Out of the Past

Omega wasn't gone very long, though to Starbuck's hyperacute nerves it seemed forever. He kept remembering that the bridge officer had said this all would wear off in a centare. If only he knew how long it had already been. He might be able to wake up when he wanted, but he'd always been bad at keeping track of passing centons... which was why he was so often late to things. At least Omega had been speaking from experience... Starbuck found it hard to believe anybody would deliberately put their kids through that kind of pain. But this paralysis was worse, just sitting, helpless, waiting to be scooped up... though probably not if you knew it was grandfather, and not some crazed killer... What the frack did you dump me in, Chameleon? he thought bitterly.

He couldn't take it in. Once Omega had started on the background, Starbuck had remembered hearing rumors, from conspiracy nuts mostly... now to find out it was true, that was hard to believe. That councilors were part of it, okay; everybody knew politicians were more than a little crazy, lived in their own world—who else could have believed Cylon peace overtures? But that Apollo was up to his eyeteeth in this? Or at least that Adama was? Of course it wasn't any weirder than that he was, he supposed.

Frack, he thought again. You sure picked the wrong mark this time, Chameleon, you bastard, you... Not that he thought being tortured to death was an equitable payback, but on the other hand... let's just say better you than me. He sighed, tried to move, couldn't, wondered how much longer Omega was going to be gone, wondered if Omega was coming back at all, wondered why Omega was there in the first place... took as deep a breath as he could and stomped hard on the panic before it had a chance to take over. He didn't know why Omega was there, but it seemed pretty self-evident that he wasn't working with whoever had hit him with this algowhatever, or sent that drone after him. That would have to do for the moment... the enemy of your enemy wasn't necessarily your friend, but he could be your ally for the time being.

He sighed again. Omega obviously didn't want the Houses to be involved in this. Well, that was fair; Starbuck didn't either. Until the day he'd met Apollo, one of his simple rules for survival had been, if they've got 'Sire' in front of their name or spend more in a sectare than you're ever gonna see, stay away. In any substantial sense, that was... taking some of those surplus cubits off of them was, well, almost a cultural obligation. With a sense of proportion, though, he thought with another spurt of anger at Chameleon.

The bridge officer's return interrupted that unprofitable line of thought. Starbuck looked at him carefully—that being about all he could do at the moment—and wasn't terribly reassured. The man looked both worried and tired. He locked the door and returned to sit on the floor by Starbuck's feet again, laying the pistol down in front of him. He blew out a breath and said, "We have more trouble."

Starbuck's first reaction was, Oh, great, I can't even move a pinky finger and you're telling me we have more trouble? But then he realized it was a compliment: Omega wasn't coddling him or treating him like an invalid. "What now?" he asked, managing to prevent it from sounding apprehensive.

"The blast doors are down," Omega said. "We're sealed in."

"Fracking hell."

Omega smiled tiredly. "Oh, yes. Succinctly summed up..." he shook his head sharply. "We're all right here for the time being. The engines will cover any noise, and mask any IR... but we should move when we can. Feeling anything yet?"

"No," Starbuck said. "Should I be?"

Omega shrugged. "I think you took a half-dose, but then you exerted yourself pretty well... And everybody reacts a little differently."

"That why your grandfather thought you needed to go through it? Well, I don't plan to do this again," Starbuck said, and then added, "Of course, I didn't plan to do it this time..."

"No... If you're still down in twenty centons, it'll be time to worry..."

"Oh. See, I'm worried now."

"I imagine you are." He touched Starbuck's knee reassuringly, but a little hesitantly, as if he weren't used to doing it. "It'll pass. Probably only ten centons more."

"Mind if I ask you something?" Starbuck meant that. He didn't want to antagonize the man, it would be counter-productive. On the other hand, once he'd started talking, it seemed as though he didn't mind it. Given what Athena had said about his reserved nature and lost family, it might have been a long time since he'd had anyone to talk to.

"Of course not," Omega said.

"What you said, earlier... why did you follow me off the shuttle? Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but I am curious."

Omega shrugged. Starbuck couldn't tell if he was imagining it, or if he was actually beginning to be able to read the man—a skill he'd definitely cultivated in his childhood—but he thought the dark-haired man looked a bit embarrassed. "I was coming back from the Patroclus," he said, "and saw you getting on the shuttle. I'd read the security reports, of course—"

Of course, Starbuck thought. The man needed a life.

"—and I thought that if you were going to the Feriya I should stop you. Then you got off at the last micron—"

"So you followed. But why? It's not like we've ever really spoken before. Or did you..." He stopped. "No, you didn't. Just generic trouble."

Omega shrugged again. "The commander's daughter is fond of you," he said.

Okay, there that is again. Starbuck hesitated only a moment. "Well, I'm certainly glad as hell you did, but, seeing as you saved my life, mind if I give you a piece of advice?"

Omega lifted an eyebrow.

"Say her name. I know, it's got that long E in it that a voice can linger on, but the other's got twice as many syllables, not to mention that Ah and those Rs..." He'd have shaken his head if he could.

Omega was quiet for a couple of centons, and then he smiled, laughing at himself, Starbuck thought. "Is it that obvious?"

"Well, I am a skilled observer," Starbuck demurred. "And as motivation... well. Yes."

"Thanks. I'll watch it."

Starbuck asked, curiously, "Why don't you say something to her? I mean, her and me, that's way over. She may be fond of me, but it's friendly, nothing more." He held back on Athena's own emotions; he felt he could nudge the other man, but not give her away.

"She's not interested," Omega said. "And I'm not much of a prize, even without the added complication of our Houses."

"I don't think she knows anything about that."

"No... I can't drag her into the Game," he said.

"I thought Mikhayelans were exempt."

"They are, but if she allied with me, she'd lose that." He shrugged. "And gain damn little. Besides, she's not interested. She keeps her distance as well as I keep mine, so we barely communicate." Before Starbuck could say anything in response, Omega changed the subject. "We're going to need to move when we can. With the freighter sealed down, it'll be dark, which will help."

Starbuck shelved the subject for the moment. "Dark's good, as long as you know the way."

Omega nodded. "She's a Metallica class. I know her." He looked at Starbuck a bit critically, the way Matron had on Firstdays, and then said, "That jacket's good, but the brass is too bright—What?"

Starbuck hadn't been able to help the laugh. "Sorry, it's just I usually get told my brass isn't nearly bright enough..."

Omega smiled back at him. "Too bad you picked today to get to standards, then. That tan's a bit noticeable in the dark, too."

"Well, get me in an engine room and I can get plenty dirty," Starbuck promised him.

"Good." Omega unbuckled his own belt and undid the shoulder fastenings of his tunic, and then pulled it off. His black undershirt was slightly damp, not surprising considering the heat and the exertion he'd been putting out. The blaster burn on his sleeve had gone through the undershirt as well.

"Hey... how's your arm?" Starbuck asked, feeling slightly guilty he hadn't thought of it before.

"Hmmm? Oh, it's nothing." He pulled up the short sleeve to show a reddened area that probably hurt but didn't look serious. "Bad shot." He shook out the tunic and then, with no indication that it was at all odd, pulled a knife out of his right boot; Starbuck hadn't even seen it. He knew it wasn't regulation. The bridge officer set to slicing off the silver braid on his tunic, picking the stitches out neatly with the sharp blade.

That knife might look like a rich man's toy, Starbuck reflected, with all that decorative etching on the blade, but it clearly wasn't. A rich man's weapon... "You gonna have to pay for that?" he asked lightly.

Omega glanced up. "I think it'll come under allowable wear and tear. If not," he shrugged, "I can afford it. Another thing my childhood training apparently thinks was important: money."

"Oh?"

Omega returned his attention to undoing the braid around the collar of his uniform. "After the Destruction," he said casually, or would-be casually at any rate, "I lost a couple of sectares. I was apparently running on automatic."

That was a disturbing notion, thought Starbuck, considering what all they'd been through in those sectares. Still, nobody had seemed to notice. "Lost?"

Omega shrugged. "I seem to have functioned fine. I just don't remember them. But the commander let as many as had family on Caprica go down as he could before we left. Natacapra was a write-off—"

How much does it cost you to say that so casually? Starbuck thought; it was amazing how much utter dependence on someone refined your concentration on them.

"—but we had a townhouse in Caprica City. It wasn't the season, but someone might have been there."

"They weren't?" Starbuck said sympathetically.

Omega ripped the last stitch of collar braid and shifted to a wrist. "No. But my training asserted itself, seemingly. Five sectares ago I was contacted to renew my lease on a safety deposit storage unit for another yahren; I didn't remember leasing it in the first place."

"Full of cash?"

"Gems and gold, actually." He shrugged. "Not terribly useful nowadays, but you never know."

"Was that your House motto? You never know what'll come in handy?"

Omega smiled. "No. That was 'Stormy seas make skillful sailors.' But you do never know, do you?" He ripped out the last stitch, and carefully transferred the half-full drug needle to the tunic's uniform shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

Starbuck tried to move his hand, and laughed out loud as it worked. He flexed his fingers. "This feels better than sex."

Omega grinned. "I'll bet." He pulled his tunic back on and sealed up the shoulder. "We should get out of here."

Starbuck got to his feet, grinning like an idiot, and stretched his arms, working the kinks out of his shoulders and neck. "Lead on," he said, picking up his pistol.

"Frack." Apollo glared at his wristcomm, and then remembered who he was talking to. "Sorry, father."

"Don't worry about that," Adama said. "This seems the perfect occasion for it."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. Charis had security check with the shuttle bays, and the copilot remembers specifically that Omega and Starbuck both got off on the Feriya. He was surprised, because Omega had told him he was getting off on the Galactica, but then he didn't."

"I don't like that, Father. Was he following Starbuck?"

"That's what the copilot thought."

"Are we wrong about him?"

"I hope not, but I don't like it either." Apollo had gotten his distrust of coincidences honestly. Adama continued, "And there's more."

Apollo groaned. "More? What else? And how long ago was this, anyway?"

"Nearly three centares now," Adama said. "And we've lost communications with the Feriya."

"What?"

"Yes, I agree, but you must remember that those old freighters are out of comms with us rather often."

"Like the prison barge was with the Eastern Alliance officers' transfer?"

"I agree, Apollo. It's suspicious."

"That's a hell of an understatement. I want to go over there."

"I don't think that would be wise, Apollo."

"Why not, Father? Starbuck's life is in danger!"

"I know that. But you are a player—"

"I thought we were exempt."

"Not if we intrude ourselves into the Game," Adama pointed out. "And whoever is behind this is pushing the envelope somewhat as it is. It would be better to send Security."

"Father, they already killed Reese. Security's not immune."

"I don't want you to go, Apollo."

Apollo recognized that tone. His father meant it. That wasn't a preference; it was an order. He tried anyway. "Father, Starbuck's life is more important than any damned Game these people are playing."

"Apollo, I don't have time to debate this issue with you. There is much more at stake with the Council than you seem to understand. I have no desire to see Starbuck dead, but if two First Houses are indeed going up against each other, the last thing we can afford is for you to get involved."

"The last thing we can afford is for this Game to spill over into people who don't have anything to do with it," Apollo rejoined angrily. "Chameleon, Reese, Cassie, Starbuck—I don't care if he is this damned Gabriyelan, it's not like he knows it, or anything about what's going on. There are Security guards on my son. This felgarcarb has to stop."

"I agree with you. But you know little more about it than Starbuck does. If there's a Hunt taking place on the Feriya, you'll be vulnerable. Far more so than anyone else."

Adama's tone convinced Apollo that, at least, he couldn't win. "Fine. But Security's not going to be enough. I want to send some of our people over there. This is more like combat than crime fighting."

"Infantry might be even better."

"Maybe. But the squadron's not just going to sit around with their—" he broke off before employing the metaphor that had come to his lips. "Twiddling their thumbs," he said instead, "while some maniac tries to kill Starbuck. Especially not after what happened to Cassie. Boomer—"

"Absolutely not." That was sudden, sharp, and unexpected.

"Why not?" Apollo asked, startled.

"Apollo, I don't know where you are, but over a communications link is not the way we should discuss Boomer. And his place in your life. And why that means he's liable to be a target if he gets in the middle of this thing."

Apollo stared at his wristcomm, feeling much as if he'd just been gutshot. He couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"Neither you nor Boomer is to go to the Feriya, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," he managed.

"I'm sending Security over there. I'll have Colonel Tigh include a squad of infantry. If some Warriors show up in time, they can accompany them, but, and I want to stress this, Apollo, you make sure they are told only that Starbuck may be in danger from the person or persons who killed Chameleon and attacked Cassiopeia. I don't want you mention Omega's name, at all."

"Father—"

"We don't know what he's doing there or whose side he's on. I work with him, Apollo, and I can't believe he's responsible for any of this. If I'm wrong, it'll come out on that freighter, but I don't want someone taking a shot at him if he's over there trying to help Starbuck. I wouldn't think you did, either."

"Of course not, but—" he sighed. "You're right. We don't know. It might even just be a coincidence."

His father's snort reassured him somewhat. He cut the link and headed to the life center to find Boomer. He had rather a lot to tell him.

Omega jacked the door into the engine room proper. The heat and noise hit them like a blow. Starbuck didn't know much about engines, although a dozen yahrens ago he'd known enough to pass his exams with good marks, but if he'd had a chance to see this one before he'd come aboard the Feriya, he never would have. He'd been aware of the irregularities in the throb beneath his shoulders while he sat in the outer room, but he'd characterized them as 'minor'. Now, especially knowing they were locked in behind the bulkheads, the engines didn't just sound rough, they sounded on the verge of exploding. And he was quite sure that the room shouldn't be this hot. Frack, he thought, it'd be just my luck to avoid getting terminated and get blown up instead.

Omega had gotten a liberal amount of the grease that seemed to be left wherever any decent mech had ever been—actually, the Feriya's must be pretty good to keep her flying—and was painting his cheekbones as if he'd done it before. He probably had, Starbuck thought, just before Grandpa shot him full of algolwhatever. Starbuck started smearing some of the stuff on his uniform to darken it up and cut the glare of the brass, and thought about that. Not that he was complaining, 'cause the man had saved his life because of it, but it sounded like a hell of a way to grow up.

Not that Starbuck had ever deluded himself into thinking any family was better than none. But he'd still had the feeling that anybody whose family was one of those huge multi-generational things they made vid series about had had, well, a vid-series life. Ridiculous, but there it was. On the other hand, maybe Omega had had a vid-series life, just one of those weird psychodrama ones. He grinned to himself and wiped his hands on his butt. "How's this?"

Omega shook his head and leaned closer. "Can't hear," he said loudly. Then he pointed at Starbuck's face and said something else.

"What?" Starbuck hollered back.

Omega shook his head again and then reached out and drew his finger along Starbuck's cheekbone. Starbuck grinned at him and turned his head, and Omega grinned back and painted his face for him. He finished up by dragging his hand through Starbuck's hair.

"Easy for you," Starbuck hollered and Omega laughed. Blonds might have more fun, but they were at a disadvantage sneaking around in half-light, that was for sure.

The flag lieutenant jerked his thumb at the door. Ready to head out?

Starbuck nodded. Hell, yes... anything to get away from this noise. Of course, if the engines did blow up, they wouldn't be far enough away no matter where they were. He snickered. Just being able to move again was making him giddy.

Omega opened the external door and checked the hall, and then went out into it. Starbuck followed, shrugging into his jacket against the cooler air outside the engine room. "Where to?" he asked.

Omega hesitated. "I'm not sure..."

Starbuck looked carefully at him. "Sure of what? Where to go? Or something else?"

"I don't know," Omega confessed.

"Don't know what? Where to go? Look, I have no idea. I'm not even sure where we are at the moment, to tell the truth."

Omega leaned against the wall. In the dimness it was hard to see his expression. "I'm not sure we should stay together."

Starbuck was quiet a moment. Sure, he was mobile again. Why should Omega stick around, risk his neck? It wasn't like they were friends.

"I mean," Omega clarified. "I'm not sure which of us is the target. If there's a Hunt going on, you'd be safer on your own. Unless they're after you, that is."

"Frack that," Starbuck said automatically. "Whichever of us they're after, we're better off together. And I don't walk away from someone who saved my life."

"You've got no idea what they're capable of—"

"True. Which," Starbuck flashed a grin at him, "is why I'd rather you stuck around, to tell you the truth. Though I figure if you weren't about to fall over you'd know they're after me and you would stick around. That Hunter drone—I'm guessing that's what they Hunt with? Plus Chameleon."

Omega blinked at him. "You're probably right. Much as I hate to admit it... somebody modified that drone to come at you. I was far too close to it for it not to detect me." Then he paused. "What do you mean, fall over?"

"When was the last time you got any sleep?"

Omega laughed slightly, but not as if anything were really funny. "On the shuttle, as a matter of fact."

"Yeah? How long?"

The dark-haired man shook his head. "Not long enough, you're right."

Starbuck nodded. He'd seen it before, a lot this past yahren. Somebody running on adrenaline until they crashed. Hell, he'd done it more than once himself.

Omega straightened up. "Don't worry. As soon as we get moving, I'll be all right."

"Done this before?"

"More or less..." He smiled, wearily but for real. "Hauled my brother Speros out of something vaguely similar once."

"Kid brother?" Starbuck guessed.

Omega smiled again. "The baby. A dozen yahrens younger than me."

"Twelve yahrens? How many of you were there?"

"Six," he said. "I was the oldest. Not the heir, though; my da was the third son, and I had cousins."

"Hence the military career," Starbuck realized.

"Yep," he nodded. "I wasn't in line for anything else."

"Well," Starbuck said reluctantly, because he was curious; not just multi-generational, but extended, with aunts and uncles and cousins, "this isn't the time to talk about it. We've got other things on the agenda."

"Yes," Omega nodded. "We certainly do." He shook his head to wake himself up and said, "I suppose we should try to get somewhere with comms."

"You're the one who's memorized the deck plans," Starbuck grinned. "Lead on."

"Well," Omega said, "assuming whoever dropped the blast doors didn't cut us off completely—"

"How likely is that to be noticed?"

"On the Feriya? Not very," Omega said honestly. "Not on Charis's or Tellerat's watch... and Athena," he said her name carefully, "was off tonight. It could be centares."

"So, waiting's not the best plan."

"No," he confirmed. "I know where there's external access. Eight decks up and four sections aft."

"Let's go," Starbuck said.

Reconsidering his agenda, Apollo went to the barracks first. He'd thought about it on his way and now he went straight to Red's section. They weren't all there of course, any more than Blue or Silver Spar would be; some were married and some crashed after shift instead of before and some were just out, still. But he knew Bojay would be there.

He and the ex-Pegasus pilot had a complicated relationship. It was more than professional jealousy or the problems that could be traced to the ideological differences between Adama's way and Cain's way, or the slow-to-be-settled resentments on both sides over how to best integrate the unwillingly abandoned Pegasus crew. It was personal: on Bojay's side, his strong attachment to Sheba, though it wasn't romantic, and his dislike of Apollo's dating her... almost as if he guessed Apollo's secret; and on Apollo's, his memory of Starbuck drinking himself unconscious, and crying while he did, after the news of the Battle of Molecay. It had been a startling display of grief from the usually insouciant blond, and Apollo had found himself glad that the unknown man who'd caused it was, in fact, dead.

So when he'd shown up, alive and well, Apollo's worse nature had reared its ugly, possessive head and hated him for being Starbuck's so-close friend, hated him worse than he'd ever disliked Cassie, who had come close to taking Starbuck. By the time he'd got himself sorted out, heartily disliking his own reactions and helped out by a few good whumps up the side of the head from an impatient Boomer and by the realization that after five yahrens the friendship wasn't as strong as it had been and that in any case Starbuck wasn't any more inclined to sleep with Bojay than with him, he and the other pilot were set in their modus vivendi.

But he knew Bojay was a good friend to Starbuck, and he also knew the brown-haired man was pretty good in close quarters. So now he went into his room and shook him awake.

Bojay opened one hazel eye and then sat up. "Apollo?" he said, his tone a cross between concern, wariness, and am I dreaming? "What's wrong?"

"Starbuck's in trouble," Apollo said succinctly.

Bojay yawned, shook his head, and ran his hand through his short hair. "When isn't he? What do you need me to do?"

Apollo found himself thinking he should cut his hair, Bojay actually looked presentable now, if a bit underdressed... Nah, Boomer liked his hair long. At the same time he was saying, "Get another nine men, fully armed, and get down to the shuttle bay. Tell Colonel Tigh I sent you; he'll brief you on what's up. Take Giles, he's good in fire-fights."

Bojay looked intensely curious but all he said as he climbed out of his bunk and started to dress was, "You're not coming?"

"No," Apollo said, hearing the annoyance in his voice. "I have to stay here."

"Damn," Bojay said, pausing with his undershirt in his hand. "Look, don't worry. We'll take care of him. Whatever it is." He pulled the shirt on over his head and abruptly became easier to talk to. "Has it got to do with his father being murdered?"

Murdered. There was a good old-fashioned word, evoking a visceral, emotional response. "Yes," Apollo said. "It does."

Bojay grabbed his boots. "Don't worry," he said again. "We'll look after him." He sounded competent; Apollo hoped he was.

"I know you will," he said, tacitly admitting his past shortcomings. Then he left before he got the urge to say too much, or the wrong thing.

Boomer was leaning over the counter chatting with the tech on duty when Apollo came into the Life Center. He straightened up and gave Apollo a worried look. "What's wrong?" he asked. "That sergeant got a call from the bridge and took off like Hades' hounds were after him. And you don't look happy. What did your father say?"

What a question... Apollo shook his head. "Not here, Boom," he said. "Let's go to my office... How's Cassie?" He didn't have to wonder why he was having a hard time remembering about her, but he felt like a heel having to remind himself to ask.

"No change," said Boomer. "But they say she'll be fine, physically."

Apollo sighed. "I'm sure she'll be okay. Starbuck will help..." He thought about that, then nodded, as if Boomer had said something. "He can't be that mad at her."

"No," Boomer said. "Nobody sane could. It's another complication for them, though."

"Complication," Apollo repeated. "Gods, you have a way with words."

"Thank you. But it's your turn to talk." He pushed to open the office door. Apollo paused long enough to tell the duty NCO to keep everyone out and followed him in. "What did your father say?"

Apollo sighed and sat down in his chair. Boomer leaned up against the desk, dark eyes worried. "Come on, Ap," he said. "You need me to prime the pump? Who, or what, is a Gabriyelan? What's Starbuck got to do with it, or him, or them? How does Chameleon tie in? And why are we just sitting here? Pick one."

Apollo sighed again. "Have you ever heard of the Great Houses, or maybe the First Houses, or First Families, of Kobol? The Children of Kobol?"

"Are we talking conspiracy nuts here?" Boomer asked skeptically. "Secret cabals running the Colonies from behind the scenes? Mystic rituals and—Apollo. Are we?"

Apollo blew out a long, gusty breath. "Yes. We are. Let me just run it down for you, please, Boomer, before you get... whatever you're gonna get. When humans left Kobol, their leaders were twenty-four Houses. The story is that they were founded by some of the Lords of Kobol. Six of them were the First Houses. Three Capricans, an Aquarian, a Scorpion, and a Leonid."

"Not two each, then?" Boomer asked involuntarily, and then said, "Sorry."

"No," Apollo shook his head. "I don't know how the Tribes and the Houses got out of balance, but they did. Or always were... Caprica had four, some had three, some two, some one... But the point is, that back before the Dark Times, when the old society still held together, the Great Houses did run things. And they kept right on trying to up until the Destruction. We're one." He looked at his hands, linked in his lap. "Our house is called Mikhayel. It's one of the First Houses. Over eight centuries ago, the Mikhayelan—the senior member of the House—opted the House officially out of the Game so the Houses would have somebody intimately involved in the war and not always looking over their shoulder... the Game," he explained, "is what they call their eternal playing for power and influence. I don't know very much about it, since we're not involved. Father told me the bare bones when I was twenty, just in case. But I didn't pay that much attention. I was more concerned with his promotion to Fleet leader, and going away, and when I'd see him again... and that he wouldn't be at my graduation. Never let it be said," he added wryly, "that there's something I can't make personal and petty."

Boomer snorted. "I never have," he said. "So, Gabriyel is a House. And it's playing a Game? Or is the P capitalized, too?"

Apollo shook his head, laughing a little. "Probably. I don't know; we don't play. I haven't thought about it since the Academy. Father never talks about it. I don't even know if he ever told Zac. Or Athena, for that matter... He thought it was a waste of time, until today."

"Right... now to the meat of it," Boomer said. "Who's the Gabriyelan and what has Starbuck got to do with any of it?"

"Well... we're not sure," Apollo said. "But Father is guessing that, well, Starbuck might be the Gabriyelan."

Boomer did a double-take, started to say something, didn't, and finally managed, "What?"

"Well, Father says there is no living Gabriyelan. But the daughter of Sire Ruslan, who was it, ran off with an undesirable party, long enough ago to be Starbuck's mother. And the way they asked Cassie, if Salik got it right—"

"Yeah," Boomer nodded. "If Cassie didn't know who the Gabriyelan was... Frack, Apollo. You mean to say somebody out there is trying to kill this House of Gabriyel on the off chance that Starbuck's it?"

"I don't know. Father thinks they know Chameleon is the man who took off with the Gabriyelan daughter. It's complicated."

"So why are we sitting here instead of trying to find Starbuck?"

"Well," Apollo said cautiously, "we know where he is."

"Where?"

"On the Feriya... which is out of contact. But Tigh's sending troops—"

"Troops? Troops are necessary?"

"We don't know. But, after what happened to Cassie, and Chameleon... why take chances? Plus," he added, because he wasn't going to keep anything from Boomer and, given Adama's last words to him he didn't think he was expected to. "There's another complication."

"Which is?"

"I don't remember all the names, but it boils down to this: There are two First Houses left, not counting Gabriyel, and five others. And they're still playing this stupid Game. But the other First House would like to just put an end to it, dissolve the Convocation and move into the seventy-fourth century. And the others don't want to. But if Gabriyel was around, then, well, there'd be a tie-breaker for one thing and another First for another, and ... anyway," he said, "Omega, the flag-lieutenant? He's the other First House."

"Anybody else I know involved in this?"

Apollo decided to answer. "Anton, Tinia, and Krytos."

"On the fracking Council?"

"Power players, Boom-Boom," Apollo shrugged. "Anyway, the point is, Omega's on the Feriya, too. He followed Starbuck—Boomer," he grabbed his lover's arm. "We can't go. Father forbade it. Categorically, in so many words."

"And you put up with it?" Boomer demanded.

"Tigh's sending Security and infantry, they've probably already left, and I got some of our people to go, Bojay and some others. They'll handle it."

Boomer settled back on the desk, looking at Apollo through narrowed eyes. "And you put up with it?" he repeated. "And why me? There may be a Leonid House, but I'm no orphan."

"No..." Apollo swallowed. "Apparently... well, it's like Cassie. If you stretch the rules."

"What's like Cassie—" Boomer stopped dead, staring at Apollo.

Who shrugged and nodded. "Yes. Apparently we're not a secret. Father knows, and the others."

"Apparently?"

"His exact words: over a communications link is not the way we should discuss Boomer. And his place in your life. And why that means he's liable to be a target if he gets in the middle of this thing."

Boomer sagged slightly, staring. Then his gaze turned inwards and he went to that private place he had. Apollo winced internally. This was twice in one day... He interrupted Boomer, something he didn't usually do. "He didn't sound... well, judgmental. Or disaproving."

Boomer blinked and looked at Apollo. "That's good. I guess. But the important thing right now is Starbuck. Are troops really necessary? Didn't you say Omega wants to put a stop to all this? Or are you thinking, you and the commander and Tigh, that whoever's after Starbuck might not hesitate at taking out Omega, too?"

"That's what Father thinks, I think."

"And you think?"

"I don't know." Suddenly Apollo couldn't sit still. He stood up and began pacing. "But it's damned odd that Omega says he's getting off the shuttle at the Galactica and ends up going to the Feriya following Starbuck and he's part of this whole Game and Starbuck is being treated like he is and doesn't have a clue. And doesn't know what happened to Cassie, and, gods, Boomer, I don't think he even knows the details of what happened to Chameleon because he wouldn't stand still long enough to let anybody tell him—"

Boomer grabbed his arm and spun him around. "Don't jump to conclusions."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," Boomer said patiently. "Don't jump to conclusions. If the Families are involved, and if this is part of that Game, and if Omega is a Player, it's just as likely he got off the shuttle to look out for Starbuck as anything else. I don't know the man, not to say know, but tell me honestly, Ap—do you see him doing that to Cassie?"

"No," Apollo admitted, calming slightly in Boomer's hold. "No, I can't. Not even ordering it done."

"Okay. Now, say he is a Player. He's on the shuttle, sees Starbuck get on, and sticks with him. Why? Because he can't figure where Bucko's going on that particular route except the Feriya, which is dangerous. So he tries to talk him out of it, with what luck you can imagine," he added wryly and Apollo had to laugh. Boomer continued, "So he gets off with him. It doesn't have to be sinister. You're not the only person on this battlestar who's fond of Starbuck, you know. The oddest people are."

Apollo dropped his eyes for a moment, and then looked Boomer straight in his. "I know I'm—"

"Ap, this is not the time for agonized self-appraisals, either, even if you do like them, and I like the aftermath. Put if off till we've got Bucko back."

Apollo grinned a little bit. "You're right. Again." He signed and rested his forehead on Boomer's shoulder for a moment. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"God knows," Boomer said, and then grew serious. "Whatever it was, I'm glad you did it. Now," more briskly, "what do we do?"

"About what?" Apollo straightened up.

"I don't know. Take your pick."

"How about us?"

"Us?" Boomer asked, surprised and a little bit wary.

"Yeah," Apollo said, suddenly sure of one thing at least on this unsettling day. "Us. I don't know exactly what my father thinks, but he didn't sound disaproving. And he absolutely forbade you to go—because you'd be a target. We don't have a secret. And he doesn't want to get rid of you, which he could have."

Boomer blinked, and then conceded, "No secret from your father, and the Houses, anyway."

"From my father," Apollo repeated. "Boomer, this may come as a surprise to you, but I've been thinking, and I've noticed: things are different."

Boomer mimed astonishment, but his eyes were still a little uncertain.

"And this whole thing of traditions carried to extremes... what's the point? Why am I looking for someone I can live with when I already know someone I can't live without?"

"Are you saying—"

"I'm saying move in with me." Apollo took a deep breath and said, "I'm saying, let's find out what we have to do to make it as legal and permanent as we can and then let's do whatever it is. I'm saying, I'm done looking for wives. If Athena never marries and Boxey's not good enough for the House of Mikhayel, then, well, too bad, so sad. I'm saying, let's go to the Orphan Barge and get another couple or three kids, give you that big family you not so secretly yearn for. I'm saying, let's grow old together, argue over how late our daughter can stay out and whether we should turn up the heat a notch or put on sweaters. I'm saying, be mine in front of God and the world." Apollo paused. He seemed to have struck Boomer speechless. He put his hands on the strong shoulders and leaned forward, resting his forehead on Boomer's and looking deep into the dark brown eyes he loved so much, seeing his own reflection in them along with a hope struggling to be born. "I'm saying, I love you and I want to live with you forever. Will you? Live with me?"

Boomer didn't move except to swallow. "What about Sheba?"

Apollo swallowed too. "I don't want Sheba. I never did. I don't think I'll be breaking her heart, but even if I am, it would be worse to marry her. I want you. I'm sorry, for it all, except for that. Will you?"

"What about Boxey?"

"In the first place, he's only eight. He doesn't make his own life decisions, let alone mine. And in the second, he loves you. He'll be happy about it. And as for Father, before you ask, well, he already knows. Athena won't care one way or the other. So—will you? Please?"

"This is..." Boomer paused. Then, "so sudden," he said.

After thirteen yahrens? Apollo didn't say. Because Boomer was right. It was sudden; never before had Apollo given more than a fleeting, middle of the night, post-coital thought to making his affair with Boomer a permanent, acknowledged thing. Boomer had never so much hinted at it—Apollo swallowed, suddenly afraid. Gods, what if Boomer only wanted an on-again-off-again, go-to-bed-and-then-go-home relationship? What if he had just pushed, way too hard? Presumed too much on words said under ground rules that made them meaningless? What if—

"There," Boomer said. "That's what I needed to see. Yes. Yes, Apollo. Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes."

"Yes..." Apollo turned his head and kissed him. Boomer's mouth opened under his, and Boomer's other arm came up and pulled him close. Apollo had meant it to be a sort of sealing-the-bargain kiss, but almost immediately he lost that intention. The day had been long, and tense, and he was still scared for Starbuck, but the feel of Boomer in his arms, and the knowledge that Boomer was his forever... he wanted to seal the bargain with more than a kiss.

And so, obviously, did Boomer. It crossed Apollo's mind to say they should go to his quarters, but then he remembered the guard and anyway he didn't want to wait. As Boomer pulled off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor, and then pinched one of Apollo's nipples gently as he deepened the kiss, Apollo really didn't want to wait. He ran his hands under Boomer's shirt, lightly scratching his lover's back. Boomer's reaction—a shiver, a moan, and a tightening of his grip—was all Apollo needed. He hauled Boomer's shirt off over his head and nibbled gently on a neat earlobe, and then began kissing and licking his way down Boomer's throat to his collarbone, where he again used his teeth, grazing the spot he knew drove Boomer mad.

It worked. Boomer moaned, his hands clenching on Apollo's arms, that masculine strength that Apollo loved. He dropped his head further, suckling on a dark nipple, and rubbing Boomer's cock through his trousers. Boomer thrust against his hand, one of his own burying itself in Apollo's hair.

In only a few centons, they were both naked, hands running up and down bodies craving even more contact. Apollo won, since Boomer was backed up to the desk, and he began kissing his way down the compact, brown body, licking Boomer's stomach and playing with his balls. Boomer moaned, his cock rising to demand attention while his hands tangled themselves in Apollo's hair. Apollo teased him a few centons more, licking his cock and stroking him, before taking him in his mouth. Boomer moaned, shivering, and Apollo began working him, gently at first and then harder. "Gods, yes," Boomer said.

Apollo pulled away suddenly, standing up. Boomer made an inarticulate sound of protest, quieted by the kiss Apollo gave him, but when he thrust against Apollo's body, Apollo pulled away again. "No," he said, hearing the desire in his voice. "I want you in me, Boomer."

"Here?" Boomer said, his own voice husky.

"Yes, here. Now." Apollo turned them around so that he was against the desk and then turned himself again, bending over it. "Take me. Now, gods, now, Boomer."

Boomer's hands caressed his buttocks, but nothing more. "No, Ap," he said, "finish me with that sweet mouth."

"Boom—" Apollo resisted being moved. "Take me."

"I won't hurt you," Boomer insisted. "We don't have anything, I won't."

"I don't care." And he didn't. He wanted Boomer inside him, filling him, possessing him. He wanted to be owned for the moment at least, to surrender everything... it was suddenly not just desire; it was need. "I don't care," he said again. "I'll be fine. Just take me."

"Ap, for God's sake..."

Why did Boomer have to be so, so, so fracking considerate? Apollo tried to think of a cogent argument and could barely think at all. Then he did remember something. "Wait, wait a micron," he said, hauling the bottom drawer open. "Here," he said, handing the small metal container to Boomer, "now take me, please."

"Blaster oil?" Boomer said.

"It's a lube, isn't it? For God's sake, Boomer, stop torturing me!"

The distinctive scent of the oil suddenly reached his nostrils and he gave a happy moan. Then he felt one of Boomer's fingers enter him, and he thrust his hips backward to meet it, moaning again as his prostate was touched. He gave himself over to the sensations, wishing only a little that Boomer would hurry up.

And then Boomer said, "Now?" and Apollo said, "Yes, yes, now, damnit," and Boomer entered him. "Okay?" Boomer asked, pausing, and Apollo pushed back against him. Boomer obviously took that as a yes and began thrusting himself. The small ache he had felt (blaster oil wasn't all it might have been) disappeared in the soaring ecstasy, partly physical but at least as much emotional... "Oh, gods, Boomer," he said and then lost words. Boomer snaked an arm around him, pulling him partly upright and away from the desk. Apollo took his weight on his hands as Boomer reached in front of him and took hold of his cock. The double pleasure was almost more than Apollo could bear.

He came in a shudder that made Boomer come immediately, both of them crying out, though Boomer muffled his on Apollo's shoulder. They collapsed against the desk, breathing raggedly, and then Boomer withdrew. Apollo sighed; Boomer reached for him and pulled him down and they sat in Apollo's chair and cuddled each other for several centons. "God, I love you, Boomer," Apollo said when he could speak again.

"I love you, Apollo," Boomer said. "I love you more than life, I think."

"Ummmm..." Apollo leaned against Boomer's chest. "I have a lot to apologize for, don't I?" He felt Boomer stir and added, "Not tonight, I promise. But we'll talk."

"Okay. I guess you have to..." Boomer stroked Apollo's hair. "But I guess maybe now we should get dressed again. Good thing you've got a turboflush."

"What I need," Apollo said, looking at his desktop, "is a maid."

Boomer laughed. "Like you'd let one clean that up?"

Apollo hoped he wasn't blushing, but he was afraid he was. "Okay, wise guy," he said. "So let go of me."

"Never," Boomer promised.

But he did, of course, and they cleaned up and got dressed, and then headed for the bridge.