bay, a
couple social trips to the Life Station, the Rejuvenation Centre, the
Fitness Centre, the simulators, the laser range..." Boomer's voice
trailed off while he looked up from his data pad.  He glanced at the
others.  "Nothing out of the ordinary.  No apparent disputes or upsets. 
He didn't breathe a word about this bet he mentioned to Jolly.  We
checked his personal log.  Also nothing.  Dietra saw him on Delta Deck
about a half-centar after Jolly placed him in the mess.  She did said he
was behaving a bit strangely, even for Starbuck."
     "How so?" Sheba asked.
     "Looking over his shoulder, and acting sort of uneasy," Boomer
replied.  "She noticed he wasn't wearing his laser.  When she asked him
what was going on, he muttered something evasive about paying his dues,
and then headed for the nearest access hatch."
     "Hatch?  Not turbo-lift?" Apollo asked.
     "That's right," Boomer nodded.
     "Did she see anybody who might have been following him?" Cassie
inserted.
     "No, certainly no one that stuck out in her mind," Boomer replied.  
     "Paying his dues, huh?  I don't really like the sound of that,"
Sheba inserted, glancing at her chrono.  She frowned, letting out a
breath.  "I have to go pick up Boxey.  His shuttle from the Astrodon
Freighter should arrive in about ten centons."
     Apollo startled, starring guiltily at his own chrono.  "I wonder if
Athena would take him to the Rejuvenation Centre for us.  The childcare
program will be still on.  I'm getting a bad feeling about all this.  We
really need to find Starbuck."
     Boomer shook his head. "Athena would have just gone on duty,
Apollo."
     "It's okay.  I'll take Boxey and drop him off there until my shift
is done.  Should I tell him about Starbuck?" Sheba asked, prepared to
defer to her husband when it came their son.  Motherhood was still
relatively a new role for her.
     "Not until we know something for certain, Sheba," Apollo replied. 
"There's no point in getting him upset for no real reason."
     "It's starting to sound like there is a reason, we just haven't got
to the bottom of it," Boomer replied.  "A puzzle, but with a piece
missing.  So Starbuck loses some bet, goes to pay off his debt, for some
reason leaves his laser in his locker, and then starts sneaking around
like there's something wrong, but won't admit it to Dietra when she asks. 
The whole thing he keeps to himself, obviously not wanting anybody else
to know about it.  Did I leave anything out?"
     "Plenty," Apollo replied solemnly.  "But nothing that we're aware
of."
     Boomer sighed.  "That's what I was afraid of."
 
     Starbuck's back teeth were still buzzing after wiring his makeshift
dropping resistor into place, and diverting the power, some of it,
luckily at a low volpon flow, straight through him.  Still, the
transmitter actually seemed to be working, the unit emitting a low hum
while appropriate lights flashed happily at him.  Now, if the resistor
didn't overheat, or something else fry, he might just have half a chance
that the signal would be picked up.  He gingerly adjusted the frequency
coil, silently praying he didn't screw things up. Oscillator....
oscillating.  Mixer...mixing.  It would be an anomaly, using a
long-abandoned frequency that would put the likes of Apollo and Boomer
into a communications frenzy.  He could almost imagine them flittering
excitedly around the comm system on the Bridge, coming up with possible
explanations as to the source, while they tried to pinpoint an elusive
signal that was probably bouncing its way around the venting system.
     He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back against the
hatch.  Apollo and Boomer flittering?  Lords, he was really losing it
now.   That jolt of electricity seemed to have fried his brain, instead
of the transmitter... still the transmitter was far more useful at this
point, so it was just as well, he supposed.  Now, if he could only read
the compartment number through the wall...  He lifted up the mic,
pressing a switch.
     Click.
     "Emergency.  Emergency. This is Lieutenant Starbuck.  If you can
read this, I'm trapped in a fortified storage compartment on Gamma Deck,
somewhere between sections three and four.  Repeat.  This is Lieutenant
Starbuck.  If you can read this, I'm trapped in a fortified storage
compartment on Gamma Deck, somewhere between sections three and four. 
Get me out of here!"        
 
     "Commander!" Athena called her father from her console on the
Bridge. "I'm picking up a signal..." She frowned, adjusting the controls
at her station, as she listened through her headset.  "It's internal, but
on an obscure frequency..."
     Adama crossed to her station, watching as his daughter went through
procedure to try and identify the signal, cross referencing with the data
banks which now included both military and civilian frequencies.
     "It's... it's an old citizen's frequency, Commander," Athena
realized, as the data crossed her screen. "Not military at all."
     "A citizen's frequency?" Adama repeated. He had to stop and think a
moment.  Originally designed as a system of short-distance communications
between individuals who transported goods and raw materials over land or
sea, it didn't have sufficient range for space travel.  Once commercial
space transportation superseded its land-based counterpart, its use had
all but disappeared, at least in a professional capacity, due to
considerable interference from shipboard systems.  "But those haven't
been used for millennia."
     "Other than by civilian enthusiasts," Tigh added.  "The old
frequencies still existed, and telecommunications prices being what they
were, many hobbyists still used them, since they were free once you
either invested in the equipment, or built your own." He smiled.  "My
uncle had an old CF communicator that we used to play around with when we
were children.  They had their own rather colourful language, and we
could while away centars talking to people, often to find they only lived
down the street."
     "The signal is really distorted," Athena put a hand to her headset,
frowning.  "I can't make it out."
     "Patch it through, Athena," Adama told her. 
     "... uck...if... apped... for..... partment...eck... sec... four...
peat..." It was almost undecipherable, but that voice... 
     "Starbuck?" Adama murmured, seeing the recognition of the garbled
voice also in his daughter's eyes as she looked up.  He nodded at her,
feeling a flutter of hope within his chest.  
     "Trying to clean it up," she nodded, her fingers flying across the
keys as she applied herself to the task.  She ran the signal through the
Buffered Telemetry Demodulator, trying to squeeze out every bit she
could.
     "Where is it coming from?" Tigh asked, leaning over her station. 
They waited while she worked. 
     "Here on the Galactica.  But... I can't isolate the point of
origin," she replied, frowning.  "It's almost like it's... it's
rebounding." She sighed, shaking her head, and then muttering,  "It can
never be easy with you, can it, Starbuck?"
     "Keep trying.  At least we know he's alive," Adama replied,
squeezing her shoulder.  "Colonel, alert my son."
     "Yes, sir."
     "Frack!"
     Both men turned in surprise as the expletive uncharacteristically
left Athena's mouth.  Her face was a mask of frustration and
disappointment as she looked up at them.  "I lost the signal.  It's
dead."
     "Try to reacquire," said Tigh.
     "Sir."
 
     "Bloody frackin' Hades hole..." Starbuck snarled, sucking on his
burnt finger, tempted to pick up the blown transmitter and throw it
against the wall, for all the good it would do him now.  As he had
feared, his amateur resistor had overheated, the full current from the
power source frying the circuitry beyond repair, and also somehow
knocking out the lights again.  Two days.  Two days of pinning his hopes
and efforts on a transmitter that Sagan had probably used to check in
with his mom when he was away playing.
     Sagan!  Get away from those pyramids!  And give the Seal of Kobol
back to your father or I'll skin you alive!
     He wanted to scream.  To shoot something.  To throw a tantrum the
likes of a two-yahren-old.  He picked up the prybar, hurling it across
the room, feeling little satisfaction when it crashed into the shelves,
and clattered to the deck in the darkness.  And now it was all the way on
the other side of the room, so if someone did come in, intent on
retrieving those gas canisters, he didn't have much to defend himself
with.    
     "Idiot," he murmured, detecting a common theme, possibly due to the
amount of times he had referred to himself that way since getting locked
in this storage room.  Possibly the worst part was that now he had
nothing to occupy his mind, but his own thoughts. And those were taking a
merry romp in several unusual directions, and he had pretty much resolved
himself to just going along for the ride. It was discouraging, to say the
least.  And this, all because of a bet.  He couldn't believe he'd allowed
himself to be suckered like that. He sighed, raking his hand through his
hair once again.  "Idiot!"

     Down in the guts of the Battlestar, in one of the alcoves off the
main engine room that housed numerous engineering subsystems monitors,
Technician First Class Proca, the dead stub of a fumarello still in his
mouth, looked up at his board. 
     "Huh. There it is again."
     He punched up the data, and gave it a closer look.  A power drain,
on Gamma Deck. Weird.  His early watch counterpart had reported the same,
and logged it, but it had cleared up almost as soon as Proca had come on
watch, and he'd been snowed with other things to do.  Now, it was
happening again.  He started a traceback, trying to localize the problem. 
Yeah.  The power trunk between sections three and four.  Something was
pulling way too much juice in that part of the grid.  He pulled up the
deck plan.  Hmm... Just a bunch of storage compartments.  Wire and cable. 
Extra tool chests.  Some non-perishable food and medical items.  Nothing
out of the ordinary.  According to the log, no one had even been in any
of those rooms since before they had left the Zykonian Space Station.
     Well, it was a minor problem, albeit irritating.  He logged it, and
forwarded it to the appropriate maintenance personnel. 

     "Repeat...tenant... buck...read... apped... fied.... sto...
partment...  deck... sec...three...  four..." 
     "Again?" Apollo asked his sister, his brow furrowed as he looked at
Boomer, who shook his head.  Adama stood to the side, his arms crossed
over his chest, and one hand supporting his chin while he concentrated on
the garbled mess, as once again they listened to the recorded message
that everyone was sure Starbuck had sent.
     "Compartment?  Deck?" Apollo looked at the others. 
     "That's what it sounded like."  Boomer nodded.  "He's trying to tell
us where he is."
     "You're sure you can't get a position, Athena?" Boomer checked with
his wife.
     "No, I couldn't trace the original signal, and now that it's gone, I
have nothing to lock onto... not that I could the first time around,
anyway.  It was muffled.  I was going to try and triangulate with the
Century, and the incoming patrol, but the signal died."  She winced at
her choice of words.
     "Makes me wonder why it suddenly stopped," Tigh frowned.  "That
doesn't bode..." with a quick glance at Cassie, he bit off his words.
      "That's alright, Colonel," the med tech said.  "I've been thinking
the same thing."  She paused.  "I can't believe this is happening right
here on the Galactica." She rubbed her arms, a fine shudder running
through her.  The ship was home now, and a part of her didn't want to
think of it as a potentially dangerous place.  "How does a well-known
warrior get lost on a ship full of warriors?"  
     "I'm betting Starbuck just told us exactly where he is, only we
didn't get it. We could take a copy of this recording to Dr. Wilker's
lab, and see if we can get it any clearer," Boomer suggested.  
     "Like you did with that gamma transmission before Starbuck and
Apollo infiltrated the Cylon Base Ship," Cassie clarified.
     "Exactly," Apollo nodded.  
     "I'll keep monitoring the frequency," Athena reassured them,
reaching out to grasp Cassie's hand before she left. "Starbuck won't give
up.  Don't worry, we'll find him."
  
     Starbuck was all out of ideas, and about ready to give up.  After
all, he'd given it his best shot, and short of climbing up through the
air vent, and squirming his way through a maze of ducts without a
schematic to guide him, his hands were basically tied.  Unless he could
figure out some way to make himself smell like a mushie, then it was even
odds on whether or not Muffit would find him at some point.  
     Actually, that plan wasn't sounding half bad... except for the fact
that he couldn't get up to the air vent, especially with a broken ankle. 
Hmm... maybe he could build a makeshift catapult and fire himself up
there... or use the pressurized gas canisters and ride them like an
old-fashioned rocket... anything to escape.  Sagan's sake, he was fed up
with this place. When he made it out of here he was going to register an
official complaint with the Service, citing the tedium and general
bleakness of their storage compartments.  It might be fine for an old
transmitter, but Colonial Warriors certainly deserved better... 
     That's it, Bucko, it's official. You're delirious.
     His head dropped listlessly back against the hatch, and he rubbed a
hand over his face.  The entire room was throbbing, pulsating against him
in the darkness, infiltrating his peace and solitude with an insistent
presence that wouldn't be ignored.  It was bordering on obnoxious, but
then admittedly he was a bit low on patience by this point, and had
completely lost his sense of humour.  His head lolled forward onto his
chest, and he could feel an overwhelming weariness dragging him down.  In
the darkness was a promise of security, however empty.
     It was the best offer he'd had for days.
 
     Sheba smiled as Boxey burst through the door of the Rejuvenation
Centre, immediately migrating towards his friends, and immersing himself
in the action surrounding the Compartment Billyarks table.  The young boy
had become the self-professed champion of the game, reminding Sheba that
perhaps he was spending just a little too much time there.
     She headed over to the supervisor, Larissa, to register her son. 
Her son.  It still gave her a warm feeling that was difficult to describe
every time the small boy called her "mom".  It had taken a long time for
Boxey to accept Sheba in his life; it had taken even longer for him to
embrace her.
     "I'll only be a couple centars," Sheba clarified, as the woman
looked up to check out a sudden commotion, which settled down just as
quickly when the youngsters noticed her watching.
     "That should give Boxey enough time to secure the top score for the
day," Larissa replied with a smile. "If CB scores were Viper kills, he'd
be an ace a dozen times over."
     "No doubt," Sheba nodded, turning to watch the boys for a moment. 
Oh, to be so young and carefree again, your biggest desire to outdo your
friends at a game.  She wandered over to say hello to the boys, not
recognizing a couple of the youngsters.
     "He got away.  We never did find him," one of the boys was saying.
"I think he cheated."
     "I think he owes us," Colm added.  
     "Yeah," added Dillon.  "It isn't fair."
     "He is one of our best warriors," Boxey returned almost proudly. 
"He's the deputy squadron leader of Red, and my Dad's old wingman.  They
snuck aboard and defeated a whole Base Ship full of Cylons, and then..."
     Sheba gasped, touching her son on the shoulder.  "Boxey, are you
talking about Starbuck?"
     The young boy turned, grimacing, as though caught saying something
he shouldn't.  "Uh..." he bit his lip, as he looked guiltily between his
friends and her.
     "Boxey?" Sheba kneeled down beside him.  "Starbuck went missing the
day you went over to the Astrodon Freighter.  No one has seen him since. 
If you know something, you need to tell me."
     "But..." The boy looked torn, looking to his friends, then back to
his stepmother.  "But I promised..."
     "Boxey!"

Chapter Four
 
     Starbuck's eyes flew open as a low vibration ran through his frame,
waking him from a light sleep.  His eyes darted around the storeroom as
he tried to figure out what was going on.  It felt like a seismic tremor,
the reverberation consuming his entire body as it had on the crumbling
planet where they'd found the Earthman, Byrne, but Battlestars weren't
generally subjected to those forces, being way out in space...  
     What then?  What else could it be?  Were they under attack? 
Ziklagi?  The pirates that cruised this region?  Some other threat? 
Maybe the Cylons had had enough of this detente?  Baltar... 
     He leaned forward, tensing, as the possibilities ran through his
mind.  An innate compulsion to get out there and defend the Fleet made
him want to tear down the walls with his bare hands and run for his
Viper... both eventualities equally unlikely.  He paused, abruptly
realizing that he couldn't feel the vibration any more.
     Starbuck twisted, lightly putting his hand against the hatch he'd
been leaning against.  Once again, he could feel the tremor.  It was
strong enough that it radiated through the door.  It had to be some kind
of electric motor.  Not the door's, though.  A power tool?  Yes!  Someone
was... drilling out the lock!  It had to be!  In a matter of centons,
he'd be free!
     The grin of relief froze on his face.
     Was it friend or foe?  His heart started pounding as he realized it
was even odds either way.  He glanced at his chrono, trying to remember
when he had suspected someone was trying the door, attempting to get in. 
Sometime the night before?  No... it was that morning.  Had whoever was
responsible for the canisters come back to find out why they couldn't get
in?  
     He hoisted himself to his good foot, gritting his teeth against the
pain as his other ankle exploded in agony.  He had to get the prybar that
he'd thrown across the room.  It was his only weapon.  Grunting, he half
hopped, half dragged himself over to where it rested beneath the shelves,
feeling as though he was back in the Academy, trekking across the Great
Plains of Scorpius.  His chest heaving, he leaned down, fighting against
the encroaching waves of dizziness and nausea, as he wrapped his fist
around the tool.  He had it!  Bolting upright again, he forced himself to
keep moving.  He had to retrace his steps as quickly as possible.  He had
to douse the lights and be ready when they came through the hatch!  He
had to gain an advantage!
     He had to be out of his mind...
     His head swam, and he swayed to one side, crashing into some storage
containers, and dropping the prybar.  His ankle went supernova when the
tool hit it, and he choked on the pain, unable to bear it as he landed in
a heap.  At that moment-as his luck would have it-the hatch burst open. 
In a twist of fate, it didn't hit him in the head.
     "Starbuck!" Apollo cried, moving quickly to his friend's side,
Boomer and Cassiopeia on his heels.  Together they pushed debris out of
the way, as they knelt beside him.  Cassie immediately began running her
biomonitor over him.
     "Are you okay?" Boomer asked.
     "Do I look it?  I'd kill for a drink of just about anything,"
Starbuck rasped, just about jumping out of his skin when Cassie lightly
touched his ankle.  She cast an apologetic look his way before returning
to her assessment.  Starbuck drew in a steadying breath, taking a long
moment to compose himself, then another to glance at his chrono, before
shifting his attention to the strike captain.  "You're late."
     Apollo's mask of concern changed in a micron, and he sniffed in
amusement, shaking his head.  He pulled a military-issued canteen off his
shoulder, popping the top.  "Am I?  How long have you been waiting to say
that?"
     "Since my second yahren at the Academy, and more recently on Arcta,"
Starbuck admitted with a wan smile.  The amount of times that Apollo had
told him "Don't be late" were actually too numerous to mention.  He sure
as Hades wasn't going to miss the opportunity to mention now that,
finally, the tables had turned.  That done, he greedily reached for the
nectar.  His hand trembled as he gulped the water down, not caring when
it spilt down his face and onto his bare torso.  It was glorious.
     "Easy, buddy," Apollo grabbed his hand, steadying it, then
reassuring him, "we have more where that came from."
     "Well then, keep it coming," Starbuck returned around another gulp
of water.  "What took you?"
     "We narrowed down your last reported location to Gamma Deck, but
obviously the biosensors in this room aren't working, because they didn't
pick you up.  We ended up having to start a compartment by compartment
search."
     "No small task on a Battlestar," Boomer added.
     Starbuck nodded, conceding the point.
     "Finally, Athena identified your exact location after doing a search
looking for energy fluctuations logged in on Gamma Deck by Engineering."
Apollo glanced over at the fried archaic transmitter, shaking his head in
wonder that it had worked at all.  "She figured that the transmitter you
used had likely tapped into the available power source, and that it would
show on the power grid monitor as a minor volponage drop."
     "Athena?" Starbuck asked in surprise.
     "And she was right," Boomer smiled proudly, glancing at Cassiopeia
as she entered some data into her medical analyser. "How's it look?"  
     "He's dehydrated, has a low-grade fever, and a fractured lateral
malleolus, but we can wait to get him to the Life Station before we treat
him," Cassiopeia announced with a relieved nod.
     "Then he should be fine?" Starbuck grunted, as she started to
immobilize his ankle.  Maybe it sounded flip, but he needed her to be
more than a med tech for just a brief restorative moment.  
     She faltered, realizing she was talking over him, and looking damned
guilty about it too.  Actually, she seemed to be drowning in guilt as her
eyes locked on his, and she frowned.  "Damn you, Starbuck.  You had me
scared to death."  She let out a ragged breath.  "I thought..."
     "You were scared?  I was beginning to think you'd all assumed I'd
mutinied, and headed for the first tropical paradise within Viper range. 
It's been two days."  Starbuck held her gaze, seeing the worry she tried
to hide behind the usual front of efficiency.  As much as she loved her
job, he knew she found it difficult when she had to care for the people
she was closest to.  A carefully cultivated professional distance was the
med tech's best defence, she'd once told him.  Being a warrior, he
understood that.  However, after two days in desperate isolation, he just
couldn't grant her that luxury right now.  If that was selfish, so be it.

     "Where's this tropical paradise... and why didn't you mention it
before our furlon?" Boomer inserted, assuaging the tension.
     "Because I know how much you hate those fruity drinks with the
little parasols in them," Starbuck rejoined, hissing when Cassie cinched
up the splint.  Pain shot up his leg into sensitive regions that had no
business hurting.  "Ow!"
     She reached for her hypospray.
     "Wait a centon!" Starbuck yelped, as it suddenly hit him.  He'd been
so caught up in the moment, and so relieved that he'd finally been found,
that he'd totally forgotten about the canisters.  Cassie almost dropped
the hypo, as she startled at the vehemence in his tone.  "Sorry, Cass. 
But before you knock me out, I need to get Apollo and Boomer to take a
look at something."
     Boomer looked at him dubiously. Apollo raised his eyebrows in
inquiry.
     "Fruity drinks?" asked Boomer, arms crossed.
     "Only if you're pouring," he returned in a heartbeat, before adding,
"Over there.  In the storage containers."  Starbuck pointed to the corner
where he'd pushed the nondescript storage bins, hiding them among the
other dozen or so that they looked like, just in case the owners had come
to claim them during his stay.  It would have given him just a little
extra time...  "I found them when I was trying to rebuild the
transmitter, and I didn't like the look of them."
     "Which containers?" Boomer asked, rising to his feet to take a look. 
He looked as though he was waiting for a spring-loaded serpent to leap
out at him, as a practical joke.
     Starbuck frowned, suddenly unsure.  He sat up, letting out a breath
as the pain returned twofold.  "The cleanest ones," he admitted between
gritted teeth.  The longer he waited, the more enticing the hypospray
became.  He waited restlessly, while Boomer shifted a bin or two, and
then pulled a lid away.  
     The Red leader reached inside, and lifted one of the canisters out,
looking it over carefully.  They all paused in anticipation at Boomer's
sudden intake of breath.
     "Holy frack..." the Red Squadron leader muttered in horror. 
"Apollo, you'd better take a look at this."

      Far from being one of his favourite places, Starbuck usually
associated the Life Station with pain, suffering and a preamble to light
duty along with an extended hiatus from triad, fumarellos and ambrosa. 
However, today it was right up there with the Rising Star and his Viper
cockpit, as he acknowledged that the throbbing of his foot had eased off
considerably, finally transforming into a tingly sensation that he could
comfortably attribute to his current Regeneration Treatment.  On
admission, he'd been scanned, probed, poked and prodded to the limits of
any Colonial Warrior, and so it had been a blessed relief when he'd
finally been left alone to doze off, as he passively underwent bone
mending, regeneration and rehydration therapies.  It was a welcome
reprieve, however long it lasted.  Still he had an underlying uneasiness
that he couldn't put his finger on.  Just a feeling, and as such it would
eventually go away, if he ignored it long enough.  He let his thoughts
drift away, as the sounds of the Life Station lured him back towards
sleep.
     The jostling of his biobed startled him fully awake, and he opened
his eyes to see Med Tech Tone standing beside him, recording his life
signs on a medical data pad. 
     "Oh," he murmured.  "Hey, Tone." 
     "How's the pain, Lieutenant?"
     "What pain?" Starbuck replied, reaching for the tumbler of ice-cold
water that they'd been refilling constantly since he'd arrived.  He
sucked it back, savouring the refreshing goodness as it slaked his
thirst.
     "That's what we like to hear," Tone smiled, entering the data into
his records. "In addition to the fracture, you had an early case of
cellulitis, but it's under control with the antibiotic therapy.  We're
going to move you into an isolation room now." He began unplugging the
bed from the machinery. "The commander's on his way to debrief you, and
apparently he doesn't want to do so in the middle of the Life Station."
     Starbuck nodded, well aware that Command still needed their
questions answered, especially since he had dropped like a stone when
Cassiopeia had administered him some narcotic, just after Boomer had
found the canisters.  The accumulation of sleep deprivation, constant
pain, and the start of an infection had all contributed to his apparent
intolerance for a drug that normally wouldn't faze him.  Then again, he
vaguely did remember it had taken a couple doses to get his pain under
control as they attempted to move him... it had probably been that second
one that had knocked him into oblivion, where he had stayed gratefully
for at least a centar. 
     Tone adjusted some controls on the biobed and began slowly pushing
it towards a private room, usually afforded to those of importance, or
meant to separate infectious patients from the general population, at
least according to what Cassie had told him in the past.  "As long as I
don't have to pay extra for the private med tech, IFB link, and telecom,
Tone.  I'm a little short this secton."
     "All part of the fabulous benefit package of the Colonial Service,
Lieutenant," Tone replied, amusement in his voice. "Just don't touch
anything, so we won't have to clean it before we launch you back to the
general ward when Command is through with you."
     "Affirmative," Starbuck replied with a chuckle, as the bed cleared
the door and Tone parked it in position, and began reattaching the
equipment.  "Where's Cassiopeia?  Is she still on duty?"
     "She's off now, so you might as well put your Life Station gown back
on," the med tech quipped, referring to the scrap of clothing that they
had insisted on inflicting upon him.  Starbuck had cast it aside in short
order, preferring to feel the cool recirculated air against his skin,
rather than struggle with the thin and meagre garment that opened ever-so
enticingly at the back, leaving it all hanging out to dry, and exposing
everything aft of his anti-burn baffles...  "She said she'd be back for a
social call once she had a chance to turbo wash off the microbes," Tone
continued, turning as Apollo, Adama, Boomer, Sheba and Boxey appeared at
the door.  "Come on in.  He's awake and ready for you."
     "Starbuck, how are you feeling?" Commander Adama asked from the
door, running a critical eye over the warrior.  He paused, letting the
others fill up the room ahead of him.
     "Much better, sir.  I should be out of here tomorrow," Starbuck
replied, as Boxey shuffled over to the biobed.  While he wasn't surprised
to see Adama and Boomer, or really even Sheba for that matter, Boxey's
presence was a little... unorthodox.  "I know Boxey's a junior warrior,
but shouldn't he wait until after graduating from Primary Instruction
before he starts attending debriefings?"
     The child tittered, apparently more amused than the adults, as was
often the case.  "Hi, Starbuck."
     "Hi, kid."  He raised his water tumbler to the child, taking another
drink.  "I guess I have you to thank for letting them know where I was."
He reached out a hand, mussing the child's hair.  "Not that I want to
appear ungrateful... but what took you so long?"
     Boxey frowned slightly, looking at the warrior almost shyly. "Sorry,
Starbuck. I didn't know you were missing until I came back from the
Astrodon Freighter today.  I was visiting Zaden.  Just as soon as I found
out, I told them."
     "With great reluctance," Sheba added quietly.
     "That's okay, Boxey.  No harm done," Starbuck told the boy. 
     It was still a little difficult to swallow that no one had missed
him in two whole days. However, life had taught him long ago that no
matter how much he tried to change it, in actuality, whether an orphan, a
cadet or a Colonial Warrior, he was really just one more individual among
countless others.  Besides, if he hadn't spent two days locked in the
storage room, he'd never have discovered the mysterious canisters, which
he was anxious to find out more about.  But that wouldn't happen with
Boxey present.
     "Actually, the reason Boxey's here, Starbuck, is that we're a little
confused about how all of this came about, and how you came to be locked
in that particular storage room.  There were a few rumours flying around
that we'd like cleared up," Commander Adama inserted.  "Boxey wasn't
exactly enlightening about the circumstances.  We were hoping you could
elucidate on what he told us."
     "Oh?" Starbuck asked, his gaze swinging from the boy to his dubious
looking parents, and back to Commander Adama.
     "I promised," whispered the boy to Sheba.
     "Apparently, he gave you his word as a junior warrior that he
wouldn't tell anybody about what you were up to, Starbuck.  Is that
right?" Sheba asked, as she considered the lieutenant askance, her arms
crossed.
     "He did what?" Starbuck asked, incredulously.  Granted, he didn't
exactly want word spreading around, but... there had to be some kind of
misunderstanding.  "Remind me when this was?"
     "In the Rejuvenation Centre," Sheba replied.
     "Hmm," he replied dubiously, thinking back to the exchange and
trying to remember how it had happened, exactly.  His brain wasn't coming
up with any scenarios where he had extracted words of honour from a
seven-yahren-old child.  "You're sure you have the right guy?  You
haven't hustled any other warriors this secton, huh, Boxey?"
     The boy's chin dropped guiltily, and he shook his head slightly
while examining something on the floor and shuffling from foot to foot.
     "Hustled?" Apollo echoed, glancing at his son.  It was clearly news
to him.
     "Now this I have to hear," Boomer piped up, as he took a seat in the
corner, and settled in as though he was about to start watching a
sporting event.  
     Adama cleared his throat. "Boxey, perhaps now would be a good time
to start.  Tell us what happened."
     The youngster nodded reluctantly, glancing at Starbuck once again
before beginning.  "I challenged Starbuck to a Compartment Billyarks game
in the Rejuvenation Centre a few days ago, right after I got out of
instructional period." He again glanced at the lieutenant who nodded at
him.
     "Go on," Adama encouraged the boy.  
     "We...uh... made a bet," Boxey ducked his head, avoiding his
father's gaze. 
     "You made a bet with my son?" Apollo asked his friend incredulously.

     "The bet?" Adama inserted, eyebrows raised.  Starbuck's nefarious
bet that had seemingly put him in danger was with... Boxey?
     "Sorry, sir?" Starbuck shook his head in confusion.  The bet?
     "Jolly mentioned a... a situation you had found yourself in because
of a bet," Sheba inserted.
     "Uh... yeah," Starbuck winced, remembering running into the
lieutenant in the mess.  "That bet."
     "With Boxey?" Apollo asked once again, as though he couldn't quite
believe it.  
     "It was just a little bet." Starbuck pinched his thumb and index
finger together to illustrate to the others just how inconsequential it
was.  Apollo raised his eyebrows, clearly unimpressed.  
     "Well, I guess it was only a matter of time," Boomer quipped
good-naturedly as he grinned at Starbuck, apparently enjoying his
discomfiture. "What was the bet, Boxey?"
     Boxey smiled.  "If he won, I had to polish his dress boots every
secton for the next sectar."  
     "And if you won?" Adama asked him.  
     "Starbuck had to play Pursuit with us," Boxey admitted, with a sly
smile.
     "By all the Lords..."Boomer chuckled, as the pieces clicked into
place.  
     Pursuit was a game that had been popular with children for
generations.  Whoever was "It" had to evade his pursuers in any way
possible.  If they physically caught him, then he lost, and a new "It"
was appointed for the next round.  Starbuck had been conned into playing
a children's game, and was apparently doing so, when he had been seen
sneaking about the ship, muttering sarcastically about paying his dues. 
     "Boxey didn't just beat me at Compartment Billyarks though, he
annihilated me," Starbuck clarified.  He didn't bother to mention the boy
had softened him up for the kill with a few mediocre games of Starhounds
before he suggested making it more "interesting".  At the time, it had
been so amusingly familiar that he had fallen for the ruse hook, line and
sinker.  Played for a chump by a kid with all the accuracy of a Cylon
pinwheel attack, and far less effort.
     "Boxey holds the record for the highest score in the entire Fleet,"
Sheba added, with a disapproving glance at the boy.  "You didn't have a
chance, Starbuck."
     "Oh, believe me, I figured that out about a centon into our game,"
Starbuck replied wryly, glancing at the squirming child, and feeling an
immediate kinship for him.  "Actually, playing Pursuit took me back to my
own childhood.  I was champion for my wing at the orphanage.  Don't tell
the guys in Red, but it was the most fun I've had in ages... right up
until I broke my ankle when I was trying to get away, that is.  Then the
dang lock broke on the storeroom hatch... "
     "Don't tell the guys in Red..." Apollo mused, glancing at his son
sceptically.  "Is that the kind of promise Starbuck asked you to make,
Boxey?"
     "Something like that," Boxey admitted abashed, before declaring
indignantly, "But I still promised."
     "Yes, I'm sure your desire to keep your promise had nothing
whatsoever to do with not wanting to tell us you were hustling Starbuck,"
Sheba inserted evenly and accurately.  The boy dropped her gaze.
     "So when Dietra saw you skulking around on Delta Deck, Bucko, you
were running away from a gang of kids," Boomer chuckled.  "No wonder you
left your laser behind."
     "Well, Boxey did mention that the rules said I couldn't shoot them
to escape," Starbuck returned, deadpan.  "Figured I'd better lock it up,
just in case I was tempted."
     "Well, that certainly clears up a few things, most notably this
mysterious bet," Adama said, shaking his head before turning his
attention to his errant grandson.   One of the nicest things about being
a grandparent was that such behaviour was generally the responsibility of
the parents.  "Thank you for your honesty, Boxey." He nodded at Sheba.
     She placed a hand on her stepson's shoulder.  "Is there anything you
wanted to say to Starbuck, Boxey?"
     "Sorry I tricked you, Starbuck," Boxey mumbled to the supine
warrior's chest, before looking up and meeting his eyes.  "I just thought
it would be fun if you'd play with us, and I know you have time on your
hands with Cassiopeia becoming a doctor..."
     Time on his hands?  Starbuck's gaze switched to Sheba and Apollo who
were exchanging that patented parental "Oops!" expression.  "Just don't
let it happen again, kid," he replied lightly, before narrowing his eyes
and threatening, "Or I might be forced to even the playing field."  He
winked at the child.
     The boy smiled, his eyes twinkling.
     "Don't even think about it.  Either of you," Sheba told them
sternly, taking a moment to look at her husband, silently communicating
some unknown message, before marching the child out of the room.
     "Starbuck," Apollo paused, waiting for the door to close behind
them. "He's seven- yahrens-old!" he said in exasperation.  "Why would you
even consider making a bet with him?"
     "I didn't really give it a lot of thought," Starbuck admitted. 
"Sagan's sake, Apollo, I was already playing Wild Capstone to get out of
doing chores at the orphanage when I was younger than Boxey."
     Apollo blinked, glancing at his father and then Boomer, as if
seeking some moral support.  Boomer shrugged, as if he wasn't the least
bit surprised, or bothered.  The commander was wearing a familiar look
that Apollo had almost forgotten, as though he had tuned them completely
out, and was patiently waiting for the disagreement to end.  How often
had Apollo seen it while he was arguing with Zac or Athena as a teenager? 
He let out a long breath, returning his attention to Starbuck.  "Please
tell me that you're joking.  There are so many things inherently wrong
with that explanation."
     Starbuck shrugged nonchalantly. "Life skills.  Every kid needs to
learn them sooner or later.  He might as well learn from the best."
     "Starbuck..." Apollo muttered in disbelief.  "Listen buddy, I really
don't want my son to be educated in ways to shirk his responsibilities,
let alone ways to hustle his friends.  Not by you, or anybody else."
     "Oh, he already has the 'hustling' down pat without my help. 
Believe me, he doesn't need much in the way of an education there."  He
hesitated when Apollo stared lasers at him.  "What did I say?"
     "Are you being deliberately obtuse?" Apollo asked in obvious
frustration.
     "Hey, it's me," Starbuck replied, not really knowing how to defend
himself, or why he felt the need to.  "I'd never do anything to hurt
Boxey. You know that, don't you?"
     Apollo blew out a deep breath.  "It's times like this, when I
realize how different our upbringings were.  And yes, of course I know
you'd never do anything to intentionally hurt Boxey."
     "Intentionally," Starbuck echoed hollowly.  "What's that supposed to
mean?"
     Apollo frowned, shaking his head and fanning his hands innocuously. 
"Nothing.  Ironically, in this instance, the only one who got hurt was
you." He paused, gathering his thoughts.  "You're a good man, Starbuck,
and one of the best friends I've ever had."
     "But," Starbuck replied innately, as an inexplicable sense of
trepidation swept over him.
     "But... I think you can safely leave Boxey's education on necessary
life skills to Sheba and I," Apollo replied, a smile playing on his lips. 
"That's our role."
     Starbuck breathed out a short breath of amusement at his friend's
diplomacy.  "Fair enough, buddy." 
     "No more bets," Apollo added, grasping his friend's forearm.
     "No more bets.  At least with Boxey," Starbuck grinned, returning
the warrior's grip. "Now what did you find out about the canisters?" He
could see the subtle shift in body language with all three men.  On edge. 
Not good news. "What's in them?"
     "Dr. Wilker has already analysed the contents, merely to identify
it.  It's a highly toxic binary chemical called piiglin," Apollo told
him.  "Do you remember hearing about it in training?"
     "Piiglin?" Starbuck racked his brain.  "A nerve agent, right? A
lethal gas?"
     "Close, though technically it's classified as a pulmonary agent. 
Nerve agents generally affect neurotransmitters, eventually resulting in
prolonged contraction of all muscles in the body.  When it affects the
diaphragm, victims die without intervention.  Also, people are usually
exposed on contact.  The basic difference with pulmonary agents is that
they mainly affect the respiratory system in varying degrees, and are
usually inhaled."
     Starbuck raised his eyebrows at the data coming from his friend. 
"I'm impressed, buddy."
     "Don't be.  It's straight from a training module," Apollo admitted. 
"I thought I'd brush up while we were awaiting the results."
     "Then refresh my mind on the binary part," Boomer asked him, rising
from his chair to join them.
     Apollo nodded. "Piiglin isn't contained in its active state. 
Instead, it's divided into two chemical precursors, physically separated
within the canister.  The precursors are designed to be significantly
less toxic than the piiglin, and this allows the weapon to be transported
and stored more safely.  It also increases the longevity and toxicity of
the final agent."
     "Then how do the precursors mix?" Starbuck asked.
     "An internal charge that bursts the separated capsules, potentiating
the reaction of the chemicals.  There's enough piiglin there to
incapacitate this entire ship."
     Starbuck let out a low whistle.
     "Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't it the Cylons who developed
piiglin for chemical warfare?" Boomer asked.
     "Hundreds of yahrens ago, yes," Adama replied.  "The Cylons
experimented with it in various intensities, which resulted in a range of
reactions from coughing, choking and shortness of breath to pulmonary
edema, circulatory system failure and death.  They even used it against
the Colonies in some of their raids."
     "But what's it doing aboard the Galactica?" Boomer asked. "And how
did it get here?"
     "A goodwill present from Baltar?" Starbuck ventured.
     Adama raised his eyebrows, setting his glower upon the young man.
     "No disrespect intended to you, Commander," Starbuck shrugged.  "But
it's Cylon, and they're the only tin cans who have come calling lately."
     "A chemical warfare agent stockpiled hundreds of yahrens ago could
have ended up just about anywhere, Starbuck," the commander replied
reasonably.  "There were intelligence reports yahrens ago that the Cylons
sold many of those old agents in the expectation that other races would
annihilate each other, saving them the inevitable trouble."
     "Making a profit selling toxic chemicals, and having somebody else
do your dirty work for you," Boomer shook his head in disgust. "Sounds
like something they'd do."
     "Besides, from the state of that storage room, I suspect that the
piiglin has been with us longer than Baltar's Base Ship," Apollo
inserted.  "Dr. Wilker will be able to tell us more when the final
analyses are done."
     Boomer nodded.  "Interestingly, like Starbuck pointed out, the
canisters and cases seemed awfully clean in comparison to the rest of the
junk in there.  That, and the room had its biosensors and interior
keypads disabled, intentionally.  Whoever was storing the piiglin didn't
want anybody knowing they were accessing the room unduly."
     "Speaking of which, I was sure someone was trying to get into the
room early this morning," Starbuck inserted, as the others looked at him
in surprise.  "Of course, I was hoping it was you guys, but even banging
on the door with a prybar didn't get a reaction.  Unless, of course,
someone took a long detour before reporting that I was locked in a
storage room."
     "Is that why you wiped out in the storage room when we were breaking
in?" Boomer asked.  "You thought that person was coming back?"
     "And you thought I was just excited to see you," Starbuck returned. 
He ran a hand distractedly over his bristly face.  "I was trying to get
my hands on a weapon, just in case whoever it was didn't like the idea of
my being there."
     "We've reactivated the room's internal sensors, in the event whoever
it is comes back, but if they tried earlier, and discovered something was
wrong, we probably won't see them revisiting the storeroom," Commander
Adama theorized.
     "Meanwhile, Colonial Security has gone over the room minutely,
looking for any clues as to who has been there recently," Boomer added. 
"Scans show nothing.  No fingerprints, no DNA traces, nothing.  Not a
single clue to help us trace whoever is behind this." 
     Starbuck nodded.  "Listen, not long after I got locked in, the
lights died. I also discovered the fire prevention equipment was
dysfunctional, and then I noticed that the whole room was covered in
grime dating back to the Galactica's first launch.  We might want to
check in with Colonial Maintenance to see who's slipping up on the job. 
Maybe it's on purpose," Starbuck suggested. "Maybe someone is keeping the
usual guys out of there." 
     "Good idea," Boomer nodded.  "It could give us a lead."
     "Yeah, well I had a while to think about it.  I was also thinking
that the only people left standing if they actually used the piiglin
would need to be wearing some heavy-duty protective apparatus, in this
case, breathing gear.  Not exactly available in everybody's locker, and
probably traceable if you weren't working in Fire Prevention," Starbuck
ventured, letting out a long breath before looking to Adama.  "Commander,
if we found enough piiglin on the Galactica to incapacitate everyone
aboard... was this a military coup in the making that we averted?  Who
has the power and the clout to do that?"
     "Also, is there more of this piiglin gas elsewhere in the Fleet?  Or
still aboard the Galactica, for that matter?" Apollo added.  "How big is
this thing?  How many people are involved?"
     "Sagan's sake, I didn't believe that our internal problems could get
bigger than the Cylon threat..." Boomer muttered in disbelief, leaning
against the biobed.  "Are these people out of their minds?  What do they
want?"
     "And will we find them before they have a chance to put their plan
into action, and tell us their demands?" Adama murmured soberly to the
three young men.  "Lords of Kobol, let it be so."
     "Sir, you are going to brief everybody, aren't you?" Starbuck asked,
his stomach tightening in knots as he awaited his CO's reply.  It wasn't
that long ago that Command had decided to keep the knowledge of a
murderous Ziklagi spy classified, due to the panic it might have caused
in the Fleet.  Innocent people had been hurt or killed, careers ruined,
lives scarred... Sagan's sake, a promising young cadet had resigned from
the Service and since then had become a bureautician!  He couldn't just
sit there subordinately and let that kind of mayhem happen again.  "I
mean... if this was part of a potential coup, we'll need every Colonial
Warrior, Blackshirt and Special Forces Op in the Fleet to have their eyes
open for these guys.  Especially if there's a chance that there's more
piiglin out there." He ignored the elbow that Boomer jabbed
surreptitiously into his ribs.  "If they put this pulmonary agent in the
life support system of any ship in the Fleet, they could take everybody
aboard hostage, Commander."
     "I'm well aware of that, Starbuck."  Adama turned his way, his true
emotions veiled, as they so often had to be, beneath a composed exterior. 
"But if word leaked out, the widespread panic would be catastrophic."
     "And a hostage taking wouldn't be?" Starbuck retorted, his voice
rising with his frustration.
     "Starbuck..." Apollo cautioned him.
     Adama set his tylinium gaze on the warrior, all further words
unnecessary.  
     "Sorry, Commander..." Starbuck mumbled, as the glower of disapproval
from a man that he'd respected more than Lord Sagan himself pummelled
him.  "But..."
     Adama sighed, stepping forward and briefly placing a hand on the
lieutenant's shoulder.  "It won't be another Over-Lieutenant Korax,
Starbuck.  I promise you that," he nodded in reassurance, as he took a
step back.  
     It was so eerily close to what was going through Starbuck's mind, it
almost floored him.  How could he know...?
     "While I have every intention of keeping this classified, there will
be a restricted briefing with our deputy and squadron leaders, as well as
the Elite Special Forces," the commander continued.  "You're right; we
need enough sets of eyes out there to help us find the people
responsible." 
     Starbuck glanced at Boomer, knowing from the expression on his
squadron leader's face that they were thinking the same thing.  Hey, he'd
already overstepped his bounds once.  By now it was expected.  "And the
Council?"  
     After all, the odds on this being solely a military issue, rather
than a civilian one, were low enough that even Starbuck wouldn't put
cubits on it.  But sometimes Council members were more vicious than
Cylons, and in the bureaucratic arena, something like this could easily
be used against Adama, as a declaration of no confidence in the
president.  One tiny whiff of a problem, and the vultures would begin to
circle.
     "Not yet.  We need more than theories and hearsay before I take any
of this to the Council." Adama replied, turning to engage all three men. 
"Captain.  Lieutenants.  You're not to breathe a word of this to anyone
until the briefing.  Strictly classified.  Is that understood?"  
     "Yes, sir," the three replied, Apollo a beat behind the other two.
     "Dr. Salik will be brought aboard, since we're obviously going to
need to develop a new anti-toxin."
     "Cassiopeia was there when we discovered the canisters, sir," Apollo
added.  "She might be able to help with that, since she already has an
idea of what the canisters held."
     "I'll speak to Dr. Salik about it now, Captain," Adama replied.  He
turned to go, pausing at the doorway for a drawn out moment before
turning back, as if he'd forgotten something.  "Starbuck?"
     "Yes, Commander?"  An inexplicable apprehension descended on him.
     "You're going to need to be on light duty for a secton."  It was
uncharacteristically tentative for the commander.
     The lieutenant grimaced, internally groaning.  Sagan, he'd been off
duty so much in the last few sectars, there were jokes going around the
billet about how Starbuck had somehow managed to scam an early
retirement, and was just showing up in person once in a while to keep up
appearances. "Yes, sir."
     "Tell me... what are the odds that if we assigned you to playing
Pursuit with the children of the Fleet, a ship at a time, that you'd
continue to lock yourself in storerooms until you found the rest of the
piiglin?" Only the slight quirk of his lips gave him away.  Apollo and
Boomer chuckled aloud.  "This could only happen to you, son," he smiled
fondly at the young man that he'd known since Apollo's days at the
Academy.  
     "Always good to know that someone up there has a sense of humour,
Commander," Starbuck returned wryly, thumb pointed towards the ceiling,
feeling the apprehension flitter away, and some of his previous unease
dissipate.  
     "Quite.  And, I'm planning a family meal tomorrow evening.  It
occurs to me that it's been ages since you've attended."  
     "I suppose you're right..." Starbuck murmured noncommittally.  It
had been customary at one time for him to attend.  They'd all been
through a lot since then.
     "Please do bring Cassiopeia.  And Chameleon as well, if he can make
it."
     "Thank you, Commander," Starbuck replied, clearing a throat that was
strangely tight, as Apollo chose that moment to arbitrarily squeeze his
shoulder.  Just a moment before it had been strictly professional.  Now,
he was amongst family.
     Again.
     "Good to have you back, Starbuck," Adama smiled, opening the door to
enter the main Life Station.  There he paused, as he glanced upward. 
"God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform." He hesitated
again, as Cassiopeia appeared before him.
     "Oh, Commander!" she exclaimed, bringing herself up short.
     "Cassiopeia," replied Adama.
     "Am I interrupting?" she asked tentatively, peeking into the room,
an eyebrow going up questioningly, her eyes meeting Starbuck's for but a
micron, before she glanced at Apollo and Boomer.
     "Not at all," Apollo replied immediately, as he nodded at Boomer. He
slapped a hand on Starbuck's shoulder once again. "Take it easy, buddy. 
I'll see you tomorrow."
     "And, Starbuck..." Boomer added wryly as he crossed the room.  "Try
to stay out of trouble."
     "How much trouble can a guy get into in the Life Station, Boomer?"
Starbuck asked, suddenly regretting his words as he noticed Cassie's
behaviour.  She was antsy, not really meeting anybody's eyes, while her
arms were wrapped around her slender frame protectively.  It had all the
signs of her wanting to talk to him about something.  She'd been out of
sorts when they'd found him too, but whatever it was that was bothering
her, he knew she'd get around to confiding in him.  His lady wasn't
exactly a shrinking violet. 
     A few departing pleasantries later they were alone, and Starbuck
could feel that familiar unease once again rear its pesky head as Cassie
busied herself for a moment checking his chart and the regeneration unit
on the foot of the bed, her blonde head ducked, avoiding his gaze as she
gathered her thoughts. 
     "Uh, how's Commander Byrne doing?" he asked of the Earthman they had
recently rescued, desperate for the moment to deflect whatever was
coming.
     "Fine," she replied, motioning her hand in the direction of the main
ward, not looking up. "The additional regeneration treatments on his
damaged leg are progressing fine.  The contracture has reversed as
expected."
     "That's good."  He looked down at his own leg.  "We could probably
swap a few stories. Uh, Cass..."
     "Starbuck, I need to explain..." Cassie announced abruptly,
returning the medical data pad to its spot on the end of his biobed, and
looking up at him.  
     The length of the bed separating them seemed like the Steppes of
Virgon.
     "Explain what?" he asked, across the vast divide.  
     "The first night, I was hosting Athena's baby shower.  Yesterday, I
was in surgery, and worked a double shift.  I thought you were visiting
Chameleon.  He thought you were with me, as it turns out."  She smiled
wanly.  "I've sensed this... this distance between us lately..."
     "I've noticed that too," he murmured lightly, glancing down the
length of the biobed pointedly.  "I figure if you'd come up here," he
beckoned towards her with a crooked index finger, backed up by his
patented smile, "that it'll disappear.  Unless you want me to come down
there... " he threatened with a fleeting look at the bio-sleeve around
his lower leg. 
     Her eyebrows arched as she pondered him for a moment, then she
slowly wound her way around the foot of the bed, until she stood beside
him.  "I need to ask you something, and I want you to be completely
honest with me."
     "Completely honest..." he echoed.
     "How do you really feel about my becoming a doctor?" 
     That was it?  He smiled in relief.  That was easy.  He opened his
mouth to reply.
     "No," she shushed him, placing her fingers on his lips.  "Think
about it for a moment.  Even with an accelerated program, this will take
yahrens, Starbuck.  Medicine is far more complicated than even operating
a Viper.  And it will occupy most of my time and energy.  It will mean
sacrifices."
     He captured her fingers, raising her hand to his mouth again, and
tenderly kissing it.  "Haven't we already discussed this, Cass?  Before
you started."
     "I know, but now we've had a chance to really experience it, and to
understand how it will affect us," she replied, her shimmering blue eyes
studying him intently.
     "You're not having second thoughts?" he asked hesitantly, trying to
imagine that Cassie would start something and not finish it.  "About
becoming a doctor."
     "No," she replied, with a firm shake of her head. "I'm committed. 
I've come way too far, Starbuck."
     "Then what?"
     "I suppose I realized that I haven't actually seen very much of you
lately..." She frowned.  "And it made me wonder if... if you were having
second thoughts.  About us."
     "Me?" he replied, pointing to his chest, trying to comprehend how
his getting locked in a storage room could correlate with her thinking
that he was getting cold feet about a commitment, just because she was
becoming a doctor.  The workings of the female mind, it was baffling, if
not somewhat fearful.
     She nodded, drawing in a deep, expectant breath.
     "Cass, I get up each day, not really knowing what it will bring. 
But the one thing that I'm sure of, beyond doubt, is us."  Her eyes
searched his then, as if trying to see beyond his words.  "I love you,"
he added.  That's all there was to it.
     She smiled wryly.  "You make it sound so simple."
     "It is," he replied, before his subconscious reminded him of that
Female Primary Objective that had recently infected the ranks, even
taking down his two best friends.  He drew in a ragged breath, as his
breath hitched in a suddenly tight chest.  What if it wasn't as simple as
he thought it was?  What if...?   "Uh... wait a centon.  Is this about
getting sealed?"
     Cassie's eyes widened in surprise, and laughter burbled out of her
like a spring coming to life.  Delightful laughter.  He grinned, abashed,
but even more relieved.  
     "Sealed?" she asked, sliding her arms around his waist, and pressing
herself against him. "No. With everything else I'm concentrating on just
now, getting sealed is the furthest thing from my mind."  
     "Oh..." he murmured into her blonde locks.  Somehow her words
weren't exactly reassuring.  Just when he thought he had figured things
out, she had the unique ability to rattle him.  "You know, I suddenly
feel like a Viper on a long-range patrol that just lost navigation.  Are
we okay?"
     "We are," Cassiopeia murmured into his chest.  She pulled back
slightly, smiling beguilingly at him.  "And while I do think about it,
right now, with all the enormous demands on my time, the timing isn't
right.  We've talked about this before.  We don't have to be sealed to be
committed." She took a deep breath. "I love you, Starbuck. You know that,
don't you?" 
     And like a flicked switch, that niggling unease disappeared. 
     "I know," he grinned, reaching for her, and pulling her across his
lap, until she was lying on the small biobed beside him, her legs draped
across his.  He ignored the beeping of the regeneration unit, as it
protested at his movement.
     "Starbuck!" she giggled, with a glance at the Life Station door. 
"If Dr. Salik catches us, he'll..." 
     "I'm willing to risk it," he cut off her words, pulling her close,
until he could feel every soft and alluring curve pressing against him.
"You can tell him you're resuscitating me." He smiled roguishly, leaning
down to capture her lips for an exquisite moment of selfish pleasure.  
     "I think maybe it's you resuscitating me," she whispered quietly a
moment later, as she let out a long sigh, and nestled against his bare
chest.  "I didn't realize how much I needed this."  
     In the background, the incessant beeping of the regeneration unit
persisted.       
     He ignored it, cradling her against him, fingering her silky
tresses, and simply revelling in their rekindled intimacy. Right now,
there was nothing more appealing in the universe as the idea of spending
some time alone with her.  Just him, Cassie...and every patient and
health care provider in the Life Station.  It just wasn't fair,
especially after the last couple of days.  "Lord, I wish..." 
     Whoosh.
     "Hhm hhm," a deep voice growled from the door that had just slid
open. "Lieutenant Starbuck..." Dr. Salik stood there, arms crossed, a
glower on his features.  "Are you trying to get booted out of the Life
Station prematurely?  Because this is just the kind of behaviour that
will guarantee that eventuality."
     Quirking her eyebrows, Cassie looked up at Starbuck thoughtfully. 
He smiled at her, chuckling, as Commander Adama's parting words came back
to him.  God, it seemed, did work in mysterious ways.  And he could
imagine that just now He was nudging the Goddess of Luck on the shoulder,
and coaxing her to smile upon a certain Colonial Warrior... after all, it
was overdue.  "So there's hope, Doc?" he said cheerfully to the Chief
Medical Officer.  
     Then he kissed his beautiful lady again.
     
Epilogue
 
     "You're late," said the bearded man in the dark robe at the table. 
He raised a mug to his lips, gulping the steaming hot liquid inside,
feeling it burn a path to his stomach.  The pain was a welcome
replacement for his simmering fury.  It helped him to gather his
thoughts, to see the way forward.  It cleansed his soul of the impurities
that he was subjected to while surrounded by the weaklings and deviants
of the Fleet.  
     "My apologies.  Getting away took longer than anticipated."  The new
arrival-also robed, but clean-shaven-raised a hand, signalling for the
same beverage.  The server dropped her gaze from his, hesitating for a
moment, before hurrying to do his bidding, less it be interpreted as an
affront. "Besides there's no sense in being obvious."
     "I don't want excuses," the bearded one growled, his voice low and
even.
     "Yes, sir.  But I have none to offer.  It was... the Infidel,
Starbuck.  Once again his presence has defiled the Purpose, as it was
foretold." His face twisted in anger.  "We should have taken steps long
ago... " he hissed in vehemence, his dark eyes radiating hatred.
     "That is not for you to decide!" He sighed. "The Prophet was
correct, then.  It's been discovered?" He stroked his beard.
     "Yes. How could it not?  Every blessed canister, thanks to the
Defiler."            
     "Lieutenant Starbuck," the other snarled contemptuously, his
emotions running awry for but a micron, before he clamped down on them
again.  
     They stopped, as the second beverage arrived, pausing while their
server hurried about her duties under their cool regard.  She glanced at
them nervously, before scuttling away again. 
     "Colonial Warriors are swarming all over the Galactica like locusts,
destroying all that we have achieved," the younger man reported. 
"Sectars of planning since acquiring our goods on Brylon Five..." Spittle
flew from his mouth with his ire.
     "Calm yourself, less you attract the wrong kind of attention," the
older man warned him, glowering.  "Any word from our source in Wilker's
lab?"
     "The analyses of the canisters, and their contents, are still
underway.  It seems our precautions about fingerprints and other
traceable evidence has at least salvaged something from this, this..."
     "Debacle. Yes."  The older man took another drink, slurping the hot
liquid.  "Adama is searching every possible space aboard the Galactica
for any more unauthorized cargo. The rest of the Fleet, as well. It will
keep them busy for a while longer."
     "I didn't know that, but it is a logical development.  What of our
Leader?"
     "When the time comes.  Be patient," the bearded one replied.
     "Will we have to accelerate the timetable?" 
     "I am not certain.  The Prophet must be consulted, first.  What of
the aberrant Zohrloch?"
     "The flashcard that sabotaged his Viper was found, but the trail has
gone cold.  Again, we covered our tracks well."
     "May He be praised for small favours.  It is but a reprieve for the
abomination, the pseudo-human simulacrum!"
     "May He be praised," responded the other.  "What of the Defiler,
Starbuck?  Should we see to his...strategic removal?  Make him...
suffer... for thwarting our plans."
     "Not yet.  So soon after this unfortunate incident, it would only
serve to raise Adama's suspicions even more.  So would any further
attempts against Sargamesh, or the others of his despicable race." The
bearded one looked at his young guest.  "Patience, my boy. Patience. 
They will of course be removed, all in good time.  However, the Prophet
must be consulted with the Eve of Firestorm anon.  Tradition must be
satisfied.  Ultimately, vengeance will be ours."
     "What do you wish me to do?"
     "Return to the Galactica, and act normally.  Check in at your
earliest opportunity with our source in Wilker's lab, and make sure that
both Starbuck and Sargamesh's movements are closely monitored.  Watch for
patterns.  Weaknesses.  Keep me informed.  When it is time, we will be
ready."
     "But without the gas..."
     "All is not lost, as you suppose.  We must suffer to attain the True
Glory, as you know.  We will be shown The Way."
     "Yes, sir," said the second one.  Rising, he tossed a cubit on the
table and left the bar. 
     "Soon," said the bearded figure, watching the other depart. "Soon."

Fleeing from the Cylon tyranny, the last Battlestar, Galactica, leads a
ragtag fugitive Fleet on a lonely quest... a shining planet known as
Earth.