"Supposedly," Apollo repeated.
"-a planet the holocube has no record of," Baltar pressed on. "The Cylons won't think of looking for us there."
"How did you learn of this planet?"
Baltar swallowed, said, "Its knowledge came into my possession during one of my missions with the Cylons. They don't realize I know of it; I'd stake my life on that."
"You are, Baltar," Apollo said. He spoke softly, without emotion. "Believe me, you are."
"Oh, spare me, Commander," Baltar said, leaking the words through gritted teeth. "Do you think I want to die any more than the rest of you? Whatever else you think of me, you insult me if you believe I'm such a fool as not to realize my continued well •being is wrapped up with yours. I know my only future lies in redeeming myself with the colonials, and I am trying to do that… if you will allow me."
Apollo shook his head, threw up his hands, and started to turn away. Perhaps Baltar was telling the truth; perhaps he was even right, but there was nothing Apollo could do about it. Cain was already gunning for the supreme commander's chair; to inform the council that the fleet was changing course on Baltar's recommendation would only do Cain's job for him. The only thing more sure to do the job was for Apollo to head back to his chambers, pull his sidearm, place the barrel to his temple, and squeeze the trigger. Either way was suicide; one was just a little messier than the other.
There was a sudden and brief scuffle just behind Apollo. He sidestepped and looked back to find Gar'Tokk holding Baltar several feet off the floor by the scruff of his collar, as if the traitor were a condemned man hanging from the arm of a gallows.
"Put me down, you ignorant creature!" Baltar cried, indignantly, puffing and panting.
"Gar'Tokk, what are you doing?"
The Noman held Baltar at the end of his arm, suspended above the floor, kicking and thrashing. He turned to Apollo, ignoring the traitor's weight and struggles, as if they were inconsequential and not worth mentioning.
"He tried to grab you, Commander," GarTokk reported.
"I only wanted to stop you leaving!" Baltar gasped, his face reddening. The viselike grip on his collar was cutting off the flow of air.
Apollo nodded for GarTokk to set him down. He did, and Baltar raked great gasps of air back into his chest, his hand tenderly massaging at his throat. Baltar tried to speak, coughed, and tried again, with better luck this time. "Are you so certain I'm lying, Commander, that you are willing to put up the life of everyone in the fleet against those odds? Are you really that certain?"
"Such disrespect," GarTokk clucked disapprovingly. "Say the word, Commander," He held his massive fist above the crown of Baltar's head, as if he were nothing more than an anchor spike to be driven into the deckplate. Baltar flinched and stepped out from the shadow of Gar'Tokk's fist.
"All right," Apollo said. "Baltar, I mean, not you, GarTokk," he quickly amended. "Let's say, for the sake of argument, I believe you. What proof do you have? What are the coordinates for this planet?"
Baltar swallowed, twice. "They're in a code… one I don't understand and have not been able to break, thus far, unfortunately, but the quantum shift effect technology might be able to unravel it."
"The QSE?"
"It's more than you think," Baltar continued. "The Cylons didn't invent it, they plundered it from an alien civilization they had conquered."
That made sense, Apollo thought; more sense than thinking the nearly-mindless Cylons could ever have developed such advanced technology themselves. "The QSE has more applications than you've seen. Not only does the quantum shift generator break codes and shift objects into alternate space, but it also creates rifts in space."
Salik had been working on just such a diagram to better explain and understand Baltar's assertions: he had drawn an image, which he handed Apollo, one in which space was best depicted as a U-shaped piece of parchment. Normally, a ship would have to travel from one end of space—or, in this instance, the parchment—to the other, but if the QSE could open a rift in space, it would be like punching a tunnel through one side of the parchment to the other, forming a bridge between the two legs of the "U"; the ship would enter on one side and emerge on the other almost instantaneously.
The implications were staggering. The fleet would be able to travel untold distances—thousands of parsecs in the blink of an eye—and explore territories never before reachable. And was it possible the Thirteenth Tribe had this technology? Was that how they were able to reach such far-flung corners of the galaxy? It would explain a lot.
It would explain how the Cylons had been able to build up their fleets such a vast distance from their homeworld, and it made Baltar's assertion that the Cylons would be waiting for them on Kirasolia that much more frightening. Apollo was beginning to wonder if, perhaps this once, Baltar was telling the truth. Inner vision and logic were at snarling, fang-toothed odds with one another over this one.
Salik's notes, in his careful, cribbed handwriting, postulated "Time does not move forward smoothly, in an analog fashion, but in a series of little 'jumps' or 'ticks.' There are so many jumps in one centon—trillions and trillions—that it goes unnoticed by living beings. But if we could push someone forward just one 'tick' in time, they would be in the same place spatially, but temporally out of phase with our existence…" The notes, from here, collapsed into an inescapable black hole of lengthy equations, and Apollo knew better than to enter their gravitic pull. He set the notes aside, and looked at Salik's anxious, eager face.
"Doctor Salik," he said. "I want you to research the QSE technology, ascertain if our friend's claims are correct."
"Does this mean you believe him?" Gar'Tokk asked, clearly surprised.
"It means… it means I don't know what to believe," Apollo admitted, and he didn't know if that was good, or bad. Everything was changing around him, and he had the sense they would change more before it was finished.
As he thought that, a flushed and breathless Cassiopeia appeared in the lab doorway, leaning against the wall for support.
"Cassie… ?" Apollo said; it was the moment he had been preparing for these past few weeks, but the moment he also thought would never come.
"It's Starbuck," she managed to gasp. "He's awake!"
CHAPTER THREE
STARBUCK IS awake.
As Apollo and his bodyguard raced down endless steel corridors toward the med-unit, he kept replaying those words over and over in his head, like the tolling of a cloister bell: Starbuck is awake. Starbuck is awake. Starbuck is awake … He had to keep examining the words to make sure they carried no hidden loophole or subtext he was missing. But they seemed clean, not fraught with buried meaning which would later explode like a time-bomb in Apollo's heart.
Athena, Dalton, Sheba and Boomer were already seated in the waiting hall outside the med-unit, and they all looked up as Apollo and GarTokk entered. They all had, to greater or lesser degree, tears welling in their eyes; everyone except GarTokk and Apollo.
Athena stood and hugged her brother and, in a moment of unselfconsciousness, Apollo returned the hug. "How is he?" he asked, stepping out of Athena's embrace. "Has anyone talked to him yet?"
He looked from face to face and, one by one, they each looked away.
"What is it?" Apollo asked, and he felt as if a cold, skeletal fist were squeezing his heart. "What's the matter? What aren't you telling me?" Somehow, it seemed, the words that had scanned and declared harmless just moments ago were laden with slow-acting poison, and Apollo was beginning to have a bad idea what was wrong.
Apollo frowned and started past them, for the med bay, only to be met by Dr. Wilker on his way out. He had just come from Starbuck's med-berth, and his face was unreadable, neither happy or pained; simply neutral.
"Doctor Wilker?"
"I guess that's everyone," Wilker said, glancing around. "I've already hinted to them what I'm going to tell you now, Commander. Your friend has had a massive cranial trauma… he was also deprived of oxygen for qui
te a while before you could rescue him from his Viper."
Apollo held up his hand. "I already know all of this, Dr. Wilker," he said. "Just get to the point… please." The longer it took to get to the point, the easier it was to allow one's imagination to gallop out of control, opening a whole encyclopedia of potential tragedies. Better just to get to it.
"I just want to caution you—all of you—not to expect too much. Your friend may not be the same man you remember."
"What are you—"
"It's too early to tell, yet," Wilker said, and shrugged. "He may not remember you. He may not even recognize you. Just… try not to let it alarm you. It's a miracle he's alive at all."
Apollo shook his head. He felt as if he were riding the emotional equivalent of a Viper flight simulator, and all its ups and downs and gut-wrenching loops and dives. The only thing missing was the holo-images of Cylon Raiders trying to destroy him.
"I'm going to have to ask you all to keep your visit brief," Wilker said, ushering the little group into the med unit. "He's still very weak and too much excitement could set his recovery back."
Apollo turned to Dalton. "Do you—?"
She shook her head. "Not just yet," she said. "I will… soon… but not right now."
Apollo and Athena stepped closer to Starbuck's med-berth, and the Commander noticed there was some hesitation in their approach. It was as if they were coming upon the wreckage of some horrible disaster, and neither wanted to be the first to identify the mortal remains.
As they neared the med-berth, the rest of the group bringing up the rear, Starbuck slowly turned his head toward the sound of their shuffling footsteps. Apollo noted with a start that Starbuck's eyes were glassy and unfixed, as if he weren't seeing them, but seeing through them.
It was a miracle he was even alive, but was it a blessing? Based on this, Apollo didn't think so. He was learning each day the world was full of cruel miracles. Apollo felt hot and cold all at once; he wanted to close his eyes and make this nightmare end. He wanted to be somewhere—anywhere—other than here. But most of all, he just wanted his friend back.
"Hey, buddy," Apollo said, softly. He sat beside the med-berth, his face inches from Starbuck's. Still no sign of recognition, just one of puzzlement, as if Starbuck were one of those who had taken a few too many brain crystals. Behind him, Apollo thought he heard Dalton catch herself—just—before she could cry. Starbuck didn't seem to notice. "Look at you… always have to be the center of attention. Couldn't you think of some better way than all this to get noticed?"
Starbuck's eyes turned toward the sound of Apollo's voice, and for just a moment, he seemed to finally fix on his oldest friend of all, but then he was cast adrift once more, buffeted about by whatever forces were at play in his wounded brain.
Gods, Apollo thought; oh, gods, if I'd known… if I'd suspected… I never would have prayed… not for his awakening, anyway, but that he wouldn't… gods, this is no life for him.
"Starbuck, it's Athena. Do you know me? Do you recognize Apollo?"
Apollo closed his eyes; he couldn't watch this. He couldn't do this. He would remain a few moments longer, out of respect, and then he would have to go. This was too much like visiting an open grave, except the corpse in it didn't realize it was dead just yet—
"Apollo—" Athena gasped, and squeezed her brother's shoulder.
He opened his eyes, saw what had caused Athena to react: Starbuck was smiling, or trying to. A faint, familiar ghost of a smile, weak but still the rogue's smile they had all come to be so familiar with, was creasing the corners of Starbuck's mouth. "You should see the look on your faces," Starbuck croaked, his voice hoarse, his throat as dry as baked enamel.
"Like you've seen a ghost."
"Don't be silly," Athena managed to say before she collapsed into tears. "Everyone knows there's no such thing as ghosts."
They all laughed, an odd amalgam of laughter and tears, but that was all right. Everything was all right.
"How long do you plan on lying there, you old slagger?" Apollo asked.
Starbuck shrugged, folded his hands together across his chest; that gave Apollo a momentary chill, because it reminded him too much of his dream, but he pushed that thought aside. Not all dreams were premonitions.
"Long as I can," Starbuck answered. He tilted his head toward Apollo, as if really seeing him for the first time since he regained consciousness. "Listen, if you guys don't mind, I could really use a good fumarello and maybe a glass of aged ambrosa. Even that swill they call grog would do nicely."
"I'll see what I can do," Apollo promised, blinking back tears.
"How long have I been here, anyway?" Starbuck asked, his face lining with confusion. There were some huge gaps in his memory, and everything following the explosion of the Chitain warship was a bad, hazy blur. "Why am I here? I can't seem to remember."
"A little over three weeks," Athena answered. She knew Starbuck well enough to know he would want the truth, and she respected him enough to tell it.
Starbuck looked surprised, then smiled. "No, really," he said.
"Really," Apollo said.
Starbuck studied Apollo and Athena's faces, looking for any sign that they were playing with him, but he could see they were not. He let his head fall back softly on his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. "Three weeks," he muttered to himself. "As long as that."
He was quiet for a while, as if he were trying to make peace with so many days vanished from his life without the involvement of ambrosa or socialators in their disappearance. Before he could—if he ever really could—another thought slammed into his consciousness. "What about the fleet?" he asked, suddenly.
Apollo took Starbuck's hand in his, noticing as he did how weak the other man's grip was. He felt as breakable as glass, as fragile as hope. "Athena can fill you in on that later," he said. "But right now, you just rest and work on getting better. We need you back." As fragile as hope… and as tenacious.
He smiled, a look of profound relief in his eyes. There was more he might have said, but words were small things, and all of them together could not carry the weight of what Apollo felt at this moment.
"This man needs his rest now," Dr. Wilker announced, stepping closer to Starbuck's med-berth. Cassiopeia ran a green-glowing hand-scanner over Starbuck's head.
"I thought there was no rest for the wicked," Starbuck complained, but Apollo could tell from the sound of his voice that he was already exhausted. This little bit had worn him out.
"Don't fool yourself," Apollo said. "The wicked sleep just as well as the good. Which would explain why you were able to nap for three weeks."
Doctor Wilker walked the little group of visitors from the room, while Athena remained behind with Starbuck. There was something she still had to tell him, something she didn't feel she could say in front of the others.
Outside the med unit, Dr. Wilker asked Apollo for just a moment more of his time. Apollo looked at the others, feeling a growing sense of unease, then joined Wilker just out of earshot. "Starbuck's revival is nothing short of a medical miracle," Wilker admitted,
"but his condition is still very unstable. It's remarkable he's retained his memory and cognition, although further tests will have to be run before we can tell how extensive the damage is, if any, if his motor skills are at all impaired."
"We'll keep a close eye on him," Wilker concluded. "There could still be some serious repercussions. But for the moment, I have something else I'd like to show you."
"Of course," Apollo said again.
"I believe you're going to find this quite interesting," Wilker said, placing his hand on the broad of Apollo's back and giving him a gentle nudge in the direction of the science labs. "Doctor Salik and I have been dissecting the remains of one of the destroyed Cylons we've had in storage for a few yahren."
"Oh?" Wilker was right; Apollo did find this turn of events quite interesting, and he had the sense it was going to become a lot more interesting very soon.
&nb
sp; "I almost lost you," Athena said, her lips mere inches from Starbuck's ear. She held his hand in both of hers and ran her fingers over his palm, and the back of his hand, and his knuckles, as if she were some bold new explorer charting foreign lands. In some ways, that was true. This was a foreign land to her, and equally alien to Starbuck. Athena was not one to be the first to let a man know she was interested in him, but then, Starbuck was not really just another man. He was… well, he was Starbuck.
Nearby, Cassiopeia went about her duties, pretending not to notice. It's the hardest thing in the world to watch someone you love fall in love with someone else. Hadn't she, herself, said that to Apollo not long ago? Her words flew back at her like homing avions. Athena tried not to call attention to how jubilant she was at Starbuck's miraculous recovery, but it was impossible. And, really, would it be so wrong if she were happy?
"I missed you so much," she continued, kissing the knuckles of Starbuck's hand. Athena rubbed the back of his hand against her cheek, brushed her hair with his limp fingers.
Starbuck blinked groggily; the pain-meds and tranks were acting like a rheostat on his consciousness, dimming it down to almost full-dark, but this much was getting through to him. He was just having a little trouble making sense of it.
"I came too close to never seeing you again," she said, a tear welling in her eye and spilling down her cheek, tracing the soft, round contours of her face. "It made me realize how much I really care for you."
They were interrupted by the harsh sound of a trayful of medical equipment clattering on the floor. Cassie bent to retrieve it, hurriedly placing the tools and equipment back on her tray. She looked up and saw Starbuck and Athena looking at her. Cassiopeia smiled and turned away and went on about her business, the smile fading the moment her back was turned.
Athena's declaration had caught them all by surprise, even Athena. But it was out now, for good or ill. Starbuck just looked at her, and perhaps it was only the wits-dulling effect of the meds, but for once in his life, he could think of nothing to say.
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