PART ONE: Destruction

Chapter 1

It was over.

The words held more than one meaning, tonight, more than just a simple, single-dimensional statement of fact, with reference to a single event. The battle was over. The peace talks were over. The entire way of life for all the colonists was over.

More importantly, Apollo's life was over.

"Why him?" he asked the silent, uncaring stars. He'd sought refuge here in the Celestial Dome, possibly the only deserted place on the Galactica. On the main decks below and forward from his current position, frantic officers struggled to cope with the influx of personnel, both military and civilian. Rescue attempts continued, with shuttles flying under heavy guard to retrieve civilians from the surface of the flaming planet below. Survivors from the other battlestars sought refuge on the Galactica, with nowhere else to turn. Out of five of the greatest warships ever built by mankind, only one survived.

It was over for the Atlantia, gone in a spectacular flash on the main screen, even as Adama tried to raise some kind of response from the devastated President. It was over as well for the Triton, the Pacifica, the Columbia. . . Out of all the great battlestars, pride of the heavens, only a handful of fighter and shuttle pilots remained. It was over for the crews, the non-coms, the commanders and mechanics and bridge officers… for all save the lucky few Viper pilots who survived the vicious battle above Cimtar.

Out there, in the void filled briefly with darting ships and laser fire, Apollo's life had ended. He'd been trapped here, forced to return without his brother and carry out his duty of warning the fleet, then immobilized by grief for a few brief centons. Those centons were enough, however, to cost him his life, because out there, in the killing field of space, Apollo's life had flown in combat against the Cylons, in form of his lover.

"I should have been there," he whispered brokenly. Part of him knew that was nonsense, knew that had he tried to launch with the Galactica's main ion engines engaged, he would have become little more than a light film drifting through space. But the guilt still remained, the voice that decreed he'd been nine kinds of fool to dock and go aboard the battlestar rather than just radioing in the emergency and holding until the wings scrambled. Had he done that. . . but he hadn't. He'd wasted precious time delivering the news in person, time which cost his brother's life. And then, when the squadrons launched, Hermes launched with them in his capacity as Blue Leader.

It was over for Hermes.

A tear worked its way free of Apollo's control, slipping down his cheek. Hermes had been his life, his love, his entire world, for three yahrens now. And now he was gone.

The abruptness of his loss showed a certain poetic justice, Apollo thought, with a detachment brought about by shock. The relationship started abruptly, out of the seeds of chaos and battle. Perhaps it amused the universe to end it in the same way, to tear the person away from Apollo who kept him alive and sane in the face of disaster… who overshadowed the pain of rejection, who made it less important than a crawlon bite that Starbuck didn't want him.

Rough hands in the dark, urgent need blinding them both to the implications of what they did, the need to feel alive, to prove that something existed worth living for and to spit in the face of death. . .

A night of casual lust and passion, followed by a surprising discovery of compatibility. . . who would have guessed it? Quiet Apollo, always so shy and reserved, even around his more flamboyant best friend Starbuck, paired up with the boisterous Captain Hermes. Eyebrows raised, comments flew, speculation ran rampant—Hades, even some bets were made on how long the relationship would last. People just couldn't believe that the wild Hermes, with his reputation as a playboy worlds away more, ahem, sophisticated than Starbuck, could settle down with the quiet Apollo, champion of solitude, the seeker of art and culture even in the stark military environment of the battlestar to which he'd been posted. But he had. . . oh, yes, he had. Three yahrens of companionship and love, three yahrens ended in an instant by a Cylon blast.

Idly, Apollo wondered how it had been. Had the Cylon snuck up behind, and taken unfair advantage? Had Hermes met the Raider head-on, with a battle cry and guns blazing? Or had it been simply an accident, a Raider taking out a stray Viper almost as an afterthought as it focused on its primary objective—one of the battlestars, maybe. That seemed very like Hermes, after all, to throw himself in where the fighting was heaviest and go out with a bang trying to make a difference.

But the only difference it made was to Apollo. Another tear leaked out, joining the first on its trek toward his collar. His life was over. He should have been out there too. His trembling hand crept toward his pocket. Eyes still fixed on the starfield, he withdrew a small vial of clear liquid, rolling it between finger and thumb for a moment. Then he tore his gaze away from the starfield and looked at it, the innocuous little tube that just might solve all his problems. He raised it, tilting it first to one side, then the other. All he had to do was open it and drink the liquid in there; not even enough to make a proper swallow, but more than enough to send him off to catch up to Hermes.

He heard something, a squeak of metal behind him. Someone cursed and the door opened. Apollo sighed and lowered the vial, concealing it from casual sight in his hand. Starbuck entered the dome with another muttered curse, slamming the door shut and peeling off the ear protectors necessary for the trek past the main engines. He looked up and saw Apollo.

"Knew you'd be here," he said, moving swiftly to join Apollo on the astrogator's platform. "How are you?"

"Anyone else asks me that question and they're gonna get shot." Apollo's voice sounded rough, but steady. Starbuck smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes, as distant and pain-filled as Apollo's own.

"Sorry, but I have to know. . . I mean, I know what happened out there." His eyes brimmed with compassion. Apollo swallowed hard and looked away.

"It's over," he said, expressionless.

"Sorry," Starbuck mumbled awkwardly. "I know he was—"

"Don't go there," Apollo interrupted. "It's over, he's dead, and it may or may not be my fault. It should have been me."

"No!" The protest burst from him, followed by a jerky motion, as though Starbuck wanted to lay a hand on his friend's arm. "Not you, Apollo—"

"Not him, dammit," Apollo snapped, feeling more tears threaten. "Nobody gives a muridon's astrum about me, I'm nothing special. He was the one who made a difference to the Fleet."

"Apollo, Apollo, don't say that," Starbuck entreated, worried eyes wide and fixed on Apollo's face. "You do matter. And I give a muridon's astrum about you, dammit! You're my best friend ever, the only one I've ever really had, how can you say that nobody cares about you? What about your family?"

"Ha!" With a sharp bitter laugh, Apollo fastened his eyes to Starbuck, once again rolling the little vial between his fingers. "My family! Zac's dead, Mother's dead… Athena and Father think I killed Zac. And besides that, family ain't all it's cracked up to be. You know how much felgercarb they've given me over the last few yahrens."

Starbuck nodded. "Yeah, but they're still your family, and they still care about you."

Apollo began tossing the vial back and forth between his hands. "Not enough to make up for my loss," he murmured.

Starbuck noticed the movement and caught the vial midtoss. "What's this?" He raised it in his hand, and a look of utter panic crossed his face. "Apollo. Say this isn't—" He opened the stopper. A sharp, distinctive scent filled the room: eradia, extract of the venom of the most poisonous predator on Aquaria, a world known for its hazardous sealife. A few drops were enough to kill a dozen people. The creature which manufactured the venom used it to dispatch seabeasts larger than a shuttlecraft.

"It is," Apollo smiled, a brittle expression reflecting his shattered self.

"But you can't—" Starbuck stopped, at a loss for words, an almost unprecedented state for him.

"Oh yes I can," Apollo contradicted flatly. He took the vial back before Starbuck realized what he intended. "I most certainly can. He's gone, Starbuck. My life is already over. The colonies are destroyed. The Fleet is destroyed. What have I got left to live for?"

"But what about me?" Starbuck blurted out, eyes wide with shock and pain.

Apollo laughed again, one of those mirthless bitter sounds that merely parodied humor. "What about you, Bucko? You can't try and tell me you give a felgercarb, not after how you've pushed me away all these yahrens."

"Away? But—Apollo—" The pain intensified in Starbuck's eyes. He closed them for a moment, head down, then swallowed and looked back up at Apollo. "I love you too, Apollo. Surely you know that! You're my best friend, my brother, my entire world. What would I do without you?"

"You'd find someone else," Apollo muttered, but he couldn't meet those pleading blue eyes. Starbuck trembled with emotion, which spoke much louder than his words. "I'm not important. Not good enough for you, not good enough for my family. . . only person I was ever good enough for is cold and dead, whatever pieces of him are left out in that battlezone. The Fleet would do well to be rid of me, too."

"Apollo, you are so full of it… look." Starbuck shifted, leaning forward with urgency. "Yeah, I know; none of us left are the great love of your life. But we do love you, and need you, me especially. You know how many officers were lost out there—even the Fleet needs you! For Sagan's sake, you're the most senior Captain left! Most of the others got taken out, trying to defend the battlestars. And no matter what your father and sister say out loud, you think they'll be thrilled to lose another family member? Frackitall, Apollo, if you can't see sense—" He broke off in frustration, raking a hand through his hair. "Look, family or no family, Fleet or no Fleet, I need you. Will you stay alive for me?"

Apollo looked at the vial of eradia for a long moment. So easy, just a little sip and he'd be gone in an instant, central nervous system short-circuited and shut down in less than a heartbeat, complete death within two microns. And then he wouldn't need to sit here and listen to Starbuck, his first love, go on about how he needed him, all the while ready to short circuit and run if Apollo so much as laid a hand on him. . . Wouldn't need to worry about the fate of the decimated Fleet, or the surviving colonists, wouldn't need to face life without Hermes. Life without love, with only the oblivious idiot beside him now. . . He sighed and looked up into Starbuck's eyes, searching for a reason to live. What he saw startled him, and made him slowly set the vial down on the astrogator's console.

Starbuck leaned forward, muscles taught and quivering, eyes intent on Apollo's face. He clenched the edge of the platform so tightly his knuckles showed white, but that didn't still the shaking. But his eyes… his eyes. The raw emotion on his face, the pain burning in his tear-filled eyes, touched a spot deep within Apollo. Looking at his best friend, whom he'd loved since youth, he knew he couldn't do it. "Damn you," he said, without heat. "You always could make me do things against my better judgment."

"You mean. . . ?" Cautious hope dawned over the tense features, and Starbuck held his breath.

"I mean I don't need this after all." Apollo handed the vial to Starbuck. He took it, fingers brushing Apollo's hand, then took a deep breath and pulled Apollo into a rough embrace. He released Apollo just as abruptly, with a fleeting look of panic, then stoppered and pocketed the little vial.

"Thank you." Relief transformed his face into a thing of beauty. "Thank you."

"Yeah, well. . . you just better not make me regret it, that's all I have to say." Apollo lifted the corner of his mouth in a token effort to smile. Starbuck's answering grin lit up the entire Dome.

"Apollo. . . " Starbuck said, shaking his head, "You wouldn't know what to do without me giving you Hades. Now come on, let's go back. I hear tell they're doubling us up in sleeping quarters."

Apollo experienced a flash of memory, that morning, waking in Hermes' arms, and flinched. This wasn't going to be easy. "Okay, old buddy, but only for you."

Starbuck smiled. He understood.

Chapter 2

Beeeeeeep!

Apollo groaned and fumbled for his alarm. Starbuck voiced a sleepy protest from the longseat.

"Will you shut that thing off?"

"Trying," Apollo grunted. His fingers felt swollen and clumsy as sausages. He jabbed at what might be the right button, then sighed when the noise silenced.

"It's too early to wake up, Apollo," Starbuck accused around a yawn. "Why'd you set the frackin' thing so early?"

"Lotta frackin' work," Apollo forced the words out. His throat never cooperated with him first thing in the morning, the real reason behind his habitual silence until at least two cups of caff passed his lips. But for Starbuck, he'd make the effort to be something approaching civilized. He groaned as he pushed himself upright, forcing his legs out of their cozy warm cocoon and putting his body into a more-or-less sitting position. The man was right, this was no time to be awake. Especially after last night's problem ambush on his way back to their—no, his—no, their, his and Starbuck's, quarters.

The despair dropped down on him full force then and Apollo shut his eyes. So what if Starbuck sat there on the multiseat, blinking sleepy eyes in adorable little boy fashion? It wasn't Hermes, the man who belonged there. Hermes would never wake up again.

Tears welled up in Apollo's eyes, but he blinked them away and forced the emotion aside. Yesterday, he'd decided to live, and that meant that today he had a Hades-crafted mess on his hands.

First things first. Apollo used his willpower to get his body moving. Once he got going, inertia kept him moving, until twenty centons later he stood in uniform, theoretically ready to face the day.

"Starbuck?"

"Huh?"

The sound came from the Starbuck-shaped lump under the blanket on the multiseat. Apollo shook his head, sipped his caff, and poked his best estimate of the lieutenant's rump with the toe of his boot. An offended squawk met his effort.

"What'd you do that for?"

"You need to get up, buddy. It's time to face the day. Meet me in my office in half a centare."

He didn't wait for a response, just turned, staggering slightly, and headed for his office.

Last night's incident seemed almost amusing, now that he'd had—what, four centares sleep? Something like that. Someone stashed a batch of refugees in the Viper bay and hadn't told anyone where the sanitary facilities were. Poor people.

Apollo nodded to himself. First order of business today, get in touch with Environmental. How in all levels of Hades would the battlestar's recycling capabilities deal with the sudden influx of people?

There sat his office now, empty. No Hermes to share the burden today… He closed the door behind him and gave his terminal a suspicious glare. As soon as he touched it, Apollo knew, it would start spewing urgent messages at him.

No hope for it. The job must be done. He strode purposefully across the floor, sat in his uncomfortable, creaky chair, and hit the power button on the monitor.

Sure enough, the screen resolved into life around no less than twenty flashing urgent messages and fifty-seven other requests. Apollo sighed and made a note to himself on the sticky pad about the environmental systems. He stuck the note to the corner of the monitor, then dove in to the urgent messages.

When Starbuck arrived, Apollo waved him over to Hermes's terminal and told him to get to work, ignoring Starbuck's protests. He also ignored the whimpering response inside himself to seeing that familiar blond head bent over the keyboard in place of that familiar dark head. Hermes was gone, his life ended in a blaze of glory, taking Apollo's heart with it… but that didn't change the fact that Apollo had decided to live. For now.

Fully half of the urgent messages proved nothing of the sort. Apollo deleted them in disgust. Whining about extra people, sharing quarters, blah blah blah… not important. The truly important things he organized into Urgent, Important, and Soon.

"Urgent," he muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing, Starbuck. Go back to work. And by the way, you've got Red. For now. I'll take Blue."

He glanced out of the corner of his eye and saw Starbuck slack-jawed in surprise for perhaps three microns. Then, wisely, he shut his mouth and bent his head back over the terminal.

First order of business: his father had dumped responsibility squarely on his head for defense and also organizing civilians and incoming refugees into some kind of quarters. Apollo checked the log. Yes, he'd thought so, he did post a duty roster of pilots to fly two-centare shifts, recon and defense, before he'd passed out.

But why did only a third of the names show green, signifying pilots on duty? The others flashed, indicating pilots off the duty roster.

Apollo frowned and called up one of the flashers. Vulpa, Red Squadron, medical leave. Medical leave? And same for the next, and the next… each of the flashing names led to a medical excuse.

Apollo jammed his finger at the comboard. "Dr. Salik? Are you there?"

A harried voice replied. "Yes, Captain. What is it? Make it quick, I'm busy."

"Why are two-thirds of my pilots down on medical leave?"

"Because they're unfit for duty. Is that all?"

"No. Wait a centon here, Doctor. All of these pilots were physically fit at the time I made up this roster. What ails them?"

"Physically fit, yes. Mentally fit, no. Now if you want to know more, feel free to come down here, but for now I'm in the middle of a medical emergency that's been going on for the last twenty centares."

The comline closed with an aggressive click.

Apollo stared at it, bemused. Mentally fit? What was that supposed to mean?

Medical resided on the opposite side of the battlestar from Environmental. Damn. Apollo shrugged and pushed away from his desk.

Starbuck looked at him.

"I'm going to check out why physically fit pilots are being granted medical leave. Hold down the fort until I get back."

Apollo escaped before Starbuck could come up with any reasons to accompany him. Who would ever believe Apollo would try to get away from Starbuck? But for the moment, he felt the need to be alone.

Medical presented a scene of complete chaos. People rushed about, weaving between makeshift pallets on the floor and dodging each other with innate grace. Apollo tried to get a quick head count, then gave it up as useless. Dr. Salik must have found some volunteers, though, because he saw more active bodies than the regular staff could account for.

Apollo spotted the doctor himself, leaning against a wall with his eyes closed, rubbing his forehead. The man looked exhausted, lines of weariness etched into his face. For the first time Apollo could remember, his lab coat showed signs of wear, rumpled and stained. Apollo wove his way through the bustle and reached the doctor just as he opened his eyes.

"I knew you'd be here, Captain. This way."

With that, the doctor set off at a rapid pace. Apollo followed.

"I put them all in the ready room," Dr. Salik said as they walked. "I wanted to keep them in the same place for observation. Not one of them is fit to fly, nor should they be left alone. I don't think anyone's actively suicidal, but it's better to keep them all together, just in case."

Apollo winced. Actively suicidal. Would the doctor consider him fit for duty if he knew what almost happened yesterday?

The pilots were unnaturally silent. That struck Apollo as soon as the door to the ready room opened. Put a crowd of pilots together anywhere, and it would be a rowdy bunch, even without Starbuck or Hermes present. Pilots away from combat always exhibited more self-confidence and sheer enjoyment of life than ordinary folk. But not these.

Dr. Salik stopped the Captain when he would have gone straight into the room and demanded information.

"They're all pretty fragile right now, Captain. Go easy on them. They've suffered an intense shock and severe emotional trauma. The wounds may not be visible, but they're certainly still painful."

With that, the doctor left.

"Hello," Apollo said, uncomfortable. He'd intended to jump right in and demand to know why nobody was out flying patrol when they were obviously all healthy. But the doctor's comment about suicide, coupled with the haunted stares turned upon him now, threw him off balance. He scanned the faces, some familiar, some new, looking for someone capable.

There, a familiar face. "Boomer? What's going on here?"

No response. Boomer just continued to sit on the bench against the far wall, twisting something between his hands over and over again. Apollo crossed the room and went down on one knee, studying his friend's face. The blankness shook him to the core.

Boomer had been there from the very beginning, back when they were all a batch of green youngsters in the first yahren at the Colonial Warrior Training Academy. Apollo remembered him then, a scrawny, energetic kid with the unlikely name of Clarence Thomas. It's a family name, he would say, every time someone would comment or even just raise an eyebrow. Been in the family for generations. I'm number 1046. Boy, was that kid ever glad when he hit a growth spurt and people gave him the nickname Boomer, for being so big the floors boomed when he walked…

Apollo blinked away the memory of happy young Boomer and concentrated on the silent man before him now. His friend gave no indication of seeing him, none at all. He just continued staring at nothing and twisting something between his hands. Apollo recognized it now, a hat Boomer's mother made long ago with her own two hands, so her space-faring son would be sure to always keep his ears warm.

"Boomer?"

"Leave me alone, Apollo. I'm the last."

"I'm sorry," Apollo said, clasping a solid, heavy-muscled shoulder. "I know. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You can leave me alone. Let me deal with this my own way."

Apollo backed away, rocked by the intensity in Boomer's voice. He looked around the room, chose someone at random.

"Fallon? Why are you here?"

Apollo stayed in the ready room for close to two centares, until his father's aide found him, listening to personal stories of horror and despair.

Fallon, the young daredevil, who tried to get in his Viper and fly his patrol, only to find himself shaking and sweating, in the grip of powerful hysterics. Delion, who hadn't been able to stop weeping since she reached her home on the surface of Caprica and found her family's burned bodies gathered around the vidset in what remained of the common room. Raven, raging against the universe… his wife and newborn son, born only fourteen centares before the attacks, lost in the medical facilities of the Atlantia.

When the aide reached Apollo and relayed the message that his father wanted him, he followed willingly. Each person he spoke to, each story he heard, increased his own sense of shame and his desire to help these people. Shame because of his own selfishness, wanting to take his own life because he couldn't face going on without his lover. But he still had a life, if only he felt willing to acknowledge it. Father, sister, and best friend all still lived, and he knew this for a fact, not just a "maybe they survived, I know there's survivors from Gemon out there somewhere and some still on the planet, but…"

And he also had the opportunity, the duty, to help fix this mess. None of these suffering souls could do that. And he'd been willing to throw that away in a heartbeat… no more. Yes, Hermes was gone. Yes, he'd lost mother, brother, and countless other relatives as well. But he still lived, and he had more than most after the attacks.

"Captain," Adama barked as soon as Apollo walked into his office. "I've had you paged three times. Where were you?"

"Sir." Apollo snapped to attention. "I was speaking with my pilots, most of whom are off the roster on medical leave."

"Well, that's fine, but I need to be able to reach you. From now on, you carry a damn comlink with you."

Apollo's eyes widened. He couldn't remember ever hearing his father swear while in uniform before, and almost never even out of uniform. Something must be really wrong. Then he almost laughed at himself. Humanity all but destroyed, and here he wondered what bothered dear old Dad.

"Yes, sir," he said. "What is it?"

"Your Lieutenant Starbuck's doing wonders with organizing the squadrons, but that can't be a permanent solution. We can't have a Lieutenant in a command position. I want you to either find someone that's already got the rank, or consider Starbuck, or another worthy officer, for promotion."

"Yes, sir." Apollo nodded, while he wondered how Starbuck would take that. Best not to tell him. Every time he'd been up for promotion in the past, he'd gone and done something excessively stupid that ensured he'd remain at the rank of Lieutenant indefinitely.

"I've decided I gave you too much work when I assigned you to defense and organizing the civilians. I've found someone else to take on the civilian problem. I want you to concentrate on defense."

"Thank you, sir. Has anyone checked with Environmental to see what they need with so many extra people on board?"

Adama shook his head and ran a hand through his silvery hair. "No, and that's one more urgent problem no one thought about. Would you mind…?"

"I'd already planned on it. Anything else?"

"Yes. I've got someone working on housing civilians, I told you that, but I've no one working on how to fit extra pilots in the pilot's quarters. That's your job. And as a general rule, there are no more private quarters on the ship, at least until we get organized. Understood?"

Apollo mentally kissed his spacious private suite goodbye and nodded.

"Then get to work. There's no time to spare. And remember that comlink."

Apollo left the bridge and went straight to Environmental. He sought out the Chief Environmentalist and found him up to the elbows in green slime.

"Chief Anson? I'd like a word with you, if I may."

"Just a micron," the man grunted, straining at something unseen beneath the tank full of slime.

Then Apollo heard a click and the Chief relaxed and smiled, withdrawing his arms from the green stuff. "Captain. What can I do for you?"

"I think the question is more like what can I do for you?" Apollo said, with a wry twist to his mouth. "I came to see if there's anything needed down here to cope with the additional load of people."

"Figures would be appreciated," Chief Anson responded, wiping his hands on a somewhat clean towel from a nearby counter. "How many people are here, exactly? And how many more are expected? And what's our estimated flight time?"

"Right." Apollo reached for his comlink, remembered he didn't have it, then remembered his father hadn't told him who to contact anyway. He made a note on his handcomp instead. "Anything else?"

"Right now, we're only at half capacity for water. We've stepped up algae production, so we should be fine on air for a while, but we really need water. I know that without even knowing the figures."

"Water." Apollo frowned. "We may still be over the colony worlds, but I don't think there will be any water coming from them. The radion levels are entirely too high in the atmosphere to trust any water from the surface. The Cylons were too thorough in their attack."

"Damn." The Chief sighed. "That's it, then. Get me those specific figures, and I'll be able to do my job properly. I can't really tell you what else is needed until I know the details of the situation."

"Understood. I'll get right on it."

"Thank you, Captain."

Apollo nodded and left. He stopped at a comstation in the main corridor and called his father, passing along the requests from Environmental, then he returned to his office to find his comlink and get to work on the pilot problem.

What to do, what to do… Starbuck had done a head count. Active Viper pilots, sixty-three. Inactive Viper pilots, one hundred six. Active shuttle pilots, thirty-seven, and how they'd collected almost every shuttle pilot serving all the battlestars Apollo would love to know. Had every one of them been in flight at the time of the attack? Inactive shuttle pilots, three. Perhaps they hadn't experienced as much trauma as the fighter pilots, since they just made a run for the nearest shelter and hid during the battle.

That made a total of two hundred and nine pilots. Apollo frowned at his terminal. The Galactica housed eighty pilots comfortably, with a combination of barracks, semi-private, and private quarters. And to make things more interesting, most of the shuttle pilots currently aboard were women. Ordinarily, female Viper pilots got semi-private quarters, shared with up to four other women, because there just weren't that many to deal with. The service tended to route all but the most outstanding pilots into less-hazardous shuttle duty, quartered in the main body of the battlestar. Apollo wasn't sure if he agreed with that policy or not, since every female pilot he'd known showed much greater skill than the average man, but that was just the way it went.

So. Lots and lots of women. And even more men. Apollo sighed.

First, split the barracks. He wanted all the pilots, shuttle and fighter, together. Each pod of the Galactica came with a barracks consisting of twenty beds, sanitary facilities, and a common room. One for boys, one for girls. Put the men in Pod Alpha, near the main Viper bays, and the women in Pod Beta, near the main shuttle bays. That would be certain to aggravate his few female Viper pilots to no end, but too bad, it made sense.

That gave him forty beds filled. What about the other hundred-plus people?

"Apollo?"

"Yeah?" Apollo quit staring off into space and focused on Starbuck.

"Just remembered, one of the Commander's aides came to say we've been officially relieved of our quarters. Officer's quarters are all going to families, since they're larger and better equipped."

"Damn. Nothing I didn't expect, though. How's it going with the schedule?"

"It's going. I've got the sixty-three active pilots on a rotating eight centare schedule, so there's always twenty-one flying and twenty-one ready to take off within five centons. They're covering the gathering and the SAR operations."

"Rotating… Starbuck, you're a genius!" Apollo grinned. That solved his problem quite handily. Rotate pilots through the barracks and the number of beds multiplied. Wouldn't work well with the women's side… no, wait. Put other female officers in there also, freeing up more officers' quarters for families.

"I know I am," Starbuck grinned back. "What do you think about training shuttle pilots for Viper duty?"

Apollo blinked. "Wouldn't the girls just love that… It might be necessary. We've certainly got enough of them, and I've already lumped 'em all together in quarters. I'll see if I can get Colonel Tigh to authorize it. Once we get under way, we'll need all the Vipers we can get flying cover and patrol. And I don't know that some of the inactive pilots will ever recover enough to fly in combat."

"Too bad."

Apollo got back to work on the housing problem. Using Starbuck's rotating schedule, he managed to put all the pilots in the barracks, although he did reserve a semi-private room for himself, Starbuck, and the seconds from each squadron. Rank hath some privilege, after all.

Chapter 3

One secton after the Cylon attack, two hundred and forty-six spaceships of varying design and capability hung in space above the burning wreck of Caprica. Smoke swirled through the upper atmosphere of the planet, pushed by superheated cyclonic winds, sometimes parting to allow a glimpse of surface flames.

How long would it burn? Adama wondered, staring at the smoke on the Galactica's main viewscreen. Then he switched the comlink on to the frequency agreed on for fleet-wide communications.

"Survivors, it is now time for departure. Let us go forward and not look back."

He signalled the helm to start on their new course, but did not follow his own advice. He watched Caprica through the rear scanners until nothing but a tiny speck remained. How many times had he left the planet behind as he journeyed into space? Hundreds, easily. And not once had he thought twice about it, because it would always be there when he returned.

But this time there would be no return.

Adama closed his eyes and said a brief prayer before leaving the bridge crew to get on with their work: Lords, stay with us now, and give us Your guidance, because we need You.

Outside, Vipers darted through space. Starbuck and Apollo flew farthest out, the rest of the twenty-four pilots available this shift flew crisscross patterns over and under the refugee fleet, with two holding steady at the rear.

"Tell me again why we're in the perfect position for ambush?"

Starbuck's voice sounded petulant in Apollo's helmet, but he knew the other man just felt like putting on a show. "You know why, you glory-hound. It's because flying the most dangerous mission gets you the greatest rewards."

"Oh, is that it? I thought you just wanted to get us both killed."

An awkward pause stretched out. The memory of the near-miss after the battle hung in space, the little bottle of eradia nearly visible between the Vipers.

"Not this time, my friend," Apollo said softly. "Not this time."

They flew silently for some time after that, each lost in his own thoughts. Apollo wondered what Hermes would have done, faced with this situation of setting off into space with no known destination, shepherding a pack of barely spaceworthy civilian ships. Because of the highly mobile nature of the Vipers, the Commander ordered the fighter pilots to conduct surveys of the fleet ships before departure, to collect information and check for unsafe conditions. A shiver gripped Apollo's spine as he remembered some of those conditions. He'd found one real bastard of a captain who'd charged fifty cubits per person for passage on his ship, then set up the passengers in overcrowded cargo holds with no sanitary facilities and no water at all. And to make the poor passengers even more miserable, the substandard shielding on the cargo bays barely functioned, leaving them icy cold and with radion levels right at the borderline of human tolerance. He wondered what happened to the man, once Apollo turned him over to the Commander. Hopefully something unpleasant.

The survey results presented the absolute, unshakable knowledge that people would die on this journey. Inadequate food, inadequate water, dire overcrowding, lack of reliable communications, and overstressed environmental systems… it would take a miracle from God Himself to get everyone safely to the mythical Planet Earth.

"Huh." Apollo couldn't stop the sound of disgust, even if he'd wanted to. Earth. Chasing after a fairy tale in unsafe ships, clinging to a faith with no basis in reality… Did his father think the Lords of Kobol would put a series of flashing arrows along the way, pointing out the route? Earth, this way! Not too likely.

"Apollo," Starbuck's tense voice broke into his reflections. "What's that?"

Apollo shook his mind free of cynical thoughts and looked at his scanner. Three little blips flickered in and out, indicating something just barely in range.

"Looks like we've got company, Starbuck. Keep an eye on them while I radio Core."

Apollo reported the blips and requested a long-range scan.

The results came back within five centons, along with new orders.

"Patrol craft, switch course to new heading 243.65.170 by 33.180.9. Scans show significant Cylon presence along previous heading. Confirm."

Apollo repeated the new heading as he programmed it into his computer, then passed the info to Starbuck. Maybe the Lords would put out signs, after all, although who knew where they would lead.

For now, worry about getting safely to the edge of the Cluster, without losing any more ships to the Cylons. That posed a big enough problem to start with.

Chapter 4

"Captain Apollo, Lieutenant Starbuck, please report to the bridge."

The page caught both of them by surprise. They sat in the overcrowded ready room, watching the newly-formed Inter-Fleet Broadcasting on the vid while they waited their turn in the closet-sized sleeping cubicle they shared in shifts with four other pilots. So far, most of what the IFB aired depicted what they now called the Destruction. People turned up with an amazing amount of footage of the actual Cylon attacks on the colony worlds, and IFB showed it obsessively, in between interviews with survivors and speculation as to what the future held in store for humanity. Then they'd show some footage of people gathering for the Exodus, then right back to the images of devastation and suffering. Never mind that the ragged, barely-spaceworthy Fleet had been underway for several days now. The Destruction itself still seemed the most newsworthy recent event.

"The bridge?" Starbuck looked at Apollo, one eyebrow raised. "Why am I getting called to the bridge?"

"I have no idea," Apollo replied, rising from the hard seating unit. "Maybe because our opinions are trusted?"

Starbuck rose as well and followed Apollo out of the ready room. "Yeah, right, I can believe that of you, but me? My opinion is trusted?"

"Well, maybe they've just realized they're going to get stuck with you anyways, if they call me down there."

Starbuck favored Apollo with one of those shy smiles that always made his heart skip a few beats. "I guess we do kind of come as a set."

"Yeah." They reached the turbolift and directed it upwards, towards the bridge. It opened onto an unexpected, crowded scene.

Apollo dodged through the confused-looking mass of civilians milling about in the vestibule. "What the frack are they doing on the command level, anyway?" he muttered.

"Beats the frack out of me," Starbuck replied, in an undertone. Then they reached the door to the bridge and were passed through by the guard.

Once through the door, both men stopped and stared in awe. An interstellar fog swirled across the main viewscreen, clouding a star-birthing arena filled with hot young stars and pulsating, swirling discs of protostellar matter.

"By all the Lords of Kobol," Apollo breathed. For once, Starbuck stood quiet at his side. They'd both seen it before, but the Grand Nebula seen up close and personal always presented a breathtaking sight.

"Ah yes, Captain Apollo," Commander Adama's voice cut through their awe. Apollo wrenched his gaze away from the viewscreen with difficulty. His father caught his eye and made a slight, but significant, motion with his head towards a small cluster of men off to one side of the viewscreen.

At least half of the Sires serving as the temporary Council stood there, looking neat and tidy despite the acute state of emergency. Apollo bit down hard on the urge to swear and nodded, letting his father know he'd seen them.

"There's a bit of a dilemma here, Captain," Adama said. "Gentlemen," he called, attracting the attention of the acting Councillors. "Captain Apollo and one of his best pilots have arrived. Would you care to put your question to them, as they are by far the most qualified to judge matters concerning small spacecraft?"

"Of course," Sire Uri spoke up, his air of self-importance somewhat diminished by the normal bridge activity, which continued to flow around him with no sign of interruption. "This obstacle lies in our path. We must cross it. But our wise Commander here says this course of action is unsafe. Is this so?"

"Cross it? You must be out of your mind!" Starbuck looked at the Sire for a moment, eyebrows aloft with surprise, then went back to staring at the viewscreen. "Why, the temperature alone in there must be enough to ignite a ship, let alone all the gasses and superheated particles and such."

"Starbuck!" Apollo spoke sharply, but Starbuck stood close enough to see the twinkle in his eye. "What the Lieutenant was trying to say in his incredibly tactless manner," Apollo said, facing the Sires, "is that this region of space is very dangerous to unshielded ships. The only reason we've even approached this close to it is because our ability to jump is hampered by the slower civilian vessels. There is no way, short of jumping, that the fleet could pass through this sector safely. We must skirt it at a safe distance."

"That's exactly what I was trying to tell you, you fatuous oaf!" A new voice spoke up, coming from a rumpled form hunched over a computer. Dr. Wilker looked up at Uri with a frown. "There are countless newborn stars in there. There are dozens of protostars on the verge of reaching critical mass. And more than that, the stunning bands of color you see? Those are bands of superheated gasses, just like the Lieutenant observed. Any one of those bands could melt a ship instantly."

"Could, you say," Uri responded. "Not would. Not will. I say the Fleet should continue on course and pass through. There is a clear region, is there not?"

Reluctantly, Adama nodded. "There is an extremely narrow corridor, occasionally used by Tigers setting up ambushes. But it is simply not safe."

"Bring us in closer to this corridor," Uri ordered imperiously. Apollo found himself fervently hoping the overbearing Sire did not gain permanent appointment to the Council. "If it is not safe, then prove it to me."

"Very well." Adama sighed. "Helm, bring us to minimum safe distance from Tiger Corridor One."

"Aye, sir."

Apollo swallowed hard. He had bad memories from that corridor. All cadets at the Academy served a short term on a Tiger. His Tiger, the Catspaw, had been assigned to this sector and took a bad loss while he served on board. The Cylons surprised them with an ambush, a situation with a certain ironic humor to it since the Catspaw had been en route to ambush a Cylon freight convoy, and the ship took heavy damage. They limped into Corridor One to lay low and rig some repairs, but the usually safe corridor experienced a vicious radion surge. The shielding on the damaged Tiger proved unequal to the challenge. The crew members who weren't cooked outright suffered sectons of side effects—nausea, blurred vision, headaches vicious enough to make even a Warrior wish himself dead—a nasty situation all around.

The clear corridor loomed closer.

At the computer, Dr. Wilker made excited noises, becoming increasingly more audible and more coherent. Finally, he looked up again. "Commander, you have to stop the fleet. Now."

"Nonsense," Uri protested, even as Adama ordered the all stop. The fleet drifted to a halt, silent ships taking their cue from those equipped to hear the order.

"What is the meaning of this?" Uri demanded of Adama, ignoring Wilker.

"Commander, get those fools away from there!" Wilker pointed at the viewscreen, where a civilian ship neared the edge of the corridor.

"Tigh, get on it," Adama ordered. "What is wrong, Dr. Wilker?"

"According to these readings, there is a micro black hole on the verge of the corridor. Any closer, and—" he broke off, staring at the ship on the screen. It started to sway back and forth, as if caught in a strong current. The strain it experienced showed so vividly onscreen that Apollo could almost hear the tortured scream of its engines. Then it broke free with a wrench, retreating to a safe distance.

"And how badly did you want to go through there, Sire Uri?" Starbuck asked, irrepressible as always.

"Starbuck!" Apollo hissed, hard put not to laugh.

"Sires, this incident should provide ample proof that our concerns are valid," Adama spoke up. "Our best pilots say it is dangerous, our leading scientist says it's dangerous, and now the evidence of the danger is before your very eyes. Now the fleet must go around this hazardous area. We have no viable alternative. Are you agreed?"

The Sires muttered among themselves, then Wilker's startled sound broke them away from their discussion.

"That protostar! It's going to—"

Just then, one of the protostars reached critical mass. Jets of superheated material began shooting out of its poles, and its surface began to ignite.

"Positive shield, now!" Adama barked. "All vessels, full reverse. Clear the area."

A blinding surge of light, visible for long microns as the shield closed, cut short Wilker's protest that he wanted to see. "A star is born," he said, awed.

"I trust there will be no more talk of traversing this sector?" Adama asked, one eloquent eyebrow raised.

The other Councillors overruled Uri and left the bridge, Uri still protesting all the way.

With the last Sire gone, Adama rubbed his eyes. "Damn fools," he muttered. "You did well, son. Thank you."

"Anytime, Father. Is there anything more you needed?"

"Not at the moment. You can get back to whatever this idiocy dragged you away from." Adama resumed his command chair, already putting the incident behind him and getting back to the business of running the battlestar.

"That was incredible. I've never seen a star ignite before," Starbuck said, as they made their way off the bridge. Then, "Damn!"

"Watch your language, sir!" a woman scolded, retrieving her toddler from Starbuck's path.

"All right, what's going on here? Are all you people supposed to be here?" Apollo raised his voice to be heard over the sound of children playing a game of tag in the vestibule.

"This is where they sent us when our ship gave out, so this is where we’ll stay," an older man growled belligerently. "Not like there's anywhere else to put us, even on this overgrown cruiser."

"Well, at least try to keep it down," Apollo said, reminded once again of all that had been lost. "This is the command deck, after all, and you don't want to interfere with running the ship. Let's go, Starbuck."

"This sucks," Starbuck commented, once the lift doors slid safely closed.

Apollo sighed. "I know it does. But what can we do? Father's got everyone who can be spared working very hard on organizing this chaos, including some civilians."

"I know, but. . . civilians on a battlestar. It just ain't right, you know? Not to mention carrying at least twice our normal troop complement."

"Yeah, I know. It's no picnic. But we'll survive, right?"

Starbuck looked at Apollo for a long moment, blue eyes searching green for any fresh sign of self-destructiveness. "Yes, we will. As long as we're together."

"As long as we're together," Apollo repeated softly. The lift door slid open, back on the troop deck. He reached out and gave Starbuck's shoulder a squeeze as they moved into the corridor.

But Starbuck flinched away from even that slight contact, and Apollo just shook his head. Why did he ever even bother to hope?

Chapter 5

The alarm sounded what felt like mere centons after Apollo's head hit his pillow. He fumbled and cursed his way into his uniform, or at least he hoped it was his, and heard Starbuck doing the same.

They staggered into a run together out in the corridor, joined by other groggy pilots on the third-shift-sleep schedule.

"What's going on?"

"No clue," Apollo grunted. Who asked the question? Did it matter? "Find out in Viper bay."

Actually, Apollo found out in the launch tube. Core came online and told the pilots readying for launch that the lead scouts had flown right into an ambush.

Apollo made a mental note to find out who those scouts were and chew them out if they survived.

Then he made another note to check on who oversaw the third-shift-duty pilots, because he or she should have chosen more alert advance scouts.

Too late for further mental notetaking; an incoming flight of Raiders showed on his screen.

"Bastards!" Starbuck exclaimed.

"Yeah. They ever going to let us sleep?"

Four attacks in three days. That didn't count the setups advance scouts spotted in time to avoid. Apollo suspected the Cylons of herding the humans in a direction they chose, probably towards one or more basestars. The number of Raiders present in the attacks certainly seemed to indicate the presence of more than one basestar. Did the Cylons enjoy limitless resources?

Apollo tried to focus his tired mind on the battle. Raiders slipped here, there, everywhere. Bolts of laser fire crisscrossed space in a crackling energy storm. Tired pilots made dead pilots, Apollo reminded himself. But even adrenaline could only improve performance so much. Apollo knew his reactions were slowed, his accuracy down.

The problem reached beyond him, Apollo knew. Each engagement took a higher toll than the last, in Vipers, civilian ships, or both. All the pilots felt worn down, tired, prone to mistakes. Even as he twisted his Viper out of the way of a Raider's fire, Apollo wondered if there were some nearby world where they could rest and recuperate for a few days before moving on.

But all the outlying worlds, the resorts and mining colonies and independent business ventures, had been blasted just as thoroughly as the homeworlds. Apollo jerked his mind back on track yet again and shot a Raider on a collision course with him. If he couldn't pay attention, he'd be nothing but a smoking wreck too.

And Apollo didn't want that to happen anymore.

"Starbuck? Where are you at?"

"Behind you, buddy. How's things up front?"

"Pretty nasty. I could be mistaken, but aren't those Raiders over there targeting the only water tanker we've got?"

"Holy frack! Confirm that, Captain. We going?"

"We're all going. Everybody, listen up—drop what you're doing and defend that tanker!"

The concentrated Viper response saved the precious water tanker, but the holes in the defense cost three passenger ships. Apollo ordered the pilots to spread out once the Cylons gave up on the tanker, far too late to spare the civilians.

Fortunately for every human in the fleet, the Cylons pulled out when over half their ranks had been destroyed.

Apollo led the remaining Vipers back to the Galactica and hoped Colonel Tigh wouldn't rip on him too hard for losing civilian ships.

But what to do? The simple truth was, at this point, the water held more value than civilians. Even though human life was precious, even though the species must go on, that water was absolutely vital to survival…

Well, he'd deal with the astrum-chewing when it came. For now, he must get his weary bones to his office and make another damned report.

Chapter 6

Silence.

Absolute and complete silence.

For one long micron that seemed to stretch out into eternity, the entire ragtag fleet of survivors became silent. Faces everywhere reflected sorrow and pain as all relived the moment, exactly one sectar ago to the centon, when the Cylons attacked the homeworlds.

Apollo felt tears prickle in eyes which had wept silently far too often over the preceding sectons. One sectar ago, he'd been with his brother, who'd been alive, healthy and exuberantly happy. But that cheerful and carefree life had been snuffed out without thought, destroyed in the first wave of Cylon attackers even as the strikes began on the homeworlds.

He wondered how it had been for his mother, back on Caprica. Had she been in the square, ready to celebrate the peace? Or had she been at home, ever the practical one, with no desire to spend the evening in the cold, shivering while all around her people got drunk and toasted their age-old enemies for bringing an end to the war at last.

War. . . just a word to those innocents in the colonies. War was something the Fleet went off and fought at a safe distance, launching their attacks from the great battle platforms stationed in a vast defensive ring around the colony worlds. War never affected them directly. Why should it? They were civilians, agriculturalists, businessmen, artists. War had nothing to do with them.

Until the treachery of the Cylons struck home, that is.

"Friends," the voice of the Kobolian High Prelate interrupted his thoughts. Heads raised all around, as the people gathered in the makeshift Temple returned their attention to the present moment. "We have gathered here today to remember and mourn the loss of our loved ones, one sectar ago this day. People of all faiths, all creeds, all beliefs, all of us share one thing in common: loss. Be you Kobolian, Diwest, Delphic, a Child of Gaea, or even a non-believer. . . we are all brothers today. Over the last sectar, we have struggled to cope with our losses, to deal with each day as we grow accustomed to the knowledge that our loved ones are no longer available to us, that our homes have been destroyed and lie thousands of metrons behind us in ashes and ruin. And yet," he paused, and looked over the crowd with a gaze that seemed to focus on each individual present, "We have survived. The Cylons have not won. Their foul treachery destroyed our homes, our loved ones, our very ways of life. But they have not destroyed us. Humanity continues. Although we have been dealt a crushing blow, our spirits carry on, indomitable. We suffered devastation, but as long as the human spirit lives on, the Cylons will never achieve the final victory."

The Prelate paused again, this time looking down at the improvised altar before him for a long moment. When he looked back up, his eyes sparkled with unshed tears, and his voice, while still strong, trembled with emotion. "And now, my friends, I would like to give you this opportunity to share with us memories of your loved ones, that we may celebrate their lives and ensure that they will never be forgotten."

Apollo closed his eyes and swallowed hard as the first person stepped up to speak in a halting voice of a loved one. Faces drifted before his mind's eye. Hermes. Zac. His mother. His grandparents, two aunts, his uncle and seven cousins from his father's side. His other grandmother. His mother's brother, with wife and child. The neighbors he grew up with. The people he went to school with. . .

"Apollo?"

Starbuck's voice jolted him out of the procession of faces and names. He looked at his friend, standing beside him as always. "What?"

"Are you going to speak up there?" Starbuck looked uncomfortable.

"No, I don't think so. Why?"

"Because, I don't want to be disrespectful or anything, but I'd kind of like to get out of here. Can we go?"

"Go where?"

"Anywhere. I just—I can't—"

Apollo looked at Starbuck for a long moment, then shrugged. "Whatever. I can remember the dead just as well wherever I am. Lead on."

Relief spread across Starbuck's features like a sunrise. "Thanks." He turned away and began threading his way through the crowd. Apollo followed.

As they made their way down the long aisle left clear, roughly through the middle of the crowd, Apollo could hear his father's words accompanying them. Adama spoke of his son, his beloved wife, his military family destroyed in the space above Cimtar… then he went on to speak of faith. Because we need it now, he said, we need faith to keep us strong. We've begun this new journey, and we need to know that someone is watching over us and will guide us along the way.

Easy for him to say. Apollo wrinkled his face in an expression of disgust, then smoothed it back to neutral. The rejection by the Kobolian Church still rankled after all these yahrens. The Church rejoiced in narrow-mindedness and refused to accept any deviation from their strict norm.

Once free of the converted docking bay, Starbuck sped up. Apollo stretched his legs to keep up. They made their way through the eerily quiet battlestar. Even the children stayed quiet, catching the somber mood of the adults that couldn't fit in the makeshift temple. Apollo could see banners of the Colonies everywhere, cobbled together out of scraps, supplemented by the new proposed Fleet banner and black ribbons. He wondered once again how merchants managed to produce the little "In Remembrance" pins that sold hotly all over the fleet. Hurtling through deep space, under near-constant attack by Cylons, and with little or no raw materials available, the merchants still managed to cash in. . .

They reached their shared quarters. This was supposedly their sleep period, so the room stood empty. Starbuck flung himself onto his bunk, leaving Apollo to lock the door.

"Want to tell me what's wrong, buddy?" Apollo asked, settling in the room's only chair. He briefly regretted the loss of the more spacious apartment he'd shared with Hermes, but still agreed readily enough that a family with children needed the four room suite more than a pair of bachelors did. Hence, the single sleeping room, sparsely furnished with a double-decker bunk, a writing table, and a chair. At least they got private sanitary facilities.

"Nothing," Starbuck replied. "It's just… it's ridiculous, really."

"What?" Apollo felt a jolt of shock. He realized his emotions remained unstable and tried to resist, but that casual comment dropped him into a shifting sea of disgust and anger. "How can you say that?"

"They're dead, Apollo." Starbuck's voice sounded listless, disinterested. "The homeworlds are all smoking wastelands. Something like ninety-five percent of all colonists are dead. Four battlestars, twelve battle platforms, a hundred Tigers, hundreds of Vipers. . . all destroyed."

"I know," Apollo snapped. His throat clenched at the memory of two particular Viper pilots. "Your point?"

"Just that there is no point. We're alive. They're dead. We have to move on."

"Just because you don't have anyone to mourn—"

"Not fair, Apollo," Starbuck interrupted, with a bleak look. "I suffered my fair share of losses too. Maybe not blood relatives, but still important people. But I'm moving on. So should everyone else."

"Maybe some of us aren't ready to move on yet." Apollo scrubbed at his eyes angrily. "Maybe we're not all as cold-blooded as you."

"Not cold-blooded, practical," Starbuck corrected. "What's the point in spending the rest of your life regretting that you weren't blown up too?"

"I don't intend to spend the rest of my life in mourning, Bucko." Abruptly, the anger ran out and left him filled with nothing but tired acceptance. No matter what happened, Starbuck would always be Starbuck. "But it's only been a sectar. Give us all time to recover, okay? Even you have to admit, it's hard to adjust to the way life is now."

"Yeah, everything's changed, I'll give you that." Starbuck sighed. "And it's—"

The shriek of the all-forces-alert klaxon interrupted him. Apollo experienced a single hideous moment of flashback, seeing the Cylon forces closing in on Zac, before he sprang into action, diving for the doorway.

"Lousy fracking sons of daggits, can't they let us rest today of all fracking days!" Apollo continued to swear as he and Starbuck joined the stream of pilots heading for the launch tubes.

But even as he raged against the Cylons for their unceasing attacks, he still felt a fierce pride. Despite the Cylons, despite Starbuck's cynicism, the Colonial Warriors still held together and did their duty, protecting the displaced and heartsick remnants of humanity.

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