Chapter 11

The fleet drifted.

Over two hundred ships, a floating colony looking for a home, sat motionless in the black. The first ships stilled thirty centares after the bomb attack, some unable to communicate, some communicating all too well their state of distress. The rest slowed, then stopped, then gathered in a protective cluster around the first of the casualties.

At precisely 1400 centares, fleet standard time, every person capable of doing so sat in front of their vidscreen, tuned to a very special broadcast on the IFB.

"Commander Adama will now address the fleet from the bridge of the Battlestar Galactica," the newscaster Serina announced.

The view shifted from the broadcast room to the Commander's office. Three flags hung on the wall behind the silver-haired, distinguished man in full dress uniform: the new Hope and Remembrance flag, in honor of the dead, the battle flag of the Galactica herself, and largest of all the new flag representing the fleet as a whole.

"My people," the Commander began, gazing earnestly into the camera, "This is indeed a time of great suffering."

He paused, looked down at his desk, sank into his chair. The camera picked up the weariness in the motion, the lines of pain and strain etched into his face, the dullness of his once bright eyes.

"I address you in this manner, safe here in my office rather than touring each and every ship in this fleet to speak with you personally, because of the threat to our continued journey, and indeed our existence. The medical staff of the Galactica has advised complete and total quarantine for all members of the fleet. They understand how difficult this is and advise you all to do your absolute best. Avoid gathering together, avoid contact with… the bodies of the dead." Adama paused, solemn. "Arrangements have been made. Volunteers will arrive at your airlocks each day with a shuttle to collect any… bodies. They will be labeled and stored in one of the… dead ships." Another pause, and not a single person within reach of the broadcast had a dry eye at the thought of the ships whose entire complement of crew and passengers succumbed within a single twenty-four centare period. "When we reach an appropriate place, we will hold a memorial and send the bodies to their final rest with proper respect and ceremony. Until then…"

He brushed his fingertips across his forehead, eyes closed. "My apologies, people of the fleet. This new disaster is as hard on me as it is on you." Then Adama looked up, hands flat on his desk, the steel at the core of his being showing through the distress. "But we will conquer this threat. The children of Kobol will not go down because some alien race sought to destroy us. Carefully, people, carefully select a healthy representative to speak with the shuttle pilot who comes each day. Tell the pilot of your ship's situation in full detail. Tell the pilot what your needs are. We will distribute supplies evenly across the entire fleet. There are no more private hoards of supplies or medicines in this current emergency. As the Galactica shares, so shall we all. And we shall remember the generosity of our fellow humans, and we will also remember and honor the memory of those who have no further need of supplies."

Another pause, this one deliberate and controlled.

"I have heard rumors, circulating among the people of the Galactica and on the comlines between the ships of the fleet." His face settled into sternness, all suffering pushed away for the moment. "There are people among us who are saying the Lords have abandoned us and God has turned his back, indifferent to our suffering. The rumors point to the fact that our distress is caused by the virus known since ancient times as the Scourge as proof that God wants us all gone. The rumors suggest that the people in the Orbs may even be in league with Diabolis. Who knows? It is certainly possible that the Evil One has followers, even as we are all followers of God in one form or another. But even if the Orbs are manned by servants of Diabolis, even if the Lords have left us, and even if God himself wants to destroy us… we will live on. We will stand together, shoulder by shoulder, albeit in a figurative sense since contact is unwise at the moment. We will stand firm and conquer this thing. No virus, no Scourge, will end the line of Kobol. We will survive, and as soon as the virus is under control, we will redistribute personnel and get this fleet moving again. We will not let the Orbs finish the work the Cylons began. And when the fleet is mobile again, we will leave this system and its Orbs far behind. The distant and dim memory of the Orb system will not stop us. We will find a new home. We will rebuild a strong new society, based on faith in ourselves and our own strengths. And no one will ever threaten us again, because we will make this home secure against all comers."

The Commander stopped himself, visibly reining in his burning passion for his vision.

"So remember, people of the fleet: we are all survivors. We survived the Destruction. We survived twenty seven Cylon attacks along the route so far. And we will survive this as well."

With that, Adama nodded at the cameraman, and the view switched back over to Serina in the newsroom.

"Thank you, Commander Adama," she managed, before her professionalism dissolved. "But where, in all your brave and stirring words, is the help for my son? Where—"

The screens abruptly blanked out across the fleet, then showed the IFB logo. People sighed and turned off the vidsets.

None of them really wanted to watch Serina and her pain, anyway. It looked entirely too close to their own.

Chapter 12

Apollo emerged from Medical days later into a changed world. He'd kept track of the disease by computer, when he felt able to focus on the terminal, but the cold facts of the screen had not prepared him for the first sight to meet his eyes: a corridor full of sick people.

Isolation is imperative , a memory spoke in Dr. Salik's voice, as he looked over the people laying on blankets on the floor, coughing, flushed, moaning…

And the smell. His nose wrinkled. No turbowashes for these folks, and most of them were completely immobilized, so they had to take care of body functions in pans. Try though they would, medical staff could not sponge away all effects of days spent sweating and suffering.

A few medical staff, looking worn down to nothing, moved among the sick people checking them over and offering water and other liquids. Apollo felt a sudden surge of shame at how angry he'd been, confined to a tiny room all alone and suffering. Any one of these poor souls probably would have traded with him in an instant. And what of the worst cases, confined to medboxes? They would likely be intensely grateful for the chance to move about freely, even if only to thrash unrestrained in a fever-dream.

He picked his careful way through the dozens of sick people. The portal at the end of the passageway barred his path. It slid open when he pressed the control. Apollo found himself staring at the business end of two powerful laser rifles and two grim-faced guards.

"What—"

"Relax, Simon," one of the guards said, lowering his weapon and moving back. "It's Captain Apollo. Doc cleared him this morning."

"You sure?"

"Yes," Apollo answered, even though the question hadn't been aimed at him. "I'm sure. I'm Captain Apollo, and Dr. Salik released me from quarantine just a centon ago. Is it really so bad that armed guards are needed?"

Simon lowered his weapon, but kept a wary eye on the Captain.

"Yes," the other guard responded. "It’s been bad. People trying to get in more than get out, true, but sometimes the new ones try to get past us. And once in a while we get a delirious one that doesn't know what's happening. They can say the craziest things… but we keep 'em in here, and the rest of the folk out there."

Apollo couldn't think of anything to say, so he said, "Thanks," and moved on. Armed guards at the portal to the Medical facilities. Who would ever believe such a thing could happen?

The rest of the ship proved equally shocking, if in a different way. Empty, silent, dirty corridors stretched on and on. Apollo found himself comparing three states of the Galactica: normal, with military personnel moving briskly through pristine corridors, each with a purpose; post-Destruction, with civilians bedded down along the walls and children stampeding underfoot; and now. Empty. Dirty. Dead.

Bedrolls still littered the walkway, empty now, shoved up against the walls in an effort to keep them out from underfoot. No one had cleaned the floors in what looked like sectons, although Apollo knew it could only be days. Civilians used to do the job, working to fill the time and keep things running smoothly…

How many survived?

Apollo reached Pod Alpha without seeing a single living soul. Living being the key word… he passed through an entire corridor devoted to the storage of the dead, where the refrigeration kept the air frosty cold and stacked covered bodies almost reached the ceiling, all along a sixty metron long, ten metron wide access corridor… the sight was likely to remain with him for life, haunting his nightmares, along with the memories of Caprica in flames and Zac vaporizing and Hermes and…

Apollo shook his mind free of horror and entered the pod. Here, he found people at last, techs doing their jobs with grim expressions and much-prized micro-filter masks on their faces. Apollo remembered from the BBS that it was now considered a crime punishable by court-martial to sell a standard-issue mask. The masks, a part of every Fleet kit, were strictly for use by military personnel. Kind of hard on the civilians, true, but the military formed the backbone of this entire relocation project, after all. Where would the fleet be if the Galactica could no longer function?

Starbuck already occupied their office, hard at work. He smiled when Apollo entered the room, but didn't say anything, just filled his eyes with the sight of his friend and then returned his attention to his terminal. His smile only showed as a motion of cheeks, a crinkling around the eyes, and a bit of sparkle in the intense blue, because the new-made Captain wore his mask.

"Hello, Starbuck," Apollo said, then searched his locker for his own mask. Dr. Salik had impressed on him quite thoroughly how vulnerable he still was to secondary infections. No sense taking unnecessary risks… although maybe it was too late. Somebody should post somewhere that Pod Access Corridor 1C served as a dead storehouse. "I hear you did not get sick?"

"I got lucky," Starbuck nodded, keeping his head bent towards the screen.

"Very lucky. Even with the vaccine, I thought I was going to die several times." Apollo found the mask and secured it over nose and mouth. "How do you like your new rank? Interesting timing on the promotion coming through."

"I think if I'd known you'd put me up for promotion, I would have taken my Viper and deserted."

Apollo laughed. "Why do I think that's literally true? But come on, buddy, you're doing the job like you were born to it. So deal with it."

Starbuck shot him a glare over the mask. "I'm trying to, or can't you see me working here? I'm glad you survived, more so than I can say, but I'm busy."

Apollo smiled and took the unsubtle hint. He knew precisely why Starbuck was acting this way. Neither one of them had forgotten the unfinished business of the ice world, and he'd be willing to bet that every day Apollo had been sick the man had sweated and fretted, dreading the encounter sure to come.

But that would have to wait. For now, Apollo had work to do, and he'd better get to it.

"Have we got figures on the civilians?" Apollo asked Starbuck, almost a centare later. The news from the Galactica was bad enough, with a shocking number of sick people and near total loss of life once people got sick. It must be so much worse out there, away from the doctors and medical supplies…

"Somewhere," Starbuck replied. "But it's not organized. You have to dig it out of the shuttle pilot reports."

"This is… appalling." Apollo rubbed his eyes, already weary of staring at the little green letters on the screen. "I had no idea, even watching the data when I could, how bad this situation is."

"It's bad." Starbuck returned his attention to his work, as did Apollo.

Many centares later, Apollo escaped his office with a feeling of intense relief. Working out some way to get the fleet moving again and keep it protected promised a major headache for all involved.

Now, after five long days of illness, it was time for a different headache. And there went Starbuck, intent on making his escape as soon as the shift change chime sounded.

"Not so fast, Captain."

Starbuck paused in the doorway, and Apollo saw his shoulders slump for a moment, then straighten as he turned. "Something you need, Captain?"

His habitual grin firmly in place behind the mask, everything about his manner spoke of the carefree and cocksure pilot all knew and loved. But Apollo could see the telltale signs of strain: a slight crease between his eyebrows, eyes squinched a bit at the outside corners, and their usual sparkling blue dimmed now to a mere suggestion of normal. At least he'd been spared the Scourge.

"Yes, as a matter of fact." Apollo kept a tight rein on his concern. Instinct suggested he'd better use extreme caution in this encounter. "If you don't mind coming with me?"

"Do I have to?" Starbuck muttered, muffled, then the patented Starbuck grin returned. "Sure thing, Captain."

"Our quarters, then." Apollo quirked an eyebrow at Starbuck's look of surprise, then locked their office door. It had been good, in a way, to get back to work after the illness, but he still felt relief shutting the problems away for a while. Everything changed so much in the last few days… "We're not due in there until shift change, true, but the schedule's fracked anyways and there shouldn't be anyone in there."

"Fracking schedules and quarter-sharing," Starbuck muttered. "When d'you suppose they'll have all this felgercarb sorted out?"

Then he looked contrite, no doubt remembering all the sick and dead pilots. "Sorry."

"We'll figure something out. We always do."

They reached their temporary haven, although it had recently been more of a prison for Starbuck. True to Apollo's prediction, it was empty. The room was nothing special, just a small boxy thing, shared on a rotating schedule with four other warriors. Were they all still alive? Apollo couldn't remember.

"Have a seat," Apollo suggested, when Starbuck stopped and stood just within the door, shoulders hunched and eyes peeking out from a fringe of long lashes. He sighed and did so, settling on the seating unit with the air of a martyr.

"Do I have to? I've seen far too much of this room lately." He sighed, leaned against the backrest, arms folded across his chest, and pulled off his mask. "Honestly, Apollo, I don't know why you're making this into such an issue. . . "

"Um. . . Starbuck? I hate to say it, but I haven't made an issue of anything, yet." Apollo perched on the edge of the lower bunk. After a moment's consideration, he removed his mask as well. What the Hades, Starbuck was obviously healthy and no one else was present. Surely the situation presented less risk of contamination here than in the dead corridor. "Got a guilty conscience?"

A fleeting look of surprise, then Starbuck grinned. "Frequently."

"As if I didn't know that. . . Look. I want to know what upset you so badly back on the ice world. Was it something that happened when you were a child?"

"I suppose I'd better just tell you, so you don't go making life living Hades for me and magnifying everything out of proportion." Starbuck shook his head, eyes locked on Apollo's face. "I grew up in an orphanage in Umbra. You knew that, right?"

Apollo nodded, watching Starbuck closely. His eyes were distant, shuttered.

"The matron there was rather strict, that's all. She had a—a problem," and the mask faltered, allowing a moment of fear to show through, "with children getting—well, close to each other. Hugging, sharing a bed, it was all absolute taboo. No staying up late and giggling under the covers there. Not with the Otori witch, as we used to call her, in charge. She was convinced that all forms of contact were evil, unclean, and that's the end of it. Nothing important, and nothing that makes any difference to my life now."

Apollo tilted his head and regarded Starbuck steadily for a long moment. "That's it? That's all there is to it? Or is that just all you want to tell me. . . " He shook his head. "Starbuck, if it were true that what happened had no effect on you now, then you wouldn't have blown such a major fuse. There's got to be more to it than you're saying."

Starbuck flushed and looked away. "Nothing more. The witch discouraged any contact and called it evil. Having you sleep up against me like that must have triggered the memories."

"Nothing more?"

Starbuck shook his head, returning his gaze to Apollo. "Nothing. When I'm awake, I'm totally over it."

"Totally, huh?" Apollo smiled, a wry little twitch.

"Totally." Starbuck's eyes widened when Apollo rose from the hard mattress of the bunk.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you," he said, and sat next to Starbuck on the longseat. He slid an arm around the other man's shoulders, watching his reaction intently.

A hint of panic showed in Starbuck's wide, round eyes, underneath the layers of control. "Apollo, you can't do that! What—"

"Remember, you just said there's nothing wrong with you," Apollo breathed, moving closer still. He could feel the tension in Starbuck's muscles. He touched the shining blond hair, with an effect like lighting the fuse on an ancient rocket. Starbuck shot to his feet and halfway to the door in an instant. Apollo, however, expected just that reaction and blocked the exit with a controlled lunge.

"Not so fast, Bucko!" His heart pounded and his breath came short from the strain of the leap. He made a mental note to make some time to go to the workout center. This weakness must be conquered. "You're not leaving here. There's something wrong with you, and by damn I'm going to find out what it is."

"Apollo, let me go!"

Apollo didn't move, just leaned against the door and waited.

"What the frack is wrong with you? Why won't you let me leave, damn you?" Starbuck glared at him, the overhead light highlighting his hair and eyes.

"Nothing's wrong with me, Starbuck," Apollo replied. He shrugged. "You're the one that just flipped out, fully conscious, supposedly in control of yourself and your memories. So you tell me. What the frack is wrong with you?"

The intensity of Starbuck's glare increased until Apollo wondered for a micron whether his hair would catch fire. Then he shook his head, an abrupt little jerk, and stalked to the lower bunk, as far from Apollo as the small room would allow him to get.

"I repeat: there is nothing wrong with me."

"Starbuck. . . " Apollo sighed, sliding down the door to land with a thump on the floor. He drew his knees up and let his hands fall to his sides, palms up. "Face it, buddy, I'm not buying that explanation. Now tell me what happened. You say the Otori witch didn't allow contact. What happened if she caught two kids touching in some way? Hugging or something?"

Starbuck's eyes flickered. "Evil was punished."

"Evil. . . you don't believe touching is evil, do you?"

"No." The slight hesitation before the word spoke volumes.

"Hmm, Otori. . . what happened when all you kids hit puberty?" Apollo saw Starbuck wince as that one struck home. "Bet that was evil, too."

Starbuck scooted back on the bed, huddling in on himself. "I'm not evil."

"No, you're not evil," Apollo agreed, in a more compassionate tone of voice.

"It's perfectly normal, perfectly natural. Right? Not evil. Just stupid overly religious felgercarb." Starbuck plucked at the leg of his jumpsuit.

"That's right, it is. What happened, Starbuck?"

"Nothing! Nothing happened, okay?" His breath came fast and irregular. "Nothing," he whispered again.

"What did she do to you?" Apollo prompted softly. He leaned forward, eyes intent on the huddled figure across the room. "How was evil punished?"

"The little discipline," Starbuck whispered, barely audible.

"What was that?" Apollo held his breath. Maybe. . . just maybe. . .

"That's what she called it. She loved that thing, you could tell. Before she'd use it, you could see her stroking it, murmuring to it. . . She'd always make sure it was kept supple and well oiled. The knots in it would hurt the worst. The stripes the rest of it would leave weren't bad, but the knots could actually cut sometimes, if she was really mad."

Apollo shuddered with revulsion and wrapped his arms around his knees, hoping he could keep control of himself. The thought of a woman whipping, actually whipping children for—well, being children. . . ! "Go on," he urged, when Starbuck's silence seemed unbreakable.

"There is evil within you, my son," whispered Starbuck. "I can feel it, I can see it in your actions. . . You must let the evil go, my son. You are blessed and cleansed by the strokes, the little discipline washes you clean of sin. . . " His voice built in intensity, growing louder. "Feel the sin being cleansed from your body, my child, child of evil. . . " His voice abruptly changed, growing deeper, yet still strange. "The little discipline cuts into your back like fire. And what had been done to earn such discipline? Perhaps a hug, perhaps a game of tag—possibly just a boy helping a fallen friend up. But worse, worse yet. . . oh yes, worse yet. They say it's natural, out here. They say it happens to every healthy male above the age of puberty. They say it's a normal body function, doesn't even need conscious control or desire, it just happens every day or two to clean things out and keep it all working. . . but it was evil. It was very, very evil, and even if you can't help it, it's your fault. The little discipline would come out and play with you, and then would come the straps. Oh, yes, the straps. And the chair, her favorite. Sitting in the chair, straps holding your arms down… She was damn good with the blade, though. Couldn't feel a thing. Just see the drip, the thin red stream, down into the bowl. . . feel it draining, feel your strength ebbing, feel the evil leaving your body and know that you were safe for sectares on end, because the evil wouldn't come back. But it always did, it always did. And sometimes, if it did come back, and you touched it, gods help you then. But worse, oh even worse yet than anything before, let another see your evil, touch—" Starbuck broke off with a whimper.

"Frack. . . " Apollo whispered, clutching his knees so hard they creaked. Frack frack frack. He'd heard of the practice of bleeding. Common on Gemon, it was a voluntary procedure for adult men. It usually involved the loss of about a pint of blood, and was known to reduce libido for approximately six sectares, a welcome relief for men whose religion only allowed sexual contact once every seven yahrens. But that was voluntary! Not. . . torture. Not forcing a young boy to watch himself bleed into a bowl. And what the frack could he do now? Starbuck sat over there losing it, and he didn't even dare put a hand on the man for fear of sending him deeper into this fracked up state. "Starbuck, it's okay now, she can't hurt you anymore…"

"Not okay, not okay." He started rocking again, like he had that morning, curled in on himself, shaking and rocking back and forth. "I'm not evil! Whatever you say, it's not true. I'm not evil, it's not my fault, don't hurt me! How am I supposed to stop a feeling, anyway? Can't let her know—"

"Starbuck! Snap out of it!" Apollo rose stiffly to his feet, rubbing his numb behind with one hand. His words had no effect. "Look, you're not evil. It's okay. I'm going to come over there now, is that all right with you?" He eased across the floor.

"I'm not evil?" The wistful tone tore at Apollo's heart. How in Hades had the man passed the psych evaluations, anyway? With this kind of insecurity and trauma hidden within his mind, Starbuck should have never cleared the Academy.

"Not evil, Starbuck. Now I'm going to sit beside you, okay? Don't get weird on me, man. I need to be up here with you, need to see that you're okay." Apollo sat carefully on the bed, beside the shivering wreck that had been his best friend. Starbuck looked at him with blind eyes. Then a spark of recognition, of sanity, showed in them for a brief moment.

"Apollo? Apollo, I'm not evil."

"No, Starbuck, you're not evil. Touching isn't evil, either. I don't care what that Otori witch said. Can I put a hand on you, without upsetting you again?" Apollo tentatively laid his hand on top of Starbuck's. Blue eyes widened and fastened onto their joined hands.

"Apollo. Always wished I could. . . but I couldn't. I'm not evil, but I'm not good either. Never can be good enough for you, not like Hermes. Can't—just can't."

Apollo's stomach performed a slow roll and dive to the left. Had he heard that right? Starbuck's hand trembled beneath his, but he didn't move, otherwise. "Not. . . good enough?" Apollo's voice rasped hoarse from a throat dry and constricted, and not from the days of coughing his lungs out, either. He swallowed. "How do you figure?"

"You deserve the best, not a pathetic wreck like me." Starbuck's voice, although still strained, sounded nearly normal.

"Starbuck, don't say that! I thought… I was wrong, so wrong. I thought that—always thought you were just disgusted by the way I am, that you were afraid I'd contaminate you that way or something, should have realized there was something else." Apollo paused, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. "You should have said something a long time ago, told me what a blind idiot I was being."

"Apollo." Starbuck looked at him, really looked at him, sane and rational once again. "You should have known nothing about you can disgust me. Although, now that you know the worst about me, maybe you're right. Maybe I should have told you sooner. But the psychs passed me, said I was clean—" Aha, thought Apollo, he didn't slip by the evaluations. "—and said that everything would be okay. Went through a yahren of rehab. Still don't like people touching me, though. I know it's not evil and all, but you know. . . But if I'd told you, maybe let you know that—"

He broke off, leaving the sentence dangling and staring back at Apollo's hand where it held his own in a fragile grip.

"That what?"

"That maybe I wouldn't mind so much if it was you," Starbuck whispered.

Apollo smiled, squeezing Starbuck's hand slightly. "Maybe we can fix your problem?"

Starbuck looked up into his eyes and smiled slowly. "Maybe we can."

* * * * * * * *

"Athena!"

The blue-clad figure ahead stopped and turned. "So, disease-boy is free at last. Would have thought they'd keep you locked up longer, just on principle."

Apollo grimaced. Oh, please, not Athena in a difficult mood… "Sorry, sister. Dr. Salik got tired of me. I need to ask you something. Are you going somewhere private?"

"There's no place private on this entire ship. It's all full of sick people, or dead people, or people scared they're going to get sick. I'm going to the women's barracks. It's my sleep shift, and I'm losing time. Can't you ask me here?"

"I'm sorry, I don't want to take up your sleep shift." They resumed walking down the corridor together. "Maybe one of the other women can answer my question. It's about Starbuck."

Athena shot him a glare from beneath droopy bangs. Apollo suddenly took in her appearance, how worn and frazzled she looked under her somewhat battered mask. How had that happened? Athena always took great care with her appearance, for all that she never grew out of the tomboy stage. She remained the only adult woman Apollo knew of that could go rock climbing and still keep her face and hair presentable.

"What about Starbuck? And why should I answer?"

"I just want to know if, er," and suddenly Apollo felt awkward. She was still his little sister, after all! "Um, did you and he ever go to bed together?"

Athena whacked him on the arm. "Apollo! What business is it of yours?"

They reached the women's dormitory and Athena opened the door and called out a warning. "Man alert!"

"Who'd you bring us, Thenie?"

"Just my nosy brother, that's all."

"What's he being nosy about?"

Apollo vaguely recognized the speaker, someone he'd seen on Starbuck's arm before.

"My private life," she growled, with another glare for her brother. "He wants to know if I ever went to bed with Starbuck. What's the answer, ladies?"

A resounding "No!" shook the room. Apollo blinked.

"Why the vehemence? Is there something I'm missing here?"

"Sit down, Captain, and let's talk," the blond he almost remembered invited. "Let your sister sleep, she's earned it. We'll answer your questions. It'll give us something to do other than wondering who'll get sick and die next."

Over a centare later, Apollo emerged from the women's quarters with a new understanding of his best friend. It seemed that at least half of Starbuck's reputation as a ladies' man stemmed from the attempts of said ladies to get the elusive man in the sack. They kept count of how many attempts were made and rebuffed, even. The blond, a service tech named Callisto, told him in far too much detail about her last seduction attempt, which resulted in Starbuck extracting himself from the situation by the simple expedient of heading for the turboflush and never coming back.

Not a single woman ever received more than a kiss or a cuddle from the lieutenant. They considered him a novelty, a man that didn't just look on them as lust objects, and that made him infinitely desirable. There were even bets on as to which would finally crack the icy Starbuck shell.

The ladies' man. Apollo shook his head, bemused. Everyone knew Starbuck loved the ladies. Everywhere he went, they'd be there. One, two, a dozen hanging on his every word, gazing at him with adoring, and frequently lustful, eyes. Try to get hold of him come evening, or any time he was off duty for that matter, and you'd get his message-box. I'm sorry, I can't answer the link right now… Ask him, and he'd give you all sorts of stories about his many, many girlfriends, and never once imply that he'd been a complete gentleman with each and every one of them. Amazing. Simply amazing.

Chapter 13

The comlink buzzed while Apollo still tried to wrap his mind around the concept of a virtuous Starbuck. "Apollo here."

"Apollo, you're needed in my office."

Commander Adama, sounding tired and stressed. But then, who wasn't tired and stressed these days? Only the dead.

"On my way."

He said goodbye to the women and hurried to the bridge, where he found his father, Starbuck, Colonel Tigh, Dr. Salik, and Sire Anton, the current head of the Council, all seated at a safe distance from each other around Adama's spacious office.

"Sit down, son," Adama indicated a chair near Sire Anton. "We're having a planning session."

"And what are we planning?" Apollo sat.

"We need to do something right now about the state of this fleet and all its members," Colonel Tigh said. "The current situation is patently unacceptable. The fleet is immobilized, and vulnerable to further attack. Obviously the Orbs want us just as dead as that basestar out there. We need to remove ourselves from this situation."

"But the people," Sire Anton said, with the air of a tired man continuing a tired argument. "The people of the fleet are incapable of crewing their ships at the moment. They are dying, Colonel. Dying."

"And that is precisely why we must move," Dr. Salik jutted his chin forward aggressively. "We must reach a planet, an actual surface with breathable atmosphere and real resources. If we do not reach a planet with ample room and proper conditions, we could very well all die out here."

"I don't see how—"

"Redistribution," Starbuck said. "It worked on the Galactica, it'll work fleetwide. We'll redistribute personnel and resources until we have capable crew on each flightworthy ship."

"You're asking people to give up all they have left in some cases—"

"To survive," Apollo interrupted, turning an intense gaze on the Sire. "I see precisely what Captain Starbuck—" and doesn't that sound strange "—is getting at. The fleet of ships out there is in no condition to move. I agree wholeheartedly that we can not remain here any longer than absolutely necessary. We're presenting nice, easy targets for the Orbs, scarcely able to defend ourselves. If we don't redistribute personnel across the most flightworthy ships and get the frack out of Orb space, we're inviting another attack."

"Not to mention, we'll lose nearly everybody to the next wave," Dr. Salik commented, with a false casual air.

"What?"

The word burst from everyone but Adama, who closed his eyes and moved his lips in a silent prayer.

"The aneirosis virus shifts in a predictable manner. It follows a timetable of its own, a very strict and invariable timetable: in a host, it produces a new strain every two sectons. This trait is present in every catalogued strain in the database, and since we're dealing with the original, there's absolutely no reason to doubt it will follow that pattern."

Sire Anton seemed to shrink in on himself, face filled with defeat. "Then we're doomed, we're all doomed, if—"

"If we don't solve this problem immediately," Adama nodded. "We must redistribute personnel. You are here to provide our liaison with the common people of the fleet, not to oppose our solution."

"Wait a moment, Commander Adama." A hint of fire returned to the old man's eyes. "This is not a military operation. The civilians, the Council, we will not tolerate being ruled by the military."

"You have no choice," Tigh said, blunt and to the point. "This is a military operation. The surviving members of the Colonial Fleet on this battlestar are going to do our duty and protect humanity. This means taking control in an emergency situation. If you don't call impending extinction an emergency, well," he shrugged, "I can't help you there. But the military will do anything necessary to protect the lives in our care."

Conflicting emotions warred on the old Sire's face, then he nodded. "I will accept that. What is your proposal?"

Tension left the room in a nearly visible wave of relief. Even Dr. Salik relaxed a bit, leaning back in his chair.

"Captain Starbuck?" Adama gestured towards the blond. "Your plan?"

Try though he might, Apollo could detect no hint of scorn in the Commander's voice. Good. Starbuck needed all the support he could get to pull off being a Captain.

"My plan?" Starbuck's eyes widened. "Um, I hadn't really gotten a plan together. I just pointed out the need for redistribution to help us find our way to a safe haven immediately."

"We can have a plan on your desk by this time tomorrow," Apollo said. Starbuck had a lot to learn about being a Captain. "Let us go over the figures, find out who's capable and where they are, all that sort of thing. Then we'll reorganize it all."

"Good. See that you do. Tigh? Did you select our destination?"

The Colonel rose and activated the projection system. Nobody mentioned to Sire Anton that the destination world was the same one selected within the first few centares of the Scourge, the one shot down by the Council. A solar system filled the screen, a rather lonely system to Cluster-trained eyes, with no near neighbors and only five major planets. No asteroid belts, no Oort cloud, nothing at all remarkable, unless you counted the supergiant gas planet in the farthest orbit from the primary.

"This is the Cyranus System. Five planets, as you can see. The fourth planet, Ariole, is one our survey teams marked as a future mining colony. The climate is somewhat harsh, with a very narrow temperate zone, but the entire planet is rich with tylium and other essential minerals. The water is filled with beneficial minerals, making the taste rather odd, but it's better than none at all. The main continent is the only significant land mass, covering nearly a third of the planet's area. Some islands are scattered about, but were not surveyed. The temperate zone of the main continent is our best choice for recovery."

"It's so empty," Sire Anton mourned, with a gesture at the empty space surrounding the system. "Where are the other suns?"

Just as Apollo wondered what was wrong with the normally sharp and astute Councillor, a cough tore through the old man's body.

Dr. Salik, predictably, reacted first. He leaped off his chair and took charge of the Sire, helping Anton to his feet despite his protests and hurrying him out of the office.

"Well," the Commander said, staring at the closed door, "I suppose we'll have to find someone new to break the news to the civilians."

"Not Sire Uri," Apollo and Starbuck said simultaneously, then shared a smile through their masks.

"Indeed," Colonel Tigh agreed. "I recommend one of the newscasters."

"A newscaster?" Adama raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, a newscaster. The common people trust the IFB already, they reach a wide audience, and the newscaster will be easier to control than a Councillor."

Adama looked at Tigh, who shot back a defensive glare. "Well, it's true."

"Nobody said anything, Tigh. Very well, a newscaster it is. And what will the newscaster say?"

Apollo frowned, thinking. "When we get there, how will we defend this place?"

"What?"

"I know, that doesn't answer the question, but I was wondering how we're to set up a defensible position on the surface. We've got some seventy pilots on active duty, which is an improvement over before, true, but it's not good. A good many inactives with mental issues have returned to active duty because they feel their problems are secondary to this crisis. And there's no guarantee that those overworked pilots will not succumb to the disease themselves. How can we defend an entire planet? You know once we emerge from Orb space the Cylons will be all over us again. That's assuming, of course, the Orbs don't follow us to finish exterminating us."

"Intelligence suggests the Orbs will remain in their system," Tight put in. "They are defending their territory, not pursuing all invaders. And you are correct, deep scan shows a significant Cylon presence massed outside the boundary of the system."

"What you ask is a valid question." Adama frowned. "I can easily see the difficulty, but I can not see the solution."

Apollo leaned forward, resting elbow on knee and chin on hand. How to solve the pilot shortage….

"I got a look at the numbers during my duty shift," he said, not looking at anyone. Over half the fleet ill. "The common folk are suffering far worse than we are. We need the planet desperately. But how will we defend it?"

"There's a possibility," Adama said slowly. "It's far-fetched, and it's definitely well outside regulations."

"I almost don't believe I just heard you say that," Tigh said, a hint of smile playing around his eyes.

Starbuck's eyes looked about to pop out of his head, Apollo noticed.

"So let's hear it," Apollo urged. "Is it something that would get Starbuck and I in trouble if we were the ones to do it?"

Adama smiled. "Definitely, son. What I'm proposing is a completely new approach to defense. What if it were automated?"

Starbuck's eyes widened further, and movement under his mask suggested that the Colonel's jaw dropped.

Apollo felt the same. "Automated?"

"Yes. Or even partially automated, enough to allow some leeway in Viper coverage."

"Innovation." Colonel Tigh used his most stern voice. "Innovation in all forms is to be discouraged. The creators of the equipment the Colonial Fleet uses decreed it to be the ultimate in engineering, supremely qualified to defend humanity forever, and in no need of change. Use what works. Keep to effective battle plans. Only by maintaining the status quo will humanity survive and defeat the Cylon menace."

"Thank you for paraphrasing the regulations for me, Colonel," Adama said dryly. "I am aware of the restrictions. I am also aware that the Colonial Fleet designers, with their enormous talents and even larger egos, never intended their equipment be completely devastated by Cylon treachery or their people destroyed by the Scourge. And I propose that in this situation innovation is the only way we will survive."

"Automated defenses," Apollo mused. "Do you mean something like the perimeter defenses on the battle platforms?"

"Yes," Adama nodded. "Only without so much human control. Perhaps one person per ten turrets. There is also a thought in my mind that something can be done with what the Orbs did to the Cylon basestar."

"What did they do, anyway?" Starbuck asked. "Did anything ever happen with the data we gathered on that mission?"

"It was turned over to Dr. Wilker for analysis. The results were never made known to me."

"Automated," Apollo repeated. The possibilities. . . "To supplement or replace fighter pilots entirely. That would work."

"Apollo, what about—" Starbuck started, then a puzzled look crossed his face, followed by dawning understanding. "You're not talking about getting rid of our job forever. You're talking about protecting people if all the pilots are sick or dead."

"Precisely," Tigh answered, although the words were not directed at him. "And I think it's an overall good idea, although infinitely risky. Under other circumstances, that kind of risk could not be condoned, but no one foresaw our current situation when the regulations were created."

Adama relaxed visibly. "Then we're agreed. We need some new form of defense. And who will we get to come up with this innovation?"

Colonel Tigh smiled, a wicked gleam dancing in his dark eyes. "I know just the man."

* * * * * * * *

When Dr. Wilker walked into the Commander's office and saw the serious looks and high-ranking people awaiting him, the parade of expressions across his stress-lined face almost made Apollo laugh aloud. Shock, consternation, surprise, all chased by a hint of guilty speculation: what did I do?

"Ah, Dr. Wilker, please be seated." Adama gestured at Sire Anton's vacated seat. "We need to have a little chat."

The chief science officer swallowed hard, but showed no other response. He took the indicated chair. "May I ask what this is about?"

"We're aware of certain activities of yours," Colonel Tigh began, intent on the doctor's face. "Activities involving experimentation and unauthorized techniques."

Adama held up a hand when the doctor started to protest. "No sense in denying it, doctor. We've accessed your records and know that you've been censured time and again for investigating new and experimental avenues. Your review board almost denied you your doctorate, did they not?"

"They did," Dr. Wilker growled. "Am I here for another official censure? If so, please get on with it, because I've got important things to do back in the lab."

"You're not here to get reamed," Starbuck laughed.

Tigh glared at him. "The Captain, although out of turn, is quite correct. You are here for precisely those qualities which turned our hidebound scientific community against you in the first place."

"We need you," Adama spread his hands, palm up, across his desk. "We need your innovative skills. This battlestar, this entire fleet—we all need you if we're going to survive. Right now, we're adrift, on a dead-end course for nowhere."

"What he's trying to say," Colonel Tigh favored Adama with an exasperated look, "is that, all poetry aside, there's no way this fleet will last out the sectar without a drastically different approach to defense."

"I'm no strategist," Dr. Wilker cautioned. "What can I do to help with defense?"

"We don't know yet," Apollo said.

"We were hoping you could tell us," Starbuck put in. Apollo continued as though the man hadn't let out a peep.

"Here's the situation. The Vipers are only an effective defense when there's enough people to fly them, qualified people, not just jumped-up shuttle pilots and amateurs that flew atmospheric stunt craft. We don't have those people. We've managed to keep this from IFB, but over half of our pilots are sick, mentally unstable, or dead." Pain flashed across Apollo's features, then his face hardened. "Frankly, doctor, we're sitting ducks. Between the Orbs and the Scourge, we could be obliterated at any given moment. We've only held out so far through luck."

"If that picture isn't grim enough, doctor," Adama broke in, "please also consider the damage sustained by this battlestar and every civilian craft out there. We're going to have to land, and do it soon, so we can combat the Scourge in an environment safe from hostile entities. And you're the one to make it safe."

"What we've got to work with," Apollo continued, "is a wrecked Cylon basestar, about seventy mostly-healthy pilots, and a destination well out of the Orb system. Our chief asset is your ingenuity. What we need is some kind of defense system that will work regardless of whether or not Viper pilots are able to fly. And we have a time frame, as well. Dr. Salik thinks we're going down hard if things don't change within a secton. The Scourge has a thoroughly documented history of transforming into a new strain every two sectons."

Dr. Wilker paled.

"Indeed," Tigh nodded. "Grim, isn't it? And it's true we hope to be well out of this system before the next Scourge wave hits, but face it, doctor, this fleet does not move fast."

"Does it need to be ground-based or aerial?" Dr. Wilker asked, rubbing his chin.

"Either or," Adama replied. "I don't really care how you do it, I just want to see some kind of new system to supplement or completely replace our fighters. I have a thought that your data on what the Orbs did to the Cylons could be helpful."

"And you want it in a secton or so. Hmph. Well, I'd best get on back to my lab, and get down to some serious science."

He rose and tromped out of the room, muttering to himself and rubbing his chin.

Chapter 14

Later, centares later, Apollo stared at himself in the somewhat steamed turbowash mirror. Pale, gaunt, large dark circles under his eyes… yes, he looked like he'd been dragged facedown through all nine levels of Hades. What an image to inspire confidence.

"Starbuck?" he called, becoming sharply aware of how much more he'd come to depend on the man in the last twenty-four centares. "Have you got the report?"

"No, Apollo, I don't." Starbuck stretched away from the terminal and threw him a sour look through the open door, clearly visible on his unmasked face. "And neither do you, because I just sent it off to your father. It'll be there, ready to print out, before we even get there."

"Oh. Thanks." Apollo picked up his mask and put it on, the perfect final touch to his ensemble. Oh, how he hated the thing! Hot, smelly, itchy… and so necessary. "Then get your mask on and let's go."

"Honestly, Apollo, I don't know how in Hades you do it. How can you just keep going and going, and you just out of Medical?" He complained, but he also put on his mask.

"The turbowash helped," Apollo grinned smugly, eyes crinkling above the mask. "And lots of caff. Now get moving."

"I had a turbowash too, about a million centares ago," Starbuck said wistfully, as they walked out the door. "But it didn't make me feel more alert. And the caff quit working sometime around lunch. I think."

Apollo clapped him on the shoulder and was pleased to note only a minor flinch. "Buck up, old man. Pun intended. We've got one report to make, and then we can both sleep for as long as we like. Right up until the relocation program begins, anyways."

"But that's only ten centares away…" Starbuck whined, then sighed. "Sorry. I'm tired. Can we take the carrier?"

"Of course. Not even I want to walk all the way to the bridge."

The high-speed personnel carrier got them to the bridge in a hurry, through the empty corridors. They found the Commander and Tigh at the command center. Adama saw them enter and waved towards his office. Apollo waved in acknowledgement and they went in to wait.

It didn't take long. Both men entered the office within three centons.

"Well?" Adama leaned forward, expectant. Guarded hope flickered in his tired eyes. "Have you solved our problem?"

"We think so," Apollo replied. His father looked like he'd been sharing that rope, getting dragged through Hades along with Apollo. "Starbuck sent our plan to you. It should be ready for printout."

"Tigh?"

The Colonel nodded and accessed the Commander's terminal. Within a centon, the printer hummed and began spitting out pages, which Adama scanned as they came out.

"This might work," Adama said, still reading. "It'll be difficult, of course, but it might work. Do we have enough volunteers?"

"Yes. The list is appended to the end of the report."

"And the teaching simulators? They will be sufficient?"

"We certainly hope so," Apollo replied. That presented the biggest weak point of the plan, trying to shove people through the quick-teach program in a few centares and hope they gained enough proficiency to fly a shuttle.

At least there were enough shuttles. Apollo once wondered, somewhat annoyed, how the Galactica wound up playing host to virtually every shuttle currently in military service at the time of the Destruction. Now, he just felt grateful. However they got here, they were here now, and truly useful.

"Very well, then. Go ahead."

Operation Shuffle began precisely on schedule. Pilots launched shuttles from the Galactica and out into the fleet, beginning a process that stretched on and on over the next two days. At the end, the fleet's people, including the dead, had been consolidated into a total of one hundred forty-five ships, with enough skilled and currently healthy people to fly each ship to Ariole. On the positive side, all of the older and less safe vessels, including those with no communications, were abandoned. On the negative side, during the Shuffle, many more cases of the Scourge were reported.

"Have you got the numbers?" Commander Adama asked, as the rearranged fleet moved into position prior to departure from Orb space.

"Yes, sir," Omega responded. "The numbers are in a file on your terminal."

Adama sat and accessed the information, while the ships continued their slow maneuvering on the viewscreen. The sense of urgency gripping him for the last secton increased a thousandfold as he read the details of the devastation. Nearly a third of the survivors of the Destruction had already succumbed to the Scourge, with half of those still living currently ill. Would they all survive the remaining three-day transit time to the Cyranus system? Only time would tell. The responsibility weighed heavily on his shoulders, Adama, the Commander who led the surviving remnants of humanity into a system where they were exterminated like so many crawlons…

He shook off the depression that threatened and focused on the positive. He flipped on the broadband com and addressed the fleet.

"Pilots, it is time. Let us leave this system behind and move on to Ariole."

He closed the com and gestured for Helm to proceed. Slowly, majestically, the Galactica took the lead, guiding the others out of the Orb system and to dubious safety.

At the top speed of the slowest fleet ship, they reached the boundary of the Orb system after a centare and a half. Vipers hovered in a protective configuration above the defenseless passenger ships and freighters, each with a tense pilot with thumb poised over the firing stud.

Chapter 15

They crept past the boundary defined by large, silent Orbs, into what everyone feared most: a Cylon attack. No sooner did the last ship clear Orb space than a flight of Raiders whined into view, lasers blazing, followed by another flight, and another, and another…

And, of course, a basestar.

The Galactica blasted away to intercept the basestar, leaving her Viper pilots to defend the fleet. Along with the seventy-some healthy pilots flew thirty shuttle pilots and fifty volunteers, each of whom took the Viper quick-teach simulator lessons at some point during the journey. Apollo and Starbuck tried to coordinate it all, but the presence of so many wildcards made the overall defense strategy a complete shambles. In the end, the Viper pilots engaged any Raider they could find, with no attack pattern, no defense pattern, and no consistency.

But somehow, they survived.

The Galactica succeeded in landing a thermal torpedo directly down the basestar's main reactor shaft, resulting in an explosion that rocked all the ships in the surrounding space. From that point, the confused, directionless Raiders darted about with no purpose, and even inexperienced pilots destroyed them with comparative ease.

But the battle took an extreme toll on the fleet.

"Fifty?" Commander Adama's voice fell just short of a shout.

"Yes, sir," Omega nodded, face pale and strained. "Final report shows fifty surviving ships in the fleet, not counting the battlestar, the Vipers, or the shuttlecraft."

"Fifty." Adama sank down into his command chair, feeling the weight of defeat pressing him down. "Only fifty left."

"Yes, sir."

Adama hid his face in his hands for a long moment. Fifty.

"Then we'd best get the fifty surviving ships moving again," he said at last, voice still strained but with a ghost of confidence. "We must reach safety, and soon. Recall all Vipers and let's go. I will be in my office. Send Dr. Wilker up, please."

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