Battlestar Galactica-03-Resurrection Page 16

  "I was wondering," he started, his throat suddenly dry, despite all the grog he'd drunk. "That is… would you…" Sheba was quickly losing interest in this conversation, and the Warriors knew he'd have to spit it out now or forget it. "Would you like to dance with me?" he blurted.

  She looked at Bo jay, then back at her suitor. "Ah, what the frack?" She nodded and stood. The Warrior, as if unable to believe his luck, remained seated for a moment, then realized she was waiting for him. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the middle of the dance floor where dozens of other couples already swayed to the music.

  Her chin resting on his shoulder, Sheba closed her eyes and they danced, slowly; he, to the music the band played, she, to a song that was playing in her head, and if she happened to think of a certain, dark-haired, handsome commander, well, blame it on the drink, or the music, or an unquiet ghost of her own.

  "I have something for you," Cassiopeia told Apollo.

  He smiled, a little drunkenly. "I'll bet you do," he said.

  She laughed, and said, "You're kind of cute when you relax, you know that?" Cassie reached into the small pack she wore at her hip, rummaged through the items it contained, and found what she was looking for. "Anyway, that's not what I was talking about. Here," she said, and handed Apollo the small, framed object. He took it, blinked it into focus. It was an old pictograph of Starbuck and Apollo, taken yahren ago when they were both just out of the academy.

  "Where'd you find this?" he asked, unable to look away from those young faces gazing back at him through the yahren, a little piece of frozen time in his hands.

  "It was in Starbuck's things," she answered. "I framed it. He would never have done it himself."

  Apollo laughed at that thought. "No, you're right, he wouldn't have."

  "Anyway, I saw it when I was… clearing out his chambers… thought you might like to have a little keepsake of him."

  They were both silent for several centari, neither knowing quite what to say. Apollo was still looking at the pictograph, remembering the day it had been taken. They had both just earned their wings, and Starbuck could barely wait to hit the OCDC, now that he was a real Warrior. They had both drunk too much that day, and Starbuck had suggested they have a pictograph taken of the occasion. Apollo had never known what happened to it after that; he could barely recall what happened to himself that day, after the pictograph was taken, except it involved a lot of grog and even more socialators.

  Even in death, Starbuck was full of surprises.

  "He loved you, you know," Cassie said quietly.

  Apollo nodded, and tucked the pictograph away in his pocket before he could be overcome with grief. "I know," he said, and, after a moment, asked, "Did he—"

  She nodded. "Of course he knew. You always know when someone loves you," she said, and brushed her finger lightly beneath Apollo's downturned chin, lifting his face so their eyes met. "Don't you think?"

  His eyes shifted toward where Sheba sat, or had been sitting; he found her out on the dance floor with one of the young cadets, holding one another as close as praying hands, her head resting on his shoulder. "I thought so," he muttered, and forced himself to look away.

  "Do you want to get out of here?" Cassie asked him.

  He nodded. More than anything, he wanted that. Apollo tried to stand and stumbled, sat down hard in his seat. "How many ambrosas did you have?" Cassie asked, laughing, but she wasn't laughing at him. He shrugged, admitted he had no idea, but thought it might be only one, just spread out over several flagons.

  Gar'Tokk, who had been standing back at a respectful distance to allow Apollo room to grieve his friend, now stepped forward and helped him to his feet, Cassie holding him steady as Gar'Tokk lifted. It was not as if Gar'Tokk couldn't have managed the commander's weight on his own; it was just an excuse for closeness and simple human contact.

  "I'll get him home," Gar'Tokk promised.

  "Actually," Cassie said, and gave the Noman a sly smile, "my compartment's closer."

  Living quarters in the mirror city were small but efficient, with the larger compartments going to families, and those of a more distinguished stature, such as Commander Cain, Apollo, Athena, and the rest of the Quorum. Cassie fell somewhere between the extremes, since her status as a med practitioner elevated her to a somewhat loftier position than simple citizen. Even so, small as it was, her compartment also felt, at times, at night especially, much too large for her, and she was grateful to have Apollo there to make it more intimate.

  Her quarters were still in a state of flux, as were those of everyone else throughout the underground city, as she unpacked and stored her belongings and tried to find a way to make her cell, practically identical to all the others in the city, uniquely her own. Med texts sat on shelves, and charts hung on the otherwise featureless walls.

  Gar'Tokk took his surroundings in at a glance, grunted something that may have been approval, or could just as easily have been distaste, and tumbled the commander into Cassi's narrow berth. "This where you want him?" Gar'Tokk asked, and favored her with one of his few smiles.

  "That'll do nicely," she said.

  The Borellian Noman grunted again, and this time she was sure it was the sound of laughter, and said he'd leave them alone. He stopped at the door long enough to inspect Cassie's still-shapely body, and shrugged; he really didn't understand what humans found so attractive about each other's almost-hairless bodies, but then, he really didn't understand much that humans did. He just worked here.

  Cassie closed the door and turned back to Apollo, who was sitting on the edge of the berth, gripping the edge of the mattress with both hands as the room began to swim around him. "You all right?" she asked, sitting carefully beside him, near enough he could feel the heat rising off her body. He nodded that he was, then wished he hadn't as the room took that as a cue to start pinwheeling in the opposite direction. Apollo was afraid to let go of the berth for fear he would fall up to the ceiling. "You miss him, don't you?" she asked, softly. "It's all right, you don't have to say anything; I miss him, too."

  She leaned closer, somehow slipping her right arm around his back, and cupping his face with her left. Cassiopeia's breast pressed into Apollo's side, and he made no effort to move away. She kissed him gently on the temple, and at the corner of his eye.

  "It sounds trite, but, you know, he'll always be alive for us," she continued, interspersing her words with soft kisses; the space between them grew smaller, the kisses more plentiful. "In our hearts, in our minds." He nodded; it did sound trite, but it was something to hold onto, and that was better than nothing. The silence that followed Starbuck's passing was like the silence that follows a storm or a battle.

  He lifted his face toward hers, and her kiss, meant for his cheek, found his mouth instead. Apollo was reasonably sure it was safe to let go of the bed now, and slowly put his arms around Cassie, pulling her nearer. Their mouths found one another once more, this time more squarely on, and she slipped her tongue between his lips and teeth. Cassie stroked his tongue and the roof of his mouth with her own, and, as she pulled slowly away from the kiss, nibbled lightly on his lower lip and let it go with a little pop.

  "You taste like ambrosa," she joked. Her fingers began unbuttoning his uniform, opening it, slipping it away from his chest and off his shoulders, exposing his chest and flat belly. She kissed between his pectorals and licked and kissed her way down his abdomen to his navel, where she swirled her tongue playfully.

  "Starbuck used to say I was like ambrosa," she told him, a wicked smile on her lips. "He said I used to go straight to his head."

  Apollo giggled, and Cassie laughed, too. "You're drunk, aren't you?" she asked. Apollo placed a finger to his lips and made a shushhhhing sound, as if that were some carefully guarded secret that absolutely must not fall into enemy hands. Cassie laid him down slant-wise on her berth, pulled off his boots and stood them side by side, like an honor guard, and unbuckled his pants. She slid them down and off, and before she could
fold them and drape them over the back of her chair, she heard Apollo murmur something and begin to make sounds like a daggit being choked.

  "Oh, you aren't going to get sick now, are you?" she asked in horror.

  He didn't answer; just made another one of those choking-daggit noises, and she realized he had passed out the moment his head touched the pillow.

  "Oh, frack!" she hissed under her breath.

  Cassie sat beside him on the edge of the berth, looking at his peaceful face, his mouth open, and for a moment, she considered trying to rouse him, then wondered if perhaps this was better. She asked herself if this made any sense, and she couldn't honestly answer. This may have been nothing more than one of those chance encounters that come about from opportunity, and the false sense of closeness.

  Then again, she thought, it also made perfect sense, didn't it? She and Apollo had known one another for yahren, and liked one another as people, and friends. The best romances began as friendships… and, then again, the best friendships have been ruined by romances.

  Frack! Even when he was unconscious, the man was infuriatingly complex!

  Well, she supposed; it anything was meant to be between them, it would happen. And, if not… well, if not, it was nice to not have to sleep alone for once.

  Cassie lifted Apollo's legs and swung them around so he was lengthwise in her berth, and took down a warmer from the closet, shook it loose, and covered him with it. She undressed herself and slid into bed beside him, giving herself a treat for being good. Cassie rested her head against Apollo's chest and shoulder, and snuggled closer to him beneath the warmer. She studied his face by the ambient light in the room, and, when she thought she had it memorized, closed her eyes and fell into a warm and comfortable sleep, untroubled by bad dreams.

  The celebration was breaking up, fragments spinning away from the mass, joining with other fragments. Troy watched as Dalton left the dance floor with Trays, where they had been dancing as closely as if they were cojoined, and then Troy could watch no more. They were leaving the fete together, and Troy decided he had enjoyed just about as much of this celebration as he could stand. "She's all yours," he muttered under his breath, and made his way to the bar, to see if Jasmine's offer was still good, but she had already hooked up with another cadet. She saw the look of disappointment on Troy's face and shrugged as if to say, You had your chance. This could have been you. Better luck next time.

  Troy watched them leave together, and, before any other heartache could find him, he decided he'd better head for his own compartment. He walked down the still-crowded street, the sound of music and laughter nipping at his heels and making him walk a little faster.

  The young Warrior found his building and made his way up the ascensior to his floor, and down the corridor toward his compartment. All the Warriors were bivouacked in the same building, and he heard the sound of female laughter coming from just around the right angle of the hallway ahead. He knew that laughter, and had a good idea who was causing it, but Troy's compartment was at the far end of the next corridor, and there was no way to avoid what he knew he would see. Taking a deep breath, Troy rounded the corner.

  He stopped when he saw what was occurring: Dalton was backed against the wall, her head turned demurely away from Trays' face. He stood with both hands braced against the wall, his arms on either side of her head, his knee bent just enough to rest against the outside of her thigh. He was whispering something to her, and she was blushing and shaking her head. Trays bent his arms at the elbows and pressed in closer, giving Dalton little pecks on her cheek. She turned toward him, and he kissed her mouth. Momentarily, she returned the kiss, but then she pulled away.

  Trays stepped back, and took her hand firmly in his. "My compartment is right there," he said, nodding toward one of the many identical doors. "This is what we both want, isn't it?"

  Dalton shook her head, uncertain. She really didn't know what she wanted. "I don't know, "she protested weakly. Trays took advantage of her indecision and pulled her a few steps closer to his compartment door. "Trays," she said, "I really like you, a lot, but this is…"

  "Don't give me that virgin stuff," he said, angrily. "Everybody knows better. C'mon, I mean, Starbuck's daughter? Like father, like daughter—"

  Her mouth fell open and for once in her life, Dalton was speechless. But she wasn't helpless. She snapped her knee up hard into Trays' groin, and, as he started to fold up, gasping in pain, Dalton finished the job with a solid right cross to his lantern chin.

  "Nobody knows anything about me but me, got that?" she shouted.

  Ohh, that's gotta hurt, Troy thought, almost giddy with delight. But his delight turned to horror as, the next moment, Trays shook off the pain in his swollen pogees and split lip and lunged at Dalton, throwing her back against the wall. Her head struck the doorframe, stunning her.

  He pressed his mouth to hers, smearing her lips with his blood, even as her nails raked at his face, laying it open in red, weeping furroughs. But this only seemed to arouse Trays more, and he began to grind against her, his hand covering her mouth so she could only manage helpless mewling noises.

  Troy had been too stunned to act before this, but he regained his wits enough to run to Dalton's side in three great strides, and grip Trays by the collar. He jerked him away from Dalton, Trays' face a stew of anger and surprise. "That's it!" Troy shouted, his lips slicked back in a snarl, flecks of spittle flying. "You've crossed every line there is this time!"

  Trays started laughing. "Why don't you go play with your little daggit, Boxey, and leave the grown-ups alone?" He shot a wild, drunken, looping swing at Troy, who threw up his left arm and blocked the punch, tangling Trays' arm up within his own. Troy jerked the other pilot forward with his left arm, and brought his right elbow up hard into Trays' nose. He felt it flatten against Trays' face, and a jet of dark blood spurted from his nostril.

  Troy still had Trays' right arm tangled in his left, and he delivered two quick body blows to Trays' unprotected gut, and a final, powerful uppercut to the hotshot's chin, making his jaws click shut together on the tip of his tongue. He groaned and staggered backward, and Troy let go of his arm, letting Trays stumble, his arms whipping like rotors as he tried to regain his balance.

  His feet tangled and he went down, the breath leaving him in a grunt. Trays' hand fumbled for his broken nose, touched it gingerly and he winced in pain. He groaned and let his hand fall limply to his side.

  Troy's rage was not spent yet, and he started forward to beat Trays into a med-unit berth, but Dalton shouted her anger and frustration and weariness. "Just stop it, both of you! I'm sick of this! I'm sick of all of you! I'm—" Her mouth snapped shut, and, with tears in her eyes, she clapped a hand over her mouth and turned and ran down the corridor. Troy stood over Trays a micron longer, then chased after Dalton. Trays was not going to cause them any further problems; not any time soon, and maybe never again, if he had any sense. The real problem now seemed to be about to explode within Dalton, and Troy hoped he would be able to fit all the pieces back together again.

  Dalton banged her palm futilely, impatiently, on the ascensior button, but it crawled slowly up the building's cables, and she wanted out of here, now. She cursed and ran for the steps and took them, two at a time, barely seeing where she was going.

  "Dalton!" Troy called after her, his voice echoing in the stairwell. But she didn't stop. Far away, at the bottom of the spiraling staircase, Troy heard a door latch open, then bang shut once more. "Ahhhh, frack," he said, and chased after her. All things being equal, he thought this was a hell of a way to get over a pleasant grog altering.

  At last he found Dalton, in a cavern on the outskirts of the city, where the buildings gave way to natural rock formations. She was drawn up into a small ball, knees against her chest, arms hugging her legs, head resting against her knees. Dalton didn't seem to notice Troy approaching, but she said, without looking up, "Thanks for back there."

  "No problem," Troy said, feeling lik
e an intruder. Dalton rubber her eyes against her sleeve and looked up, a forced composure on her face. "You okay?" She was clearly not comfortable expressing her vulnerability around anyone, even someone she had known as long as Troy.

  "What do you think, Bo-Troy," she caught, and corrected, herself. Maybe later she would be tough as anchor spikes again, and maybe she would go back to calling him Boxey, but for now, he didn't deserve that kind of treatment. "Of course I'm okay."

  "Really?" he said, walking closer. He stood beside her, then knelt, so his face was even with hers. "Because it'd be okay if you weren't."

  "I'm all right!" she shouted, and shoved Troy backward. He fell, caught himself on his elbow, tearing the sleeve of his shirt on the rocky ground. He bit back an angry response, and sat down in front of her.

  "You're not going to drive me away, all right?" he told her. "So just settle down and talk to me."

  Instead of soothing her, Troy's concilliatory tone only seemed to enrage Dalton, and she landed a solid blow on his chest, and another. He threw his arms up across his face in an X, but didn't try to stop her. This was something she had to release, if she could, at least enough to slow the poison that was spreading through her system. She rained blow after blow on his arms, his chest, his knees, drawn up to protect his belly, and, all at once, she simply stopped.

  Troy lowered his guard enough to look at her, half-expecting her to deck him with a solid jab, but she was sitting once more in her balled-up position, looking more lost and hurt than ever. He risked another beating by gently stroking her hair.

  Dalton looked up, this time making no attempt to disguise the tears that fell from her eyes, and asked, pitifully, "What am I going to do?"

  Troy smiled and kissed her eyelids. Dalton did not fight him.