Note

This is a remix of TS1: Starbuck. That makes it a different story, really. Same events. Totally different POV..

 

Section One : Game Plan

 

Day 1 to Day 24

 

Great leave. Shame about how it ended

 

Day 2, 8am

"Demeter's still a couple of centars away, sir," said the pilot, coming back into the body of the shuttle. "Do you want a coffee or something?"

Apollo stared, still in that micron of disorientation that you get when you've been startled out of a light sleep that you know you shouldn't have been taking anyway, your reactions a mix of surprise and faint guilt. His hands closed over the small, square black case in his lap.

"Do you have some tea?" he asked.

The pilot looked nonplussed, as if he'd never heard of the stuff. "I'll take a look," he said, in the same tone of voice he'd use if Apollo had asked him for iced sherbet with rose petals scattered on top: the tone that betrayed that he was biting back sarcastic words about this being a military shuttle and if the Shield Captain wanted luxury then he'd just commandeered the wrong ship.

"Thanks." Apollo waited until the pilot had disappeared into the little galley at the back of the shuttle before checking the case. His thumbs slid against the lock plates, letting the mechanism read the prints, opening the lock, and he glanced inside, half annoyed with himself for being so paranoid. The Link nestled into its packaging, safe and undisturbed.

Relieved he closed it up and settled back into his seat. Demeter in a couple of centars, where he'd pick up the Hyperion and get this job underway at last. It had been a long time in the planning.

It was probably the most important job that Shield had done in a couple of centuries.

It was his job, and he loved it.

No matter what anyone said.

 

Flashback. Day 1, 6.35 pm

Apollo closed down the communications link with careful fingers, glancing through into the main room. Joss sat with his back to the study door, ramrod straight and tense. He'd heard, that much was evident.

Apollo blew out his breath in a long, silent sigh, and braced himself for the coming storm. As he walked into the living room, Joss picked up the book that Apollo had been reading before the call came, flipping over a few pages. He spoke without looking up.

"When do you leave?"

Joss knew when. He'd been listening. But Apollo was willing to play the game, to be conciliatory.

"I've got to go and see General Martens, first. She's sending a driver for me. He'll be here at nine."

Three centars.

Joss sniffed, putting the book down onto his knees, smoothing the covers. "They haven't given you very long at home."

"Things are hotting up. It's something a bit different that they have for me this time." Apollo didn't say that he'd been on call, half expecting to be called back early if HQ thought a window was opening. He knew better than to admit to that.

Another sniff. Joss still didn't look up, all his concentration on the book. Apollo watched him for a centon, noticing the fine silvery grey threads in the brown hair. He hadn't seen them before, and something in his throat tightened.

"I'll cancel the reservation at the restaurant," he said.

Joss said, still not looking at Apollo, "I might find someone else to go with. I might just go."

The reservation was for a centar later, for half after seven. If Joss really wanted to go out, then he was cutting down to nothing their time together before Apollo left.

"That's up to you," Apollo said, evenly, and turned away, heading for the bedroom to collect his kit.

And to put off for as long as he could, the inevitable discussion that Joss would want.

The standard military duffle was always ready, parked in the back of one of the closets, already packed. Apollo checked it quickly, out of habit, not because he doubted that everything he needed was there. He took a quick shower, keeping himself occupied.

Things had been tense for some time, and Joss was increasingly impatient with what he thought were Apollo's attempts to fit with the image his family demanded of him: Apollo's cowardice, he called it; his unwillingness to cut the cord completely and live his own life.

There was maybe some truth in that. Despite moving in to live with Joss the instant he reached the age of consent and he was old enough to ensure his lover wouldn't get arrested, Apollo had been moulded by those first eighteen yahrens. The Kobolian principles of service and honour and duty were too strong to escape totally. All he'd been able to do, was moderate them, to compromise with them a little. Joss was his biggest compromise, but Joss didn't see it like that.

All that Joss saw was someone trying, despite everything, to live the life his father wanted for him, in some form or other. The trouble was, that Joss didn't see that he was trying to define that life for Apollo every bit as much as he claimed those family expectations defined it.

He was waiting when Apollo got back to the bedroom, looking something between scared and angry.

"Are you going?" Apollo asked.

"Are you?" Joss shot back.

"I don't have any choice." Apollo tried to be patient. "It's my job, Joss."

"It doesn't have to be!" Joss thrust the book at him. "This could be your job! You wanted it to be once."

"Once." Apollo put the book into the top of the duffle. "Before I realised that I'm not cut out to be a scholar."

"You were the best one in your yahren," Joss snapped. "And if you weren't a scholar, why in hell has the Kobolian asked you to revise that volume?"

*Probably because you asked them to, and given that they're dependent on your charitable donations to fund the archaeological research programme, they'd do just about anything to keep you sweet.*

But he didn't say it aloud. Besides it was probably only partly true. Joss was right. Apollo had been a scholar once, and a good one. He could revise that volume on his own merits; Joss didn't have to buy that for him.

"They'd sell half the faculty to get you back," said Joss.

"We've talked about this before. Often."

"And every time, you ignore me."

"I don't ignore you. I just don't agree with you. I like what I do. It's enough to make me feel I'm doing something to end this stupid war, and it gives me a lot of time at home." Apollo waited a micron before adding, softly, "With you."

Joss hunched one shoulder, an inelegant move for someone who normally moved with studied grace. "You don't need to work at all, you know. But if you took the fellowship at the Kobolian you'd be home all the time. I don't like you being away as much. And it's hardly the safest job in the world."

Joss's brown eyes met Apollo's, and Apollo saw how scared he was. Apollo knew that fear, as well as loneliness, was what this was all about, what this was always about. The time the yahren before when Apollo had been brought home in a medical ship had terrified Joss, and was still haunting him. His efforts to persuade Apollo to resign his commission had redoubled since then.

"Getting killed to please your father isn't a bright career move, Apollo."

"Please don't start."

"You can't deny that you're still trying to make up to him," said Joss, spiteful. "Still trying to get his approval."

"I'm doing what I want to do, Joss. I'm not doing it to placate my father. He thinks I chose the easy option. He's pretty much given up on me, and you know it."

Silence so loud it was deafening. Apollo waited, then laced up the duffle, enclosing the book within it. The symbolism wasn't lost on him; or, he suspected, on Joss. Despite your best efforts to compromise with it, to make bargains, to juggle the competing demands, the military swallowed up everything in the end.

"I get scared," Joss admitted at last. "I love you, and you're always in danger, and you're gone for sectons at a time. This place is too big for me on my own. I don't want to be on my own, Apollo."

Safe to try a little humour. "Come on, it's not as if you won't find some company while I'm gone."

"That's only sex."

"Don't knock it! It's better than I get while I'm away." Apollo smiled, although it still felt wrong to him, this arrangement he'd offered Joss out of guilt at his lover's loneliness, and he was, irrationally, slightly hurt that Joss made use of it. It made him feel unfaithful even though he didn't reciprocate, not in a way that Joss recognised. At least, Joss didn't see any of those pretty boys while Apollo was home, and Apollo believed him when Joss insisted that he never brought any of them there, to their bed.

Apollo sat down on the side of the bed, allowing the towel - all he was wearing - to slip. He knew what effect that would have on Joss.

"It's not the same," Joss said, sitting down beside him, diverted, as always, by a half naked Apollo. "It's not you. Besides, you told me about that girl you met on Demeter that time. And that one on Sagittera."

"Two of them in three yahrens! Besides, you said that girls don't count."

Joss slid a warm hand under the towel. "No more they do," he said.

And after that, the argument ended the way they all did, the way Apollo was careful to engineer them to end. Apollo had known that Joss would be waiting for him and he'd taken the time to prepare himself while he was in the shower, half despising himself for what he was doing. He knew that it wouldn't take much to divert Joss from the argument, to lose them both in a slow burning lovemaking.

Joss didn't need much encouragement, touching Apollo with familiar hands, the hands that had teased and shocked and excited and dazzled him into eagerly offering up his unwanted virginity more than seven yahrens ago, now. And if the body that Joss penetrated in one easy thrust was no longer that of a skinny, scared teenager who was still several sectars short of the legal age of consent, sometimes that scared, skinny Apollo wasn't very far below the surface. Apollo didn't like fighting with Joss. He had enough fighting in his professional life without bringing it home.

They made love twice before the driver got there, but Joss hadn't forgotten his grievances. He was still trying to persuade Apollo to change his mind, even as Apollo kissed him goodbye and walked out of the door.

Great leave. Shame about how it ended.

 

Day 2, 8.10 am

"Tea," said the shuttle pilot, offering a cup of something hot and steaming.

Apollo eyed it dubiously. "If you say so. Thanks."

"You're welcome, sir."

Apollo sipped the tea and grimaced slightly. But it was hot and wet and would keep him awake, and that was all that mattered.

 

Flashback 2 Day 1, 10.05 pm

The driver didn't take him to the long low building out in an obscure part of town, that housed the Shield Regiment's headquarters; a building that used to distress the historian in Apollo every time that he'd seen its frontage of spurious painted lotus columns, until he'd come to terms with the architectural conceit that was merely a nod towards the archaeological truth. Once he'd contented himself with a mental promise to find the perpetrator's grave one day, and stamp on it, he'd learned to ignore the monstrosity.

Instead, the driver took him into the heart of Caprica City, to the even more architecturally challenging tower that housed military headquarters. That jutted up like an obscene, glass-clad stump, but at least it wasn't pretending to a classicism that it didn't have, revelling instead in a kind of brutalism that was ironic in its statement about militaristic stereotyping.

"I'll take you around the side entrance, sir," the driver said, over his shoulder. "You can leave your stuff in the car. My orders are to wait and take you out to the space field as soon as they're finished with you."

"Thanks," said Apollo, hurriedly fixing medal ribbons into place. He wondered if there'd be much left to be ferried out to the field after the Supreme Commander and General Martens had finished with him.

A nervous looking Fleet lieutenant was waiting for him by the security desk. Once she'd established he was who he claimed to be, she escorted him to the top floor in a scared silence. She didn't say very much, but she did watch him out of the corner of her eye all the way up in the lifts. Maybe she was frightened that he'd bolt. He gave her a reassuring smile, amused to see her start like a deer. He wasn't sure if it was the Shield that had her spooked, or whether working in HQ was not for the faint hearted.

The Supreme Commander's outer office was ornate, still in that brutal style that was almost a parody of militarism. An Infantry colonel was its only occupant, sitting behind an imposing desk. Unlike the lieutenant who handed Apollo over with an almost inaudible mutter, he didn't look scared, just disdainful.

"I'll tell them you're here," he said, and while he commed through into the inner sanctum, he left Apollo standing.

Apollo could deal relatively easily with arrogance of that kind. He whiled away the time combating the colonel's assumption of superiority, thinking about the eminence of a Supreme Commander who could afford to keep colonels as office boys.

"Go on through," the office boy said when the well-remembered voice barked something out through this end of the comlink that might have been consent.

Apollo saluted, hiding his amusement, and walked into the Supreme Commander's office. If the outer office was ornate, this was ornate squared. Or maybe cubed: Apollo wasn't enough of a mathematician to be sure. General Martens, black uniform covered in silver braid, was already there, ensconced in a leather wing armchair at one side of a desk at least twice the size of the colonel's outside. Behind this desk sat a dazzling array of medals and thick gold braid that, on closer inspection, resolved itself into the well known figure of the Supreme Commander.

"Shield Captain Apollo reporting as ordered, sir," said Apollo, coming to attention and saluting with far more careful precision than the office boy had rated. He glanced at his general. "Ma'am."

"Good God, you've filled out a bit," said Supreme Commander Jak, staring at him with fierce, hooded blue eyes. "Haven't seen you for yahrens."

"My graduation from SSI, I think, sir," said Apollo, politely, inwardly cringing. The look he gave Martens was apologetic. His father had all too many friends, all too high in the military hierarchy, in this case one who'd been an honorary uncle since Apollo had learned to walk and talk. Having been dandled on that Supreme Commanderly knee as a baby made avoiding the suspicion of nepotism and privilege very difficult.

"Wouldn't have recognised you. How's your father?"

"Very well, sir, I believe. It's been a while since I saw him."

"He was home six sectars ago," observed the Supreme Commander.

"I wasn't, sir. I was on a job. I missed him, that time."

"Maybe just as well," said Jak, in that same neutral observational tone. "Has he stopped complaining about you taking Shield?"

"We've given up discussing it, sir," said Apollo, diplomatically, but something inside him tightened at the thought that his father had, of course, complained to all of his friends about how unsatisfactory his son was.

"I have to have one or two bright ones, Jak," said Martens. "It's only fair. At ease, Captain."

Apollo relaxed. "Thank you, ma'am."

"Not for long," said Jak. "What'll he do at the end of this tour?"

"I'd like to stay with Shield, sir."

Apollo was ignored. The question had not, after all, been addressed to him.

"Strategy Unit, where he belongs, I suppose." The Supreme Commander answered his own question.

"We don't have to worry about that just yet." Marten's smile was thin and frosty. "We're just waiting for Captain Felix from the Strategy Unit to join us, Captain, and then we're going over everything again."

Apollo glanced at his wrist chronometer. They'd be cutting it fine.

Neither of the eminent beings failed to notice. Jak snorted, and General Martens said, "I've sent your lieutenant orders not to hold the shuttle for you. The sooner she gets back out to Demeter with your crew, the sooner you can reclaim the Hyperion from the maintenance techs. By the time you get there, the ship will be ready to leave, without delay."

"Yes, ma'am." Apollo took the straight backed chair that Jak waved him to. "That leaves me without transport unless I take the morning Fleet shuttle. I'm a little uneasy about taking the Link out on a regular shuttle."

Not to mention having to wait until dawn. He'd have time to go home for a few centars sleep, but Apollo didn't think that he could face another leave-taking. His gut was still churning from the first one.

"Too insecure," snapped Jak.

Apollo was left wondering if the Supreme Commander meant that carrying the Link on the regular shuttle breached some tenet of state security - something he agreed with - or whether this was some personal assessment of Apollo's emotional condition. In which case, he'd disagree with that, as vigorously as he'd disagree with Jak's cavalier assumption that he'd consent to be railroaded behind a desk in HQ for a term.

He'd resign his commission first. That would please Joss.

"The driver will take you straight out to the field. Commandeer something when you get there." Martens leaned forward and handed him a data crystal. "You could command the entire Fleet with this. Your orders, signed by the Supreme Commander."

"Thank you, ma'am." Apollo stowed the crystal away carefully.

Captain Felix came in just then, carrying a small black case, about eight inches square and six deep. He saluted - more or less, the Strategy Unit people being hotter on brains than an unthinking devotion to military procedure - and nodded a greeting at Apollo. They'd been working together on this for a yahren, in between Apollo's jobs for the Shield Regiment.

"Here she is," said Felix. He opened the case to display the compact little device inside, packed in foam for its protection, a box of blank data crystals tucked alongside it. When Felix snapped the locks shut, Apollo pressed each thumb up against the lock plates, while Felix configured the mechanism to answer to Apollo's prints alone. Apollo took the case onto his lap.

"Right," said the Supreme Commander. "Let's go over it all again. This appears to be mostly your fault, Captain Apollo, so you'd better start us off."

 

Day 2, 9.85 am

"Demeter in ten centons," called the pilot.

"Good." Apollo got up and came to look out of the forward port at the rapidly approaching space station, eager to get to his ship and get this job started.

They'd held him in extra mission briefings until midnight, painstakingly going over the plans that he himself had put together almost a yahren before, checking and double checking. He'd chafed under the delay a little, but hid it as best he could : mere captains, especially captains with rank pips so new that they still squeaked, had to listen patiently to Supreme Commanders and generals and spend time in reassurance.

He'd arrived at the space field just after 2am, walking into an almost deserted waiting area. This was the dead time, when unless there was a major push somewhere that meant there were thousands of warriors to move around, the operation almost ground to a halt. A couple of Fleet enlisted had been sat in a corner, playing cards, and an Infantryman lay face down on one of the long seats, snoring. Someone had ended their leave with a good time in a bar somewhere then, not with recriminations. Lucky stiff.

Apollo had never before invoked this particular Shield privilege, but armed with the Supreme Commander's orders, he'd walked up to the sleepy looking sergeant at the traffic gate, and five centons later he'd been in the Transport Office, commandeering a ship. They'd protested, of course - it threw their schedules into disarray - but Apollo had stood his ground.

As a consequence, he was the only passenger on the little shuttle and he was Shield: an unusual enough combination, he knew, to have piqued the pilot's interest. The pilot had been cheerful and friendly when Apollo had come on board, ceremoniously escorted by a Transport chief in ironic mode, but Apollo had met all attempts at conversation with monosyllabic reserve, and after a while the pilot had given it up. They'd spent the more than seven centar flight in almost complete silence.

Apollo didn't mind. He had a lot to think about.

And now they were almost there. Almost at the starting gate.

It was definitely his job, and he loved it.

 

Flashback 3 Day 1, midnight

"Pull this one off, and I'll see what I can do about keeping you away from a desk, Apollo."

"Thank you, sir."

The Supreme Commander had dismissed Felix, and Martens, after a nod in Apollo's general direction, had left with the strategy geek. Jak had held his old friend's son back, for a private word.

"I can't promise Shield, because we rotate you people out of it for a good reason. We burn you out, and we know it. But you can have a couple of yahrens in Fleet or Infantry to get your breath back, and then I'll see about letting you back into Shield." He grinned. "It'll annoy your father. He wants you in Fleet full time, of course."

"Seeing me behind a desk will annoy him even more," said Apollo, wryly.

Jak nodded and laughed. Apollo's straightlaced father and Jak were complete opposites; maybe it was that that had kept them such close friends for over forty yahrens.

"Well," said Jak, "unless you two have resolved your differences, maybe you should consider annoying him. The Unit will scream if I let you get away from them again."

Apollo shook his head. He wasn't that desperate to annoy his father.

Or, he realised, that desperate to placate Joss.

 

Day 2, 10.10 am

"What dock are they bringing us into, Sergeant?"

"Number 9, sir. It's the nearest they can get us to the Shield area."

Four docks away. That wasn't too bad. A half-centar walk, that was all.

The Fleet pilot hesitated. "I don't suppose they'll let us dock in your bit?"

"I don't suppose so, no."

The pilot shrugged. "They've given us an approach. ETA eight centons."

Apollo nodded. "Thank you."

Twenty centons later and he was through Decontamination, coming out through the airlock into the base proper. Demeter was the biggest of the Colonies' transfer stations, used by every ship within the quadrant as well as some of the big fixed bases, like Cetes, half a parsec away. The place was always crowded, mostly with Fleet personnel moving between ships and home. But here and there were a few Infantry on their way to somewhere where the war was a little more immediate, not as sanitised as Fleet knew it, insulated in their ships from the dirt and blood on the ground.

He swung the duffle over one shoulder, tightened his grip on the little black case, and joined the stream of human traffic in the long corridor that linked the docking ports on Demeter's outer rim. He could have taken one of the overhead transport pods, but he was cramped from the long shuttle ride, preferring to walk the kinks out of his legs. Mostly the crowds parted to let him through, and he walked unhurriedly, aware of the sidelong glances he got. He took no notice. Warriors from the other two services were always curious about the Shield Regiment, never knowing what to make of it. Warriors tended to prefer black and white: either you were an airhead or a mudbrain. Shield sitting somewhere in the middle of this, doing both flying and ground operations confused everyone. No-one knew where they fitted. Shield mostly went its own way and transfer points like Demeter were about the only place Shield and the other services had any contact at all.

Docks 1 through to 5 were Shield territory. No matter how crowded Demeter got, no other service transports used them. Shield guarded its secrets jealously: another reason for its equivocal reputation with Fleet and Infantry. The corridor was closed off, guarded by half a dozen heavily armed Shield troopers who wouldn't let the Supreme Commander past without authorisation and who took nothing on trust. Apollo might be wearing the black uniform, he might be wearing those new captain's pips, but his papers were thoroughly scrutinised before the gate was opened for him and he was saluted through.

The airlock doors at Dock 3 were closed tight. Apollo hit the intercom and announced himself. "Shield Captain Apollo requesting permission to come aboard."

There was a micron's delay while the Hype's computers verified his voice print.

[Permission granted]

The outer door opened, letting him into the tube connecting the Hyperion to the Demeter port. A big sergeant was waiting for him at the inner door to the Hype.

"Welcome back, sir. Good leave?"

Great leave. Shame about how it ended.

But that wasn't for sharing. Apollo grinned slightly. "Fine, Tim. What about you?"

"Good." The sergeant relieved him of the duffle, but didn't offer to take the case. That wasn't standard, and the man probably realised that if Apollo wanted him to take it, he'd have handed it over. "The wife's pregnant again."

"Again?" said Apollo, aghast. In the three yahrens he'd known the sergeant, Tim's wife seemed to be constantly breeding.

The sergeant looked becomingly modest. "It's all these home leaves I get."

"Spare me the details. Well, congratulations, Tim, I'm pleased for you." Apollo grinned. "Isn't it time you named one after me?"

"Doc says its another girl. Is there a feminine form of your name, sir?"

Apollo shook his head. "You really don't want to go there," he said.

"First boy we get, then." Tim grinned back. "Don't worry: we'll keep trying. We'll get there."

Apollo laughed and went on his way through the narrow metal corridors to the bridge.

"Last, as usual," said his lieutenant, by way of formal greeting, getting up from the command chair and offering a sketchy salute. The bridge crew all went to attention.

"And my compliments to you too, Lieutenant Rosalyn," said Apollo. "Welcome back, everyone. Carry on."

"From the message I got not to wait for you, I guess the general kept you?" asked the lieutenant after the chorus of greetings had died away.

"And others even Higher Up." Apollo hefted the case in his hands. "They held me up while they handed over this little leaving present. Let me put it away and then we can be off."

Rosie followed him into the little alcove that did duty as his bridge office. "Where are we headed?"

"Initially, over into the neighbour's back yard for a nosy poke around." Apollo slipped the case into the tiny safe - it only just fitted - and locked the door. He looked up at her and smiled. "And that's all I can say for now, Rosie, until we get there and take a look. Everyone else on board?"

She nodded. "The rest of us made the shuttle. I see they took the time to make these permanent." Rosie's hand brushed the captain's pins in Apollo's collar.

He grinned. "There's always time for the important things in life," he said.

"Tell that to Tim's wife. Did he tell you? He talked of nothing else all the way back."

Apollo laughed. "We should get him seen to, if only so he doesn't single handedly overpopulate the planet." He squeezed into the chair behind the console and punched in a few co-ordinates. "We're heading here."

"Great," said Rosie. "Last sectar that was jumping with tinheads."

"We're going to see if it still is and if the areas behind them are a little less crowded. Then we'll decide on our target." He switched off the console display. "All right, contact Demeter control and get us out of here."

He sat back in the chair and watched as Rosie went back to the command chair, and opened negotiations with Demeter control about an exit route.

They were on their way.

 

Day 2, 2.75 pm

Hyperion wasn't very big, but she was very fast and very well armed: the epitome of a Shield ship. Her crew of thirty were, Apollo thought, the best. Not one of them had complained about their home leaves being cut short, even though it was barely ten days since they'd got back from their last job, and they usually got longer than that: they'd all had some basic briefing about this job, and they all knew how important it was. They were focused and efficient, and he thought the world of them, even though they'd only been formally his for three sectars, since Captain Warner hadn't made it back from a job and Apollo, as senior lieutenant, had stepped in to finish that mission and take the Hype through the next. Now the Hype was his for real.

Hyperion wasn't very big at all, but she carried ten Raptor fighter/scoutships and one tiny shuttle, all that they could fit into her. Even getting ten in was a bit of a squeeze. She was a functional ship, her living accommodation at a minimum to give more room for the Raptors and their flight deck, and the isometrics and listening posts that were her reason for existence. She was a spy ship, a behind-the-lines raider and scout. She had no room for luxuries.

As captain, Apollo rated his own quarters: something the same length as the narrow bunk he was stretched out on and almost exactly twice as wide. A very small cabin, made even smaller by Rosie taking up more space than one woman should, sitting cross-legged at the bottom of his bunk.

They'd been friends for far longer than he'd been her commanding officer. If she took a few privileges out of that, he could live with it, including having her crowd him half out of his own bunk. Besides, it was about the only place on the ship where he and Rosie could talk uninterrupted. He'd filled her in on more details of the mission. She was more worried than he was about the job itself - he knew what he was doing there and there wasn't much point at all mulling over it until the actual target was decided and he could start preparing for it properly.

"Whatever target we go for, this isn't going to be like any other job we've done," she said, twisting short brown hair around her fingers. "No fast in-and-out this time. You'll be down in the base for centars. It's incredibly dangerous, Apollo."

It's almost impossible to shrug while you're lying down, but Apollo managed it. "I can't see any way around it," he said. "Not if we're to test the thing properly."

"Mmnn," she said, absently. "Which one do you want to go for?"

"Depends on what we find when we reach Cylon territory. If they're still massing over towards Cetes that leaves four good targets behind them over in the Borallian sector. I only hope it's not T5. That planet's a nightmare, and I don't want to spend centars inside a space suit."

She grimaced, and nodded.

"You're sitting on my feet," he said.

"Can I help it if all you rate for a cabin is this shoebox? Just be grateful you have one of your own. I hate sharing with Chivers."

Apollo grinned at the thought of the latest addition to the crew. Chivers was an ensign and reminded everyone irresistibly of a puppy: eager to please, clumsy and with feet about six sizes too large for him.

"You never seemed to mind sharing with me."

"You don't snore." Rosie glanced at the flat leather case on the shelf above Apollo's bunk that she knew held holopics of Joss. "And I was reasonably sure you weren't lusting after me. I'm not so sure about Chivers." She grimaced again. "Oh well, I'd better get back to the bridge. I left him in command up there, and he's probably got us headed straight into a supernova." She uncoiled long legs and got to her feet. "I'm glad that they gave you the Hype, 'Pollo. The place wouldn't be the same without you."

He grinned at her. "I didn't want to go anywhere else," he said, and meant it. He never wanted to leave Shield.

She smiled back. "Get some sleep," she said, and left him.

He was tired. All he'd been able to do on the shuttle was catnap, but when he closed his eyes, rest eluded him, his mind going over the last argument. While his crew might not have complained about the early recall, the same couldn't be said about the sharer of Apollo's hearth and home.

And Joss was so very good at complaining.

Great leave. Shame about how it ended.

Apollo shifted slightly on the narrow bunk, curling over. There was the slight tenderness and discomfort that was as familiar to him as breathing; his body's memory of Joss. He knew that Joss would be feeling it too, from their second lovemaking when Apollo had come deep inside him; and Apollo wondered if Joss hugged the sensation to him too, remembering, or if he'd already found consolation elsewhere. He slid a hand into his sleep pants, soothing himself into sleep, remembering Joss's intense expression as they'd made love, the endearments, the pleasure; and trying to forget the petulance and the emotion.

Great leave. Shame about how it ended.

Shame about how it always ended.

 

Days 2 to 21

Tracking Cylon movements behind the lines was a nervous business.

The Hyperion sneaked from system to system, her Raptors spread out before her, spying out the land, using everything from a cloud of cosmic dust to a gas giant to hide behind and mask their approach. They moved in one huge parabolic arc across Cylon space, behind the main Cylon forces that were massing towards Cetes, checking what was left behind the main force of baseships.

They weren't tracking the main attack force: other Shield ships were doing that. Their task was to assess the situation far, far back behind the lines, deep in Cylon territory, to help decide which base they'd eventually target.

Apollo managed a couple of Raptor flights, overflying one key base to see for himself that the baseships it serviced were all deployed elsewhere. But mostly he spent his time on the Hyperion's bridge, at the computer console in the tiny office, reviewing all the data that he had on the potential targets and mapping that against the data his pilots were bringing him every centar, constantly working on the overall plan, analysing and refining.

This was his baby, and he was determined it would work.

 

Day 21, 9.63am 19 days out from Demeter

"General Martens for you," Rosie said, from the command chair.

Apollo, working on the computer console, looked up and nodded. "On my way."

He pulled his uniform jacket straight when he stood up, slipping into the chair at the comms desk. Ensign Chivers got out of the way in a hurry, almost falling over his feet in his haste. Apollo shot the boy a grin and glanced at the communications array, reading the settings on the display.

"General," he said, politely. "We're using the fourth modulation today."

"Noted. Modulation 4 implemented."

The comms unit rotated through several preset frequency patterns, to avoid detection. The Hyperion was far beyond the borders, deep in enemy territory, and they were on stealth running. They had to be, to survive.

"We've got a problem, Captain." Martens went straight into it. "We've lost the Good Hope."

"Lost?" Apollo was shocked. The Good Hope was one of Hyperion's sister ships, another sleek scouter, captained by a good friend.

"Not completely," she said, understanding. "But she's out of this game. She ran into a baseship and took some heavy damage and casualties before getting free. Captain Leander lost half his crew. He has her limping home, trying to hide in every passing asteroid belt."

Apollo sighed very softly with relief. Leander was a friend. He had been one of Apollo's tutors at the Strategic Studies Institute, only a few yahrens older than he was. He was glad the other man had got his ship away, but the thought of ever being in the position of losing half the Hype's people scared him.

"You know how stretched we are right now, Captain. I've got four other ships watching the Cylons, but without the Good Hope, the alpha segment flank is completely exposed: I've nothing in reserve to track the Cylons on that side. I can't afford not to keep an eye on them. We have to know if they start to move into attack mode: we have to be able to warn Cetes."

Disappointment hit like a hammer. She was going to order Hyperion to take the Good Hope's place in shadowing the Cylon forces. He could understand that: they'd get another chance at an infiltration mission, and they couldn't afford to leave Cetes at the mercy of a surprise attack. But it was still disappointing.

It was a micron before he was sure he could keep his voice steady. "You're aborting the job, ma'am?"

Martens shook her head. "No. This is just too good a chance to pass up. But we are going to have to change the game plan. I need to divert the Hyperion to watch the Cylons. We've thought of another way of getting you in for the penetration run."

"Yes, ma'am?"

The general coughed, sounding a little embarrassed. "We're borrowing a ship from Fleet."

"From Fleet?" Apollo's tone was blank with surprise.

"Yes. We're borrowing a battlestar."

A battlestar! All Apollo had ever commandeered was a measly shuttle. He began to wonder if his father was right, after all, and that he lacked real ambition. "But they aren't used to operating this far behind enemy lines, ma'am."

"Which is why I can't get a Fleet ship in to shadow the tinheads. They couldn't do that without setting off every alarm for a parsec. But they maybe could get in behind the Cylon forces and give you a lift in to the target."

"Maybe," said Apollo, doubtfully.

"Battlestar pilots are the cream of the crop, Captain. They'll get you in, and out again."

Apollo nodded. "I know they're good, ma'am. I've never doubted that. But even Viper combat pilots aren't used to the way we operate. They don't know how to sneak."

"They'll have to get used to it." Martens fingered the silver braid at her collar. "I've read your daily reports. You've had a quiet couple of sectons."

"Yes ma'am. It's really quiet back here. They're definitely gathering for an attack on Cetes."

"Well, Cetes isn't your problem. Cetes is ready, and the First and Third fleets are moving up in support. What is your problem, is getting this mission done."

"Agreed, ma'am."

"You know that with things that quiet where you are, then there's got to be enough space back there for you to operate in and bring the Fleet ship in safely. We're not asking them to do anything that they don't do every day of the secton. The fact it's behind the lines doesn't change what we're asking them to do, just where we want them to do it."

Apollo frowned, thinking about it, running over the possibilities in his head. He knew as much about the twenty possible target bases as he did about his home planet, almost more. He'd spent much of the last yahren scouting them, getting to know them.

"In that case, I think our odds are better if we take the base farthest away from Cetes," he said. "It had better be T18."

Martens nodded. "I'm transmitting the co-ordinates now for your rendezvous. The Hyperion can swing that way and drop you off, then cut back in to take up the Good Hope's position flanking the Cylons. You'll rendezvous with the Galactica in three days. You'd better use the time to revise the plan and transmit the revisions, and the rationale for your choice of T18, to me here to consider with the Supreme Commander and the Strategy Unit."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, thoughts still on the amount of work he'd have to do to refine the infiltration plan and gear it to T18 and using Fleet back up rather than the Hype. It took a micron for the name to sink in and his head came up abruptly. "The Galactica?"

"I thought you'd like that," she said. "Three days, Captain. Transmitting co-ordinates now."

Rosie waited until the general had cut the connexion. Her hand rested on his shoulder, fingers massaging soothingly. Stooping down, she rested her head against his, her breath warm on his cheek. "Well now, 'Pollo," she said. "That should be interesting."

 

Day 24, just after 4pm

The Galactica was colossal, titanic, so immense that she filled the entire sky, blotting out entire star systems. She had none of the slender beauty of the Hype. Instead, she was huge and functional, her Viper bays held out on broad wings, her massive engine vents sitting amidships, glowing like a couple of suns.

Apollo hadn't seen her up close for yahrens, and he was as astonished and impressed now as the schoolboy had been all those yahrens before, allowed out from Caprica to see a battlestar for himself, an immense privilege that had almost overwhelmed him.

She was bloody enormous.

He brought the Raptor in past the rest of the First fleet, past the destroyers, frigates and corvettes that moved in Galactica's wake, angling in past the Patroklus, the biggest of the destroyers. The destroyer looked tiny in comparison to the Galactica, but she had to be ten times the size of the Hyperion. His brain refused to compute how many Hyperions would make up the Galactica.

He opened up a communication channel. "Galactica control, this is Hyperion Raptor 1, requesting an approach vector."

A centon's silence, then a woman said, "Acknowledged. Transmitting approach for the Alpha bay."

And which one would that be? Apollo watched the displays. The Raptor responded, indicating a swing to the left. The port landing bay, then. "Received and locked in. ETA three centons."

"Confirmed. You have the blue lights, Raptor 1. Follow them to your landing area."

"Acknowledged."

He locked the Raptor onto the signal, and brought the little fighter into a landing bay that brought a whole new meaning to the word cavernous. No. It was more than that. It was gargantuan. As he came in, a line of blue lights flashed in the floor, guiding him to one side of the flightdeck. He let her down, gentle as a feather, at the spot where the lights indicated.

Half a dozen of the ground crew rushed up with a mounting platform, but it was set at a Viper's height, too high for the little Raptor. He waited while they adjusted it, staring around him, keeping the canopy closed so that his awe at the sheer scale of this ship wouldn't be apparent to anyone watching him.

A group of Vipers must have landed a few centons before him. The ground crews were getting them into the hoists to lift them into the overhead rails that would take the fighters through into the hangars for their routine checks. The hoists lifted the Vipers as if they were toys, moving them forward. Beyond the hangars, towards the prow of the Galactica, would be the launch tubes, but he couldn't see them. The hangar itself was too big.

Someone slapped on the canopy and he started slightly, bringing his attention back to the waiting ground crew. Beyond them waited his welcoming committee: a colonel, in the blue command uniform, and the Galactica's flight captain. He opened the hatch, taking a deep breath. Galactica smelled different too, less smelly than the Hyperion. The air scrubbers were evidently more efficient, leaving only a slightly metallic tang to the air.

"Need a hand?" asked the ground crewman.

"No, thanks," he said, politely, climbing out of the Raptor. He tossed his helmet back inside, dumped his duffle at his feet and carefully lifted out the black case.

He dropped lightly from the platform, the case cradled in his arms, transferring it to his left hand to salute the colonel. He'd heard a lot about Tigh. He knew the colonel was divorced, no children, and was effectively married now to the service; that Tigh was a career man through and through, and it was rumoured that his bloodstream had been replaced with a chemical solution into which the Regulations had been dissolved, the better to bathe and solidify his internal organs. Apollo knew, too, that Tigh was deeply respected both by the crew and the Galactica's commander. He knew all that, but they'd never actually met.

He wondered how much Tigh knew about him.

"Welcome aboard," said Tigh, returning the salute, movements crisp and precise. "I'm Tigh, the Galactica's Exec Officer and this is the Strike Leader, Captain Simonitz."

"Shield Captain Apollo." Apollo shook hands.

Tigh gave him a very cool look, and nodded. Apollo began to understand some of the reputation, and wondered if the stern expression ever softened. He shook hands with Simonitz and stepped back.

"You've been assigned quarters on the command level, Captain." Tigh gestured to a non-commissioned officer who'd been standing quietly in the background, and who now moved forward, obedient to the silent summons. "Sergeant Barton here will take your things to your quarters. The commander's waiting for you in the bridge office."

"Thank you, sir," said Apollo, as polite. Then to Barton, "Just the duffle, Sarge. Thanks." He glanced around the deck. The place was crowded, not only with usual ground crew and techs. A bunch of pilots, a lot of them, were lounging up against a nearby bulkhead, watching avidly. His arrival wasn't unexpected then. "Busy place you have here."

"Curious crew who shouldn't be here and who are going to be on report if they don't get to where they should be," said Tigh, loudly, evidently intending that the pilots should hear him.

Apollo was a little taken aback at Tigh's tone. Their curiosity was harmless enough, although he could understand the colonel's attitude if they were actively evading duty. But he said nothing, following the colonel to the decontamination chambers at the back of the bay. Simonitz, who'd said very little beyond a mumbled greeting, followed along behind.

"There's the standard ten centon decontamination cycle," Tigh said, as Simonitz closed the doors and started the cycle running.

"Mmn," said Apollo, wondering what they'd talk about while they waited, but as Tigh settled down beside him on the narrow bench, the colonel kept up a running monologue of Galactican facts and figures. Apollo wasn't certain if it was a kind attempt at induction and orientation, or a less kind attempt to intimidate him by the sheer size of the numbers. Simonitz still said very little.

Apollo was quietly relieved when the chamber warning chime went and the inner door opened. Tigh stopped talking and ushered him into a turbolift. The lift took a diagonal course up the wing, and they had a short walk, once they'd reached the body of the ship, to another set of lifts.

"She's huge," said Apollo, feeling that some comment was called for. He couldn't just keep nodding and looking interested: Tigh probably already thought he was a mute idiot. "You could fit the Hyperion inside that landing bay."

"And still have space to spare, I expect," said Simonitz, one of his rare forays into speech. He sounded satisfied.

"Yes," agreed Apollo, keeping his tone pleasant.

This second turbolift opened out onto the bridge, a big oval space. At the back was a raised dais, with the command chair in its centre. There had to be forty people on the bridge, manning more consoles than Apollo could account for. He wasn't entirely sure what half of them were for. Tigh led him up onto the dais and nodded towards a door at the back. He put a hand out to hold Simonitz back.

"Commander Adama's in the bridge office, Captain Apollo. We'll give you a few centons with him and follow you in shortly."

"Thank you, sir," said Apollo, a little uncertain about the honour being accorded him. He gripped his case a little tighter and knocked on the office door.

"Come," said the commander.

Apollo hit the door release with his free hand and stepped inside, letting the door close behind him. The commander sat behind his desk, studying a datapad, and it was a micron before he glanced up to look at his visitor. Apollo stared back, keeping his face as expressionless as he could. The commander looked pretty much as he always had; the hair was whiter, but still thick and plentiful, the blue eyes bright beneath eyebrows that were an incongruous black, giving life to a face that was otherwise splendidly patrician. Adama studied Apollo with the same coolness that he'd accorded the datapad.

"Shield Captain Apollo, sir, reporting," said Apollo, with a salute that was several degrees more precise than the one he'd offered Tigh in the landing bay.

"So I see," said the commander, looking him up and down. "I suppose that you're here to explain to me why you've had the unmitigated gall to hi-jack my ship and divert it from the defence of Cetes?"

Apollo sighed audibly. "And it's good to see you too, Dad."

Adama's mouth twitched at the tone, and relaxed into a smile. "Well, I suppose I can hardly hold you responsible for Jak's indiscretions."

"No, sir. Hardly."

"And I suppose that I'm stuck with you." Adama got to his feet and came around the desk. "You look well."

For a centon, Apollo thought that the old man was going to hug him, and he froze slightly. It had been a long time, more than seven yahrens, since Adama had seemed to feel comfortable with touching him, but all Adama did was put his hand on Apollo's shoulder. Even that was a little unexpected.

"I'm fine," said Apollo. "You're looking good."

"For an old man," said Adama, and Apollo wondered if he was mind-reading, or just feeling his age when faced with a grown up captain for a son, even if the said captain was, so far as Adama was concerned, wasting his time in the Shield regiment. "It's been a while since I saw you last."

"Yeah, well. I was on a job when you had your last home leave. It must be nearly a couple of yahrens, I suppose."

"Almost. Eighteen sectars, at least." Adama looked at Apollo closely. "Are you all right, really? You scared your mother last yahren."

"Fine," said Apollo.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't get back. I wanted to be there."

Had he? Apollo stared, then said, "I know you couldn't be there; you were in action over Accor. Besides, you didn't need to rush home. It wasn't that bad. I was out of hospital in a couple of sectons."

"That's not her recollection of the experience."

"She fusses a bit," conceded Apollo.

"And for some reason, I suffer as a consequence."

Apollo grinned. "She and Joss drove me crazy between them, but really, it wasn't as serious as all that."

"Mmn," said his father. "And how is Joss?"

Shit, shit, shit! He shouldn't have mentioned Joss. "He's fine too."

"Good." Adama nodded. He raised his hand from Apollo's shoulder and touched the captains' pins. "I didn't know about these."

"Brand spanking new. I got brevet rank a couple of sectars ago when our captain bought it. They decided to make it real." Apollo grinned. "I guess they thought that this job's such a sweetheart, that it'd look good on the tombstone."

Adama gave him a dark look. "Well, I'm delighted for you."

"So am I. They backdated the pay."

"Your mother didn't tell me."

"She doesn't know yet. I didn't get the chance to tell her: she's out at the country house, you know, and I didn't see her last time I was home. I was only home for a few days and there wasn't time."

Adama nodded, then said, turning back to business, "I don't think we should keep Tigh and Simonitz waiting too long. Have supper with me tonight in my quarters, and we'll catch up there."

"I'd like that," said Apollo, wondering if it was true. Without his mother there to mediate, it might be difficult. But it was only just after four and supper was a safe four or five centars off, at least. He hefted the case. "Can I lock this into your safe?"

"Is this the Link? Jak told me about it when he called me to tell me why I was getting diverted from Cetes."

Apollo froze slightly again. "What did he tell you?" he asked, wondering what the procedure was for complaining that the Supreme Commander had breached security.

"I do have a certain level of security clearance, Apollo," said his father, doing a little more mind-reading. He said it mildly enough. "Rather higher than yours, as it happens. Can I see it?"

Apollo hesitated, then opened up the case.

His father looked down at the Link with a slightly perplexed air. "It's not very big. Are they sure it'll work?"

"The Unit techs got it to link successfully into the smaller systems on captured Raiders," said Apollo, closing the case carefully. "So yes, we know it works. But, of course, they're very small systems compared to what I hope to get into."

"Why have you been involved in this? Jak said it was your project."

"The Strategy Unit didn't entirely let me go, you know. Their argument is that there has to be a couple of centars in the day when I'm not actively sneaking into somewhere and blowing it up, and they regard those two centars as theirs. I work on some of the longer term projects. This one's been mine for a couple of yahrens. It only became really active about a yahren ago."

"I see," said Adama, opening the safe set into the wall. He took the case from Apollo and locked it away. "I wasn't aware of that."

"I'm not exactly allowed to tell anyone about either of the jobs I do."

Adama smiled. "Maybe your security clearance is higher than mine, after all."

"It's pretty high," admitted Apollo, not offering any more information.

Adama looked amused. "No-one else knows what this is about, of course. It's entirely up to you what you tell Colonel Tigh and Simonitz."

"Sure," said Apollo, relaxing slightly now that the Link was safely stowed away. "Sorry. Do they know that - you know, you and me..."

"That you're my son? Tigh does, of course: he's known me for yahrens. Simonitz doesn't unless he's far more observant than I've ever given him credit for."

"Huh?"

Adama nodded to the framed holopics on his desk.

"You have one of me?" asked Apollo, surprised.

His father raised an eyebrow. "Of course. Why ever not?"

Apollo opted for a shrug and silence. He didn't know why he'd been so surprised, except that he'd thought that the disappointment had been too great for gestures of that kind; the way it had been, and still was, too great for the embraces that had once been his by right. Or was that still disgust and revulsion, that kept physical contact to a minimum?

After a centon, he said, "Can we keep it that way, that only Tigh knows? Things are going to be complicated enough, and really it has no bearing on this job, us being related."

"If you like," said his father, with the stony inscrutability that had always disconcerted Apollo when he'd been a child. He refused to let it disconcert him now. "I'll call them in." Adama hesitated, his hand hovering over the desk comm unit. "Apollo, I'm really very glad to see you, you know."

"I'm glad to be here."

"On a Fleet ship, at last," said Adama, slyly.

"Temporarily," said Apollo.