Battlestar Galactica-03-Resurrection Read online

  He thumbed off the slave unit, freeing Starbuck's ship from its lock-step course with Apollo's own fighter, and made a slow, graceful arc out of the Scarlet Viper's path. Apollo watched the fighter drifting into deeper space, receding from sight; soon, it would be gone from his instrument panel as well. "Well, old buddy, I guess this is it," Apollo said. Although no one would hear him, he refused to let his voice quaver with emotion. He was a leader; that may be taken from him by Cain and the will of the people, but for now, he was still commander, and would comport himself as such. "Maybe you'll find one of those light ships out there and they'll take you home. If there's any justice in the universe, they'll make you an honorary Kobollian. Frack!" he said, and slammed his palm against his thigh. "We're all descended from the Kobollians anyway, so what the frack difference does it make if you're from the same House as my family or not?

  "Maybe one day those light beings, or whatever they are, will explain it all to me," Apollo continued; it was not so much a statement as it was a prayer toward understanding a cold and sometimes wicked universe.

  The light of distant days, traveling all this time through endless space just to heliograph on the scored metal hull of Starbuck's Viper, twinkled, and then Apollo lost sight of the funeral ship. "For all our great dreams and great sorrows," he said, as softly as farewell whispered over the coffin, "we all return home again."

  Apollo sat quietly for a long while. At last, he turned his Viper and started toward back toward the asteroid.

  But one man's ceiling is another man's floor, and while Apollo was saying goodbye to his friend, and mourning, the mirror city was echoing with the sound of merriment, and laughter, and music. The colonials were celebrating the colonization of their newfound homeworld. Reassured by Uriah's validation of the ancient texts prophesying the fleet's return to Kobol, Cain had pushed for—and gotten—the council to allow the colonization of Kobol.

  Mead and ambrosa, grog and ale, flowed in golden rivers, free and easy. The first toast that night was drunk to the memory of Adama, and to the far-seeing vision of Commander Cain, who had led them here. Already the truth was being rewritten. That's not the way it was, at all, but if that was how they chose to remember it, then that was how it happened.

  The caretakers and several citizens had spent the better part of two days in the mealprep getting ready for this moment; but everyone agreed, the end result was well worth the effort. Trestle tables groaned under the weight of food, heaped high with fresh game, roasted avion and the tenderest bova the colonials had tasted since… well, it seemed like forever. Livestock was something of a rarity among the fleet, reserved for the more special occasions, but here, all manner of wild game walked and prowled and flew, and succulent fruit and vegetables grew fat and fell from trees everywhere.

  Lashings of coneth stew laden with mushies, bowls of tulupian buds and trays of oglivs and the best kirasolis the little travelers had ever tasted. The children ran and played and laughed and shrieked their joy, and hid beneath tables and finally grew bored, and tired, and fell asleep at their parents' feet or in their laps.

  Life had a way of adapting to almost anything, and going on.

  The Warriors had their own tables; like calls to like, after all. Troy, one of the few pilots at the table old enough to know Starbuck and have the honor of flying with him, stood, and raised his mug of ale. "To Captain Starbuck," he said.

  The cadets raised their mugs and drank to his memory, without knowing why. One couldn't remember a man one didn't know. Dalton knew that as well as anyone.

  She sat at another table, with Trays and his group of cadets, drinking more ambrosa than was good for her, then pouring herself another. Trays barely noticed her; he was too busy laughing with his friends, being the center of attention, reliving the battle with the Cylons above the storm-wracked planet of Kirasolia. He was the hero, this time; Starbuck was merely a postscript to the story, barely a footnote, and Dalton was too deep in her grief to protest.

  Troy had left his group and wandered past Dalton's table, pausing a moment to overhear the conversation.

  "You owe your life to Captain Starbuck, Trays," he said. The conversation and laughter stopped, for a moment, and all eyes turned to Troy. All, that is, except Dalton. She had gotten good at avoiding him. "We all do. You can lie about anything else you want to, but you'd better always tell the truth about Starbuck."

  He gave Trays a meaningful look, and moved away from the table, heading to the bar for another drink. He had barely turned his back on the group before the jokes and laughter began again. Jokes were fine; laughter was good; they were here to celebrate, after all, and Starbuck, more than anyone else, would have understood that, but it felt sacrilegious to Troy to be having a good time when his uncle was not here to lend his laugh to the chorus. How dare life go on?

  "Ambrosa," he told the servitor at the counter. "Something to alter my mood."

  She smiled, a trifle coyly, batted her blue eyes, and said, "I could alter your mood, and it wouldn't take ambrosa."

  Troy glanced over at Dalton; she didn't even seem to know he was still alive, and the servitor was lovely, but… life was a circle, and right now, Dalton was in her opposing apogee, but he thought she might be around again, sooner or later. He wanted to make sure he had both hands free to grab her when she did.

  "Thanks," he said, turning back to Jasmine. "But, I'm waiting for a friend."

  "Did you ever think you'd live long enough to see that?"

  Boomer looked at what Bo jay had pointed at with his flagon of grog. It was Baltar, released from lockdown in his quarters on a reprieve from Commander Apollo, walking and smiling among the celebrants. Baltar could not be allowed to wander amidst the general populace without an armed escort; this was not so much to keep him under observation, although that was a side benefit, as it was to keep him safe. Not many among the citizens or Warriors would pass up the chance to take the life of Baltar for his past crimes against humankind.

  "When Baltar, the greatest traitor in human history, would be allowed to walk freely among his former enemies," Bo jay finished, and shook his head.

  Boomer turned away from the sight of Baltar and drew himself around his drink. "Times change," he said.

  "Yeah, maybe," Bo jay grudgingly allowed, "but I'm not so sure people ever do."

  Sheba and Jolly barely noticed Baltar's presence; they were heavily involved in a serious drinking competition, and so far, it was neck and neck. But Sheba drained her mug of grog, banged it down on the tabletop, and snatched up the next flagon and drained it in three huge gulps. She smeared the foam away from her lips with the back of her hand and, smiling to the cheers of all the pilots, young and old at her table, belched in a most satisfying, unladlylike manner.

  "You're perfect," one of the younger pilots blurted out, smiling foolishly at Sheba.

  She laughed heartily. "And you're drunk."

  "I'll be sober tomorrow, but you'll still be perfect."

  But she hadn't heard him; her eyes were scanning the crowd for Apollo. It was a faraway look, one Boomer knew quite well, and he felt sorry for the pilot who fell into those sultry eyes, because there was no escaping them once you did. If it hadn't been for his love for Phaedra, he might have been tempted a time or two himself.

  And speaking of Phaedra, he thought, it was time to find her, and take her in his arms, and whisper in her ear the things he hadn't told her in too long. He was soon to be a father, after all, and it was time to start acting like it. Boomer excused himself and stood up, patting Bo jay on the shoulder. "Keep an eye on things for me, old man," he said.

  "I will, youngster," Bo jay answered with a grin.

  Boomer pulled a pained face, to everyone's amusement, and left the table. Sheba held out her hand to Jolly. "Pay up," she said.

  "Best two out of three?" he suggested, and filled the mugs to the brim once more.

  She shrugged, and smiled, her eyes as clear as this moment. "Sure," she said. "I'm still a little thirsty.
"

  Baltar smiled and nodded at the citizens as he made his way through them, flanked on either side by heavily armed security agents, their hands never moving far from the butts of their unsecured sidearms. Gods, they thought, the nerve of the man! To move amongst the Citizenry took pogees enough, but to wave at them as if he were some kind of hero to be adored—

  "Traitor!" Trays yelled. "Do the new world a favor and quit fouling its air!"

  "And who do you suppose led you all to this new world, boy?" Baltar snapped back. "Someday, I will be looked upon as the savior of our race. Greatness is always conferred after one's passing."

  "Then by all means, let's honor your greatness," one of Trays' cohorts said, and flung his mug at Baltar. He pushed away from the table and lurched to his feet, staggering over to Baltar, but in that moment of hurling the flagon, the security detail had drawn their weapons.

  "Frack, what do we do now?" the first guard asked his compatriot. "We can't shoot a kid. These people'd have our pogees in the grinder!"

  "In case you haven't noticed… they already are," his partner answered.

  The citizens who had been near enough to witness the men draw their weapons now rose to their feet and surged forward, while Trays' group of cadets swarmed the guards and their hated charge. Baltar's hand clasped his temple, where the mug had struck him a solid blow, and a slow, fat drop of blood oozed from between his fingers and dropped to the ground.

  "What're you gonna do, shoot us?" Trays hectored the Blackshirts. "Shoot a bunch of unarmed kids? For him?"

  The security men stood in front and behind Baltar, weapons still drawn. "We have orders," the first guard warned in a loud, unwavering voice, "and, like them or not, we will execute those orders."

  "No one wants this," the second guard said sensibly. The events of the next few moments were balanced precariously on a fulcrum, ready to teeter or totter in either direction; it just depended on which side had more weight of conviction.

  "Let's all just go back to our friends and family and finish this celebration quietly."

  Baltar started to speak; whether it was to excoriate the citizens for their barbarous bloodlust, or to plead for his life, the words never left his lips. The first guard glanced at Baltar over his shoulder, and growled from the corner of his mouth,

  "Not a word, not a frakkin' word from you. I'm on duty now, and I'm sworn to protect you, but if you say anything to incite these people to riot, if I have to shoot any of these citizens because of you, I promise you, the moment my cycle is over, I'll come for you and blast your traitorous brains out of your skull."

  Baltar shut his mouth with an audible Click! of his teeth.

  And then, while no one was really watching, the moment regained its center of balance, and the chance of violence passed. Citizens and cadets turned grudgingly away, one after the other, grumbling amongst themselves, complaining of the way Baltar hid behind the guards, and there was some talk, mostly for show, to assuage dented pride, of finding Baltar later, when he was alone. But it was just talk.

  The guards waited until the citizens had returned to their tables or their places on the dance floor before they holstered their lasers once again. Even so, they kept them unsecured, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. "Had enough fun for one day?" the second guard asked Baltar.

  "We'd better get him back to his quarters," the first guard said, and gripped Baltar unpleasantly tight by the arm, herding him along through the gathering, giving the citizens as wide a berth as possible.

  "But, I saved you," Baltar whined, blood dripping down his cheek; "I really have changed…" He was genuinely confused and didn't understand why they all reacted to him so angrily. In his mind he was a hero, even if it was only the hero of his own life.

  He was going to feel this in the morning, but, for now, he would settle for not feeling much of anything at all.

  Apollo had never been much of a drinker because he didn't care for the way it dulled his senses and made him less than totally in control of his own body, but just lately he had come to realize there was an upside to deadening his mind—it shut up that pesky, nagging voice that reminded him he was alive, and Starbuck was not. He knew that voice very well, although he hadn't heard from it in several yahren. Apollo had gotten well acquainted with it shortly after Zac was killed, and, just in case he thought he'd lost touch with it, the voice came roaring back, strong as ever, after Serina died. Same voice, same message: there was no need to listen to it again. At the bar, he ordered an ambrosa and stood alone, drinking it. Apollo glanced toward the presidium, where the council and Commander Cain sat in the place of honor. The seat beside Cain was empty, and why not? It was intended for Apollo, but he didn't feel like being a part of anything: he just felt like being apart.

  "You know what they say about a man who drinks alone, don't you?" Bo jay began, ambling over to the bar to get another round of drinks for his table. Apollo looked over at him but said nothing. "He's too cheap to buy a round for his friends."

  Apollo laughed softly, reached into his pocket and drew out a couple of cubits, plunked them down on the bar. "On me," he announced, and looked over at Bo jay's table, where Sheba and Jolly were between rounds. Apollo caught Sheba's eye, but she looked away, suddenly fascinated by the empty mug sitting on the table between her resting hands.

  Bo jay caught Apollo studying her, and said, "She's easy on the eye, for sure." Apollo turned away from his star-gazing and looked at Bo jay, who laughed and slammed his palm down on the bar top. "Don't even try to pretend you'd rather be lookin' at me, Apollo! I'd worry about you if you did."

  Apollo smiled and looked into his mug, took another draught of ambrosa.

  "You're welcome to join us," Bo jay told him.

  "Maybe later," Apollo said.

  Bo jay wrapped his arms around the commander and lifted him up off his feet in an embrace that seemed a lot like a wrestling hold to Apollo, and shook him, playfully and affectionately. "You're still alive, Apollo," Bo jay said. "You remember that." He put him back down, Apollo's ribs still aching from the hug.

  "I have a voice that reminds me of that," Apollo assured him. The older man thought it was a joke, and laughed. He picked up his tray, filled with fresh mugs of grog, and told Apollo he'd see him.

  Apollo raised his almost-drained flagon and winked at him, then turned back toward the servitor and indicated he wanted a refill. During that time, Bo jay took the cue and made his way back to his own table, and, with no longer any need to pretend, Apollo's face sagged once more into the map of unhappiness he had so lately been charting, going deeper into unexplored regions by the moment.

  How could these people go on as if everything was all right, when such a terrible thing had happened to Apollo?

  Didn't they realize?

  "Are you sure about that?" someone asked Apollo. He turned, expecting to see Troy or Boomer, perhaps, or even Tigh, but it was one of Segis's hooded minions. "You never could hold your ambrosa," the figure reminded him. Before Apollo could say anything, the figure tossed a gold cubit on the counter to pay for Apollo's drink. Apollo picked it up and studied it, and when he turned back to ask the man where he had gotten this particular cubit, the hooded figure was gone.

  "Did you see—?" Apollo began, hoping the servitor had seen it as well, or had seen how the figure disappeared so quickly, but she was busy chatting with one of the Warriors who had come by for a refill.

  Apollo turned the cubit over and over and over between his fingers, watching the light race along its smooth, curved edges.

  Sheba thought that if anyone ever needed a friend, it was Apollo, and she promised herself, after this next round of drinks Bo jay so generously bought for them, using Apollo's cubits, she would go talk to Apollo and, well, who knew where that talk would lead? She made a mental note to herself to get over there before Apollo had had too many ambrosas, although she was reasonably confident she had the wiles and the ways to counteract any adverse effects the drink may have.


  It was funny how the world could change in the time it took to finish a drink. As Sheba sat listening to one of Bo jay's horrible jokes, Cassiopeia spotted Apollo, sitting off at a side table by himself, and took the opportunity to join him. Sheba was laughing one moment, and when she looked toward Apollo once more, she no longer felt like laughing. Her cheeks flushed and she looked down at her drink, letting her hair curtain her face and the look of hurt she wore.

  She supposed it was inevitable; Apollo and Cassie had both suffered a devastating loss with Starbuck's death, and it was only natural they would spend so much time in commiseration. From grief comes bonding, and from their bonding came grief for Sheba. She suspected there was more to it than just the sharing of memories and tears, even if neither of them quite realized it themselves. And maybe, Sheba told herself, that was for the best. Maybe it was time she moved on, because the woman Apollo really loved was perfect. Frozen in time and in his heart, Serina was the ideal woman because she could never change, could never hurt him, she could never disappoint him. And he, for his part, was faithful to her because he had never fully allowed himself to love anyone since her death.

  Until he laid that ghost to rest, he would not be able to move on, but would remain forever in place, like a heart frozen between beats.

  Sheba drew in a deep breath and let it trickle out in a long, slow sigh. She forced a smile onto her lovely face and turned to Jolly. "Buy me a drink?" she asked.

  But before Jolly could respond, one of the young Warriors who had been smitten with Sheba since he first beheld her during his cadet training, had finally managed to drink the exact amount of grog necessary to give him just the right amount of courage and invulnerability to potential rejection, to sidle over to her at the crowded table and sit next to her in the place vacated by Boomer. She looked over at him, a trifle surprised, but maybe a little shake-up was just what she needed.