Without Wings

The twin yellow suns swam together in the blue-white sky, bathing the jagged hills beneath in relentless heat. Human residents called this the kill point, the period of the day when both suns shone with full power, directly down on their unprotected bodies. For a brief time, they were grateful for the heavy layer of red-brown dust that coated their skin. The native soil of this devil's cauldron of a planet had elements in it that filtered out the more harmful spectra of radiation.

The human figures who labored across the rock-strewn slopes were all thin and leathery, with long, matted hair, callused hands, and muscles hardened by yarons of exhausting drudgery. Their tools were archaic: hand picks, drag harnesses, metal carts on misshapen wheels. Not one laser cutter or repulsor unit could be found, and only the stubborn strength of human backs kept the mine working.

The young man moved among the workers, lugging a metal canister of water on his shoulder, the dipper clanking harshly as he walked. In his left hand, he held a long wooden staff with which he picked out a stable footing on the steep hillside. He wore only a pair of ragged breeches, that ended just below the knee, and a large sun hat. The other miners wore heavy boots and gloves, but the young man's feet were bare, coated with dust, and decorated with old scars. His hair fell in a thick braid to the small of his back, the color hidden under a layer of dust and sweat.

He made two full circuits of the mine, pausing to offer water to the other workers. In the shade of an escarpment, he set down the water can and slung leather bags over each shoulder. On the next trip, the miners dumped handfuls of uncut gems into his sacks, till he was straining to carry the weight.

The miners treated the young man with quiet courtesy and were always glad to feel his shadow fall across them, heralding the arrival of water. They stepped aside or halted their work when he moved past them, allowing him a clear path on the treacherous slope. But they never spoke to him. Not one word.

When he had carried three loads of stones to the hoppers at the top of the hill, he went back to the water can and started over again. The suns crept slowly apart, throwing eerie shadows on the baked rocks and bringing a tiny respite in the temperature. The miners struggled on, working with the grim determination of men who knew they had no alternative.

*** *** ***

Apollo sat staring at his computer desk, mulling over the impending mission. Blue Squadron had easily destroyed the phalanx of cylon raiders based on this planet, but sensors showed multiple life forms on the surface, apparently human. It bothered him greatly that human or humanoid life would be present on a cylon-controlled world.

He needed to send his best team down to investigate. If humans were being held captive by cylons in this remote corner of the galaxy, it was his duty to free them and offer them sanctuary. but he had to tread carefully. The sensors couldn't pinpoint the number of cylon centurions on the planet, since they didn't register as life forms. Power consumption and output were low, but the hot spots could easily be generators set up to serve the needs of the living inhabitants, rather than concentrations of cylons.

The team had to be prepared for close combat, rescue operations, and diplomatic forays. The situation was one big unknown.

Luckily, choosing his best team was easy. Sheba, Boomer, Gem and Croft were the obvious choices. With Sheba flying gunner for the shuttle, Boomer as shuttle pilot, Gem as medical officer and Croft for security, the mission had its best chance of success.

As he always did before sending his personnel into action, Apollo let their faces drift through his mind, reviewing their special strengths and needs, the high and low points of their lives, and experiencing the emotions he attached to each of these very important people.

Croft was just Croft. Dependable, resourceful, every inch the Colonial warrior. His hotheaded selfishness had been drained out of him during his yarons on the Prison barge, and now he fully appreciated the worth of his position in the fleet. Apollo trusted him implicitly. Croft only made him uneasy when he tried to gain some insight into the crusty officer's thoughts. He treated Apollo with respect but shared nothing of himself with the younger man.

Boomer and Sheba always made him smile. They were the bright spot in the last three yarons, the reminder that life renewed itself, no matter what. Sheba had hung onto her feelings for Apollo till he became commander of the battlestar, and she finally realized that his heart belonged to his duty and his memories, not to her. Then suddenly, she woke up, looked around her, and discovered Boomer at her elbow.

They were the best kind of warriors and the best kind of couple. Wingmates, lovers, friends, parents; whatever they did, they did together and did well. Their son, Static, was a perfect example of the success of their union. He was still a baby, not yet walking or talking, but he charmed everyone who came in range.

Apollo broke all the rules about assigning married couples to the same squadrons and missions, because Boomer and Sheba worked so beautifully together, that it only made sense. When you had a winning team, you kept it a team. Besides, if one of them were to go up in a ball of fire under cylon guns, the other would want to be there. Maybe if Gem had...

He clamped down on that thought and finally turned his inner eye on Gem. He could see her so clearly, her magnificent russet hair pulled into a neat braid, her glacial gray eyes staring consideringly at him across the desk. Every time he looked at her, he couldn't help remembering the old Gem, the Gem who had taken the Life Center by storm, captivated the heart of every man in the fleet, and turned Starbuck into an honest man.

Apollo still remembered that day, more than five yarons ago, when Starbuck had strolled into the Life Center and changed the course of his life. Gem hit Starbuck like a sunstorm. For the first time in his long, colorful romantic career, he encountered a woman who intimidated him, yet fascinated him so completely that he couldn't ignore her. He adored, even worshipped Gem, but felt so overwhelmed by her that he could barely speak to her.

Only a few of his closest friends knew, at that point, what caused his odd change in attitude. He subtly, but quickly, withdrew from all the women closest to him, no longer able to get any enjoyment from dallying, even with the beautiful Cassiopeia. He couldn't have Gem, he accepted that, but he didn't want anyone else. Bewildered and miserable, but unable to fight his distant coolness, Cass backed away from him and left him to his solitary thoughts.

What Starbuck didn't know, for quite some time, was that Gem felt as strongly about him as he did about her. Gem's past had certain similarities to Starbuck's, though she had never abused or flaunted her ability to manipulate the opposite sex. She had gone for well over thirty yarons without ever meeting a man she could even seriously care about, much less love. Though she discreetly shared her time, her gentle affections, and when appropriate her body with her special male friends, none of them ever got beneath the wall of control she put up around herself.

She had seen Starbuck frequently on the fleet hyperwave station and had immediately recognized his fire and charm. In her distant, private way, she indulged in idle speculation about the pilot, wondering if he would be amenable to the kind of relationship she enjoyed. Then she met him and suffered a major mental shock. It took her about three microns to realize that this was a man she could never, never toy with. She had two choices: stay completely away from him and hope the damage would heal, or admit that she was crazy, out of control in love with him and deal with it.

Gem's native caution kept her from confronting Starbuck, and she quickly became aware that her presence unnerved him, so she did what she could not to threaten him. They became friends, tentatively at first, then openly and confidently. Starbuck's vision of Gem changed from a goddess to a queen, still out of reach but not superhuman. His terrified adoration altered into a painful but thrilling devotion.

Then the day came that Apollo had been waiting for. Starbuck came back from a disastrous patrol, crushed and furious at the loss of a green cadet. Without thinking, he headed for Gem's lab, automatically seeking her out for comfort. Gem sat listening to him pour out his frustration and watching the pain and loss in his face, and she couldn not remain aloof. Summoning all her courage, she reached through the wall of remove that protected her to touch him.

Starbuck and Gem - that had been the love of the millennium. They shared a passion for each other, for their family and for life in general that left others breathless and reeling. Apollo, who knew Starbuck better than any living human, understood that, for all these yarons of using and discarding women, Starbuck had been looking for the one woman whose intensity, brilliance and raw passion were a match for his own. Gem easily met and matched Starbuck, and she too found the impossible - a man she couldn't overpower. For both of them, it was an opportunity to let down barriers and let themselves out.

They were married less than a secton after that day in the lab, stunning the fleet with the suddenness of their romance. Many hoped, though not too loudly, that marriage would prove too great a strain on Starbuck's self control. They were doomed to disappointment, and both Starbuck and Gem thrived. Star arrived less than a yaron later, and the squadron threw her delighted parents a party that became legendary. Barely a yaron after Star's birth, her little sister Chryse joined her.

Apollo vividly remembered coming into the Life Center to check on Gem's progress and finding Starbuck there. He sat holding a curious toddler in one arm and a sleeping newborn in the other. When Apollo spoke to him, he lifted shining, awe-struck eyes to his friend, and tears began to drip steadily down his face. Apollo could only smile and blink back his own tears, understanding all too well what Starbuck was feeling.

His family meant the universe to Starbuck. From orphan child, to wild cadet, to hotshot pilot, he had ever only wanted one thing, a real family. Gem and the children gave him strength, stability, and a soul-deep happiness that colored every aspect of his life.

That was the Starbuck of three yarons ago, the Starbuck whose legendary luck never ran out. Or almost never. Less than two sectons after Chryse's birth, Starbuck went out on patrol and disappeared. No one saw his viper destroyed, no one knew what actually happened to him. He was simply there, then gone.

Gem swore he was still alive. When Apollo pressed her, she told him that she would feel it if he were dead, would feel the empty space in her head and heart. Her certainty lasted for endless sectons of waiting and praying, but no Starbuck ever came. Then, she suddenly announced to Apollo that he was gone. Did she mean dead? he asked. Just gone. That was all he could get out of her, and he saw no point in torturing her with questions.

Starbuck's disappearance had been the first in a seemingly endless chain of losses. After him went Bojay, blasted to smithereens by cylon laser cannon. Dietra was dead too, and Jolly was on permanent disability leave. His leg injury had been fairly minor, but even Salik's best rebuilding couldn't give his knee enough strength to carry his growing weight. Apollo used the excuse of the injury to do what he should have done long before and put him on the retired list.

The greatest loss of all he still could not face head on. The thought of his father, Commander Adama, lying motionless in his bed could even now bring hot tears to his eyes and make his heart pound with fear. Adama had died in his sleep, not a warrior's death, perhaps, but the peaceful one that the great commander had earned.

Sitting in his father's quarters, at his father's desk, struggling to do his father's job, he felt the weight of the entire fleet resting on his exhausted shoulders. He needed Starbuck to help him through this. Starbuck, Serina, Zac, they were all gone. He was alone with the burden of a job he didn't want.

Apollo shook his head angrily, trying to drive the morose self-pity from his mind. He had plenty of help, if he cared to look for it. He had Tigh, Boomer, and Sheba. He had Boxey's unconditional love, Star's hauntingly familiar smile, and Gem's rock-solid competence. So what if he occasionally wept for his father, alone at night, or dreamed of Serina, or heard Starbuck's voice speaking to him in times of stress. The dead were dead, and the living depended on him.

Thrusting aside his crippling thoughts, he reached for the commline and buzzed Tigh.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Send Boomer, Sheba, Croft and Gem to my quarters, immediately."

"The landing party, Sir?"

"Yes."

"I'll order the shuttle equipped and Sheba's viper prepped."

"Thank you, Tigh."

By the time the first warrior arrived, signaling politely for entry, Apollo had composed himself, leaving no trace of his earlier musings on his face. He greeted Boomer with an affable smile and offered him a chair. Sheba and Gem came right behind him, and Croft only a centon later.

The four officers ranged themselves comfortably around the room, gazing at Apollo with a familiar calm expectancy. They knew exactly why they had been summoned. They were Apollo's elite team, and this was certainly not the first time they had worked together. They also knew the facts of this mission. Boomer and Sheba had flown in the strike force against the cylon raiders, while Croft and Gem had consulted with Apollo on the attack.

The commander ran his eyes over their faces, measuring their separate levels of readiness and excitement. "I've chosen a landing site. There's a dense population of life forms on the near side of the planet with very low power readings. There can't be many cylons in the vicinity."

"Are we it," Croft asked, "or do we take a strike wing with us?"

"You're it. You'll go in, identify the inhabitants, try to get an accurate count of cylon forces, then report back here."

"Simple recon." Gem nodded understanding. "I assume we have clearance to take out the cylons."

"If you can. Secrecy is obviously not a big priority. Anything else?" Apollo didn't really expect a lot of questions from this group. This sort of seat-of-the-pants mission was their bread and butter. "Good. The ships are being prepped. How soon can you be ready? Gem?"

"Medical gear is already in the launch bay."

"Then let's fly!"

"Aye, aye, skipper!" Boomer crowed, and he bounced out of his seat. "We'll bring you back a souvenir!"

*** *** ***

The suns wandered far from each other now, in the closest thing to dusk this world ever saw. One dropped below the jagged horizon to the north, while the other skimmed the hilltops to the east. The rocky slope was desolate, the miners having packed up their tools and trudged back to the compound for the 'night'.

The compound lay between two spurs of rock, on a narrow strip of dusty plain. The movement of feet kept the air thick with red-brown haze, and the hum of voices echoed off the stark buildings and empty hills. In the open space formed by the angle of two low buildings, a water tank stood on tall, steel legs. A ladder ran up the back of it to a platform, where a man stood operating the dump lever. Each time he pulled the lever, a stream of murky water flooded out of a spout at the bottom of the tank, onto the head of the worker standing below.

Though cleanliness did not rank high on the miners' list of priorities, the evening wash was a good excuse to be doused with water and cool off from the day's exertions. Every evening, the line for the tank trailed clear back to the wall of the detention barracks, and most workers opted for a wash before they picked up their dinner rations.

The young man came out of the storage shed, and headed for the wash line. He moved adroitly through the throng, weaving between filthy, sweat-streaked bodies that were anonymous in their dirt. The other workers automatically stepped aside to allow him passage, as if habit accorded him the right of way, but no one actively acknowledged his presence. He stopped at the back of the wash line and waited in patient silence, as the line inched forward.

About ten paces back, along the line from the tank, stood a large tub of grimy, smelly, gray soap. As the workers moved up, they were required to smear themselves with the soap, at least making a show of cleaning the dirt from their bodies. Without the soap, they were not entitled to a rinse from the tank.

As he crept closer to the front of the line, the young man worked the knotted string off the end of his long braid and began combing his hair free with his fingers. The strands were so heavily caked with dust that they resisted his efforts, but he ruthlessly tore through the snarls till his hair hung in matted ropes down his back. At the soap tub, he took a double handful of the nasty stuff and worked it thoroughly into his hair, then he rubbed it all over himself and into the worn fabric of his breeches.

The attendant at the lever knew the young man's habits well, and he let him stand under the spout till the oily soap was rinsed from his hair and clothing. When he felt reasonably clean, he lifted his hand in a signal to the attendant, then stepped outside the ring of marker stones. His feet were now caked with red mud, but the rest of him felt almost human, and he had long ago given up trying to keep his feet clean. He wrung some of the water from his breeches, wiped his face with the back of his hand, then pulled his hair forward, over his right shoulder, and twisted it into a thick rope.

The young man made his way to a small, dingy, pre-fabricated hut made of metal sheeting. Inside, a row of palettes lay on the floor, along either wall, with a scattering of clothing or personal belongings around each. The air was stifling hot in the windowless space, and the workers had wisely stayed outside to rest and eat.

The young man moved down the center aisle to the fifth palette on the left. A pair of flimsy canvas shoes sat at the foot of the blanket. He picked up the shoes and fished in one of them to find a small, crudely made metal comb. It had obviously been cut from a piece of scrap metal and had only three tines, but it was just as obviously well used.

He quickly left the airless hut and went back over to the wash area. Near the soap tub, he rinsed his feet in a shallow pan of water before slipping on the shoes. Then, he picked up his ration of badly synthesized protein paste and a mug of weak grog and headed for his usual spot on the eastern escarpment.

At this time of day, the ugly, barren compound seemed almost pleasant. The angle of the sun threw cooling shadows well across the dusty yard. Dinner, relaxation and a modicum of freedom loosened the tongues of grim, terse miners. For a short time, the men could smile, even laugh quietly at a shared joke. Soon, exhaustion would catch up with them, and they would sprawl in the dirt to sleep, not bothering to brave the sweltering huts for blankets.

From his vantage point on the rocks, the young man could watch the movement of the figures below him, listen to the hum of tired voices, and soak up a bit of human companionship without actually having to cope with any of his fellow prisoners. Every evening, he climbed the slope to sit on his flat, comfortable rock, eat his dinner, and wait for sleep to catch up with him.

When his unappetizing meal was done, he took his comb and began picking the tangles from his long hair. In the heat, the moisture evaporated so quickly that it practically formed a mist around his head, and in a matter of centons, the heavy mass began to dry. By the time he combed the last snarl out, his grimy, colorless braid had transformed into a thick, smooth, gently waving curtain of warm brown, streaked with pale gold, that flowed down his back and spilled over his shoulders. The sunstreaked mane fell in smooth waves back from his face and forehead, softening his hard features and giving them a kind of inhuman beauty.

The young man was beginning to feel the effects of a hard day, and was considering climbing down to join the growing number of sleepers in the compound, when a sudden noise jerked him out of his lethargy. The roar and scream of high-powered engines tore through the compound, tumbling miners to their feet and bringing warning shouts from those still awake. At first, the young man assumed the craft must be carrying the cylon jailers he knew so well. They didn't often fly overhead this way, but theirs were the only aircraft he had ever encountered.

Then he heard someone shout, "Colonials! It's a viper!" and he began to wonder. The miner's words meant nothing to him, but the excitement in the man's voice peaked his curiosity. No one got excited about cylons.

He was just standing up, preparing to climb down the slope, when a second howling craft roared over the escarpment. This one was bigger, louder, and definitely not a cylon. Surprise made him careless, and he took a step without looking. The next micron, he was sliding and rolling down the brutal face of the escarpment, while the strange engines shrieked in his ears. He hit the bottom and lay, stunned and aching, unable to collect himself enough to move.

Sheba did a quick circuit of their landing field, eyes narrowed against the glare of a low-riding sun. The shuttle settled easily onto the ground beside her viper, and Croft popped the hatch.

"All clear! Did you see the camp we flew in over?"

"Yeah. Humans, from the looks of it."

Boomer and Gem followed him out, and Boomer quickly dispersed them. "Sheba, Croft, try to round up those people in the yard. Don't let anyone out till we know who they are. Gem, you and I will scout the two large buildings. Stay in touch."

Sheba and Croft reached the compound at a run, weapons drawn and eyes peeled for trouble. They were met with shrieks and screams, scurrying bodies and clouds of red-brown dust. A man on a platform at the top of some kind of water tower tried to climb down a ladder, tripped in his haste, and fell howling to the ground. Croft took off to the right, trying to box them in and keep them by the wall of the longer building. Sheba skirted to the left.

As she moved toward a huddled group of people, she heard one of them moan, "What have we done?!"

That stopped her dead. "Nothing! We aren't here to hurt you." She carefully slid her laser pistol into its holster and held her hands out, away from her body. "What are you afraid of?"

The man just huddled farther away from her and shivered.

"We're Colonial warriors. Have you heard of the Colonies?"

From behind her, a voice answered, "I have."

She spun around and saw a large, bearded, muscular man, holding a pick threateningly in his callused hands. "You have? Are you from the Colonies?"

"More than twenty yarons ago, I was. Now I'm just another cylon drudge."

"What is this place?"

"A cylon prison work camp. We mine ore and chryses for the Cylon Empire."

"That explains the raiders we destroyed. Are all of you Colonials?"

The big man waved contemptuously at the other miners. "Most of 'em don't know. Cylons messed with their minds and wiped it out, or they've been here so long, they just forgot. Me, I never forget."

"Can you ask them all to calm down and let us help? We're here to eliminate the remaining cylons and evacuate the humans. If you could talk to them..."

The man opened his mouth and roared, "Everybody, muzzle it!" The workers fell obediently silent. "These guys ain't gonna hurt you! Keep quiet, get over by the wall, and do what you're told!"

Slowly, but surely, the frightened prisoners began drifting toward the wall of the barracks. They fell into a ragged line of miserable, defensive bodies. Sheba saw Croft at the other end of the line, firmly herding people into place, and she looked around to be sure her quadrant was clear. Only one, a figure lying tumbled at the foot of a rock slope, wasn't moving.

Sheba crossed the compound and knelt beside him in the thick dust. All she could see was a lean, muscular body and a mass of dark gold hair, but when she spoke to him, he flinched away from her voice.

"I know you can hear me. Come on, just get up." She got no response. "Are you hurt?"

The big man's voice once again answered her from behind. "You won't get nothin' from that one. He don't talk."

"Do you mean he can't talk?"

The man shrugged. "Just don't. Never has." The man brushed her aside and bent to grab the silent figure by the shoulders. His powerful arms lifted the young man to his feet and shoved him toward the line of other prisoners. He followed closely on the young man's heels.

Sheba watched them join the line by the wall and trailed curiously after them. Something about the silent man intrigued her. She dutifully checked the grounds for stragglers and ran her eyes over the motley collection of workers, then planted herself in front of her helpful giant and the strange figure hiding behind his curtain of hair.

"What's your name?" she asked the big man.

"Tirzo."

"You're Tauran?"

"Yeah. Mill worker. Cylons took me in a raid when I was twenty-three yarons old."

"Hey, Sheba!" Croft bellowed, "Boomer and Gem took out three centurions. Buildings are clear!"

"Is there a guard post somewhere near?"

"Nah. They don't need no guards. Where'd we go? Cylons come and go, but the dust gets 'em, and they have to go off for repairs. Always a few round to keep us workin' but not more'n three or four."

Sheba turned her attention to the other man, who stood with his back to her and his head down. She couldn't pin down what it was about him that fascinated her, but she could hardly keep her eyes off him. Maybe it was that hair, and the fact that it was clean - just about the only clean thing in the whole place.

"Turn around. I won't hurt you."

Tirzo shook his head. "Won't do it. Strange one, he is."

Sheba caught his shoulder and, ignoring his flinch, forcibly turned him to face her. He stood numbly, hands at his sides, head down, while she ran her eyes over him. He was just like all the others, spare and lean, with hard muscles and scarred hands. Right now, he was decorated with cuts and bruises, reminding Sheba that she'd found him lying at the base of the escarpment. She could also see old whip scars on his ribs and shoulders and wondered what such a docile man had done to earn flogging.

"Look at me." Again, he ignored her, and she gently lifted his chin with her fingertips.

For a long, horrible centon, she could only stare into that empty, beautiful, terrifyingly familiar face, then the air rushed out of her lungs in a cry of disbelief. Deep, clear blue eyes stared into hers, unknowing and uncaring.

Croft was suddenly beside her, alarmed by her cry. "Sheba, what's wrong?"

She could only shake her head, still staring in blank shock at the silent man. Croft followed her gaze and, for a micron, didn't understand. Then the blood drained from his face and he muttered a curse. In the same instant, Sheba's paralysis broke, and she threw her arms rapturously around the silent man's neck, sobbing,

"Starbuck! You're alive! Oh, God, you're alive!"

Croft noted the other man's complete lack of reaction and frowned. He gently pried Sheba away from the prisoner and said, very quietly, "Are you sure this is Starbuck?"

"How can you ask that? Look at him!"

"He doesn't know you, Sheba."

Tirzo, much interested in the proceedings, commented, "Told you, he's a strange one. You know him?"

"Yes! He's a Colonial warrior, a pilot who disappeared on patrol yarons ago!"

"Maybe he is," Croft cautioned.

"Well, he ain't no pilot now."

"Why do you say that?"

"Look at 'im." Tirzo waved a hand in front of the young man's face. "Vacant as a vacuum tube."

Sheba shuddered. "Starbuck, what have they done to you?"

"Just 'bout what they did to all of us, Cap'n."

Boomer's shout echoed through the compound, and Croft swore softly again. "What do we tell Gem?"

"Gem?"

"If this is Starbuck..."

"It is!"

"Do you want to introduce her to him?"

Before Sheba could answer, they heard the crunch of booted feet in the dust, and Gem and Boomer hurried up to them.

"What's up, guys?" Boomer demanded.

"These are cylon prisoners, held here to mine ore and gems. They all appear to be human." Croft gestured to the big Tauran. "This is Tirzo. He's been here a long, long time and can answer all our questions."

"Good work. Sheba? Sheba, what's wrong?"

Sheba wiped the tears from her face and took the silent man's arm to draw him forward. He obediently stepped closer to the group of Colonials but dropped his head again, so that his hair obscured his face.

"Don't do that. These are friends of yours." She put a hand under his chin and forced his head up. "Look at him, Boomer."

Boomer looked, and his eyes grew huge with shock. Turning his panicked gaze on Sheba, he choked, "It can't be! He's dead!" He peered again at the alien, yet utterly familiar, face. "By the Lords of Kobol...is this some kind of cylon trick?" The empty eyes met his, and Boomer backed away from him, shaking his head in panicked denial. "No! You aren't Starbuck! You can't be!"

Sheba put her arms around him, as much to draw reassurance from him as to lend comfort, and said, urgently, "We'll find out the truth; we'll find out everything, and we'll bring Starbuck back."

"It isn't him! It isn't!"

Boomer's hysterical tone cut through Sheba's own shock and forced her to regain some kind of control. She stepped away from her husband, only clasping his forearms in steady hands, and insisted, "Whoever or whatever he is, we have a job to do, and he's part of it. Concentrate on the job, Boomer."

That snapped Boomer back on track, and he pulled sharply away from her. He was behaving like a child, not a seasoned warrior, and this was no time for hysteria. He was trying to sort out their next step, when he heard Croft speaking to Gem in an uncharacteristically gentle tone.

"Are you all right, Doctor?"

He turned to see Gem backing slowly away from the ghost by the wall, her eyes mad holes in her death-white face. She couldn't seem to breathe properly, and her hands were clenched into frantic fists. Croft put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped as if struck.

"Take it easy."

A touch of rationality returned to her face as she looked at the war-scarred colonel. She found her voice and whispered, "This isn't happening."

"Maybe not, but maybe it is. Maybe that's Starbuck, and maybe you can help him."

"It can't be Starbuck...he's gone. I felt him go."

"Then there's nothing to be afraid of. You can tell us if it's him."

Gem closed her eyes and shuddered. "I can't."

"You can." He firmly gripped her arm and propelled her toward the silent prisoner. "I don't believe in ghosts, Doctor. Either Starbuck is alive, or that is a complete stranger. Either way, there's nothing to be afraid of."

Gem paced slowly up to the young man and forced herself to look at him. The others waited, tense and silent, for some reaction on her part. After several agonizing centons, she reached out to lift his right hand in both of hers. She studied the callused hand thoughtfully, turning it to look at the palm, then she laced her fingers through his and squeezed it gently.

"Hello, Starbuck."

He gave no sign that he heard her, but Gem smiled anyway. Putting her free hand lightly on his shoulder, she planted a kiss on his cheek, then turned and headed for the shuttle, still holding his hand.

"We're going home, now."

Starbuck followed her obediently, if a bit reluctantly.