"The gates of Hell open this night," Starbuck muttered, then smiled a twisted smile at himself. What would people think of a Warrior out in public, half-drunk and muttering superstitious nonsense at himself?
Ah, well, not like it really mattered what the public thought, anyway. He was beyond caring about them and their damned opinions tonight.
*Are you? Are you really?*
"Go 'way, dammit," he said, loudly enough to attract the attention of costumed passengers on the bench across from him. "Leave me alone!"
The passengers, dressed as a trio of mythical adventurers for Hellnight festivities somewhere, exchanged glances, then moved with unspoken accord to new seats in the uncrowded shuttle.
*For now, fool. Only for now.*
Starbuck ignored the voice. What did a mysterious voice matter, when his best friend lay dying..
No. Don't think about that. Apollo lay in sick bay, yes, but not. just not. He would get better, just as he always had before. Apollo led a blessed life and could not die.
Starbuck concentrated fiercely on anything but Apollo, laying helpless and pale back there on the battered old battlestar. He'd been invited to a party, a wild Hellnight celebration, and by damn he was going to be there, even without a proper costume. Apollo would be fine.
The shuttle reached its final destination, the luxury liner Rising Star. Starbuck made his way out into the shuttle bay, only wobbling a little bit despite the half bottle of ambrosa he'd needed to face the night. A night without Apollo.
Starbuck pushed that thought aside and looked around. Where was it he was supposed to go again? He couldn't remember.
He shrugged. Any corridor would do. He chose one at random and set off, whistling a tuneless monotone that might have been cheerful another day.
*HA!*
The voice took him by surprise. Starbuck rocked back on his heels, suddenly and completely sober. Shock could do that to a man.
"Who's there?"
A maniacal laugh answered him. *Staaaaarbuck, it's your conscience speaking!*
The voice was bitter and mocking. Starbuck peered through the dimness of the corridor—where in Hell was he, anyway? Didn't the Rising Star keep all her lights on at all times in the public corridors? Maybe the dim lighting was something special, just for Hellnight.
*Right, idiot. Enough of the playing around.*
The air in front of him shimmered, a corruscating ripple down and up and down again, then Starbuck found himself staring at himself.
"What the Hell—!" He gasped and staggered backwards, unable to peel his eyes off himself. The—vision? Specter? Paranormal projection? Whatever. It looked like him, and it looked awful. The pseudo-Starbuck was gaunt, almost emaciated, and his face spoke of untold horrors witnessed and endured. His sunken eyes held all of Hell.
*Exactly,* the other Starbuck nodded, *Hell. Which is precisely where you're headed if you don't shape up.*
A half-forgotten snatch of song ran through Starbuck's mind: .you must change your ways, if you want to save your soul from Hell and riding on our range. "What are you talking about? And who the Hell are you?"
*You said it yourself, Bucko,* the apparition shrugged, shooting him a very Starbuck-like glance from under hair that looked like it had seen better days. *The gates of Hell stand open this night. And since you kindly got yourself drunk, well,* it shrugged again. *You're drunk enough that you can see me.*
"Right," Starbuck said dubiously. Actually, he could almost believe that. almost. "You still haven't told me who you are."
*Thought that was obvious, idiot. I'm you.* The other Starbuck paused for a moment, savoring the shock on Starbuck-the-First's face. *Or rather, I'm what you'll become pretty damned quickly if you don't get your astrum back beside Apollo, where you belong.*
Starbuck's knees felt weak. He staggered, looked around for something to sit on, then sank to the floor with his back to the wall. Blood pounded in his ears, drowning out thought and anything else the spook might have said.
"You can't be me," he argued, feeling ridiculous. "I'm alive. If you're from Hell, you're dead."
*My, my, aren't we intelligent.* If nothing else, the apparition shared his sarcasm and biting wit. *Yes, I'm dead, and so will you be. Give it a day or two—Apollo will die, without your support, and then you'll make it a few more days, then kill yourself out of sheer guilt. Hell spans all times, all realities. that's why you can be alive and talking to your dead self. Got that?*
"Not possible," Starbuck grunted, stubborn as always. "Apollo won't die. I could never kill myself. And you're full of felgercarb. Go back to whatever Hell you came from and leave me alone."
Suddenly icy cold closed in on him. His own face, twisted by torments he couldn't even imagine, snarled at him. *Think, damn you! Think! Why did Apollo get shot down by that Cylon?*
Flash—Apollo, scared but in control. I see only one way out of this, and it's damn risky. Cover me?
Starbuck nodded. Of course.
Apollo looked at him, at the possible escape route, then back at him. He took a deep breath. And remember I love you, he said, then kissed Starbuck.
Then he was running, running, counting on Starbuck to watch his back and provide cover fire. but Starbuck was shocked, scared, even a little horrified.
And then the Cylon laser cannon belched forth a great beam of light, and Apollo went down in a heap. Too late, Starbuck fired, and.
"No!" Starbuck cried out in anguish. "It was not my fault!"
*Denial won't protect you forever,* his dead self said, oozing contempt. *You were scared of Apollo's love, never mind that you've always wanted him, and he got blown halfway to Hell for it. And now you're letting fear keep you away from his side. He's going to wake alone. He'll know exactly why you're not there with him. And then he'll just give up. He risked everything by kissing you. If he's lost you, or even just /thinks/ he's lost you, then what in Hell does he have to live for?*
Put that way, it made sense. It made a lot of sense. But it would never do to let this damned spirit know that. "Apollo hasn't lost me. He knows I—" the word love stuck in Starbuck's throat and he changed it quickly. "—care about him. I would never desert him."
*No? Maybe not. But you'd certainly let him get shot down because you were scared of something he said.*
Starbuck winced. It wasn't the words that had scared him, not by far. That kiss, on the other hand.
*Now I'll say this once more, and I won't say it again. Get your astrum back to Apollo now. Or in a few days you'll get to find out why they call it Hell.* The specter grinned, a ghastly expression on that haunted face. *And believe me, Hell is a lot worse than facing up to ordinary humans and their prejudices.*
Then he vanished. No fanfare, no sounds of howling or rattling chains, just sudden disappearance.
Starbuck drew a shaking hand across his forehead. What the Hell had been /in/ that bottle, anyway? Somebody must have spiked it with a hallucinogen.
He clambered to his feet, rubbed at his sore behind, and started back towards the shuttle. Maybe that. whatever it was had come from the dark recesses of his own conscience, an imaginary tormentor cooked up by guilt. Maybe it had been some kind of Hellnight prank, played by someone who wanted to see him tied up in fancy knots.
And maybe it had been real, exactly what it claimed to be.
Whatever. He wasn't about to take a chance with Apollo's life. If there was even the slightest possibility Apollo would fall into a depression and die, believing he had lost Starbuck. well, it wasn't all that hard to go sit with the man until he woke up. And when he did, when he recovered from the laser blast and left sick bay. Starbuck shook his head and smiled. Deal with that when it happened. Maybe, just maybe, by that time he'd know what to do when Apollo kissed him again.
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