They'd been coming here for yahrens now. How many? Starbuck wondered as he followed Boxey off the shuttle. When they first came, the boy held tightly to his hand, wide-eyed. Later, Starbuck switched to a hand on his shoulder - more to restrain than guide, and now his fingertips touched the middle of the boy's back, barely touching him. Boxey was almost 13, a special age of passage for Kobolians (those belonging to the bloodline of the Lords of Kobol), and almost as tall as Starbuck. It was the seventh yahren that they'd come here, Starbuck realized, another supposedly special number for Kobolians.
Starbuck wasn't Kobolian, at least as far as he knew, but he'd always been fascinated by the numerology in their mysticism. He wasn't supposed to know anything about it, of course; it was reserved for the first-born sons of the bloodline and even they couldn't be fully initiated until they were 40 yahrens old. But they started learning at 14 yahrens. Apollo was a first-born Kobolian, direct line of descent in fact, and he had shared everything he learned with Starbuck, even taking him to some special sessions with Adama. That Adama would allow Starbuck to be present surprised the warrior; Adama was a strict follower of the Kobolian rites. 'Maybe he knows something I don't,' Starbuck thought, then laughed at himself. Adama knew many things Starbuck didn't and never would - Starbuck had great respect, bordering on awe, for the man. More than awe, he loved him the way he imagined he would have loved his father if he had known him.
Actually, Starbuck realized, it had come in handy that Adama had allowed Starbuck entry into the mysteries of Kobol, because it set the precedent for Boxey, who was not genetically Kobolian either. 'Not that you'd notice if you didn't already know,' Starbuck mused, looking at the gangly teenager who was so much like Apollo many thought he was Apollo's biological son.
The first year they'd come, Muffit the android daggit had followed obediently. In subsequent years, the daggit had raced ahead then back to them or run in circles around them as they walked. This year Boxey carried him. The daggit was slowing down, Starbuck almost thought 'growing old', and with Wilker gone, no one seemed able to rejuvenate him - it, Starbuck corrected himself. Boomer kept it going, but it was definitely not as energetic as it had been.
"Here we go, Muffy," a newly deepened voice said, and Starbuck realized they had reached the center of the wooded area. The only "forest" in the fleet, here on the last agro-ship. "Starbuck," Boxey said. "Are the trees still growing?"
Starbuck looked around and nodded. "They seem to be. They've even reproduced. Look," he said, pointing at new growth.
"They grow faster than me, don't they?"
"They grow faster than all of us. Do you remember how small they were the first time I brought you here?"
"Yeah, they were my height then, and I was only this high." Boxey indicated his waist and Starbuck laughed and moved his hand up six inches. "We helped plant them."
"That's right. I wasn't sure you'd remember. You were pretty young and awfully upset."
"I'm glad we still come here. I hope we can do it always. Grandfather calls it a 'tradition' and says it's all right to continue it."
"You asked him?" Starbuck was surprised that Boxey would have discussed it with his grandfather and by the answer.
"Yup. He was teaching me about the Holy Days and our responsibilities as observant Kobolians. Next year I'm supposed to be one, too." The boy made a face and flopped onto the ground. Muffit crept over and put his head in Boxey's lap. Starbuck sat more gracefully, but then, Boxey reflected watching his favorite person after his Dad, Starbuck did everything gracefully. "And I asked if I had to go to the Destruction thing."
"The Destruction memorial service," Starbuck corrected. "Calling it by its rightful name shows respect," he added.
"Anyway," the boy said, brushing the mild reprimand aside, "Grandfather asked what I wanted to do instead. And when I told him about how we come here, he said that was every bit as valid a tradition."
"That was nice of him," Starbuck murmured.
"Dad and Grandfather weren't as sad this year, were they?"
"Everyone gets a little less sad each year, I think," Starbuck replied. "Maybe they can accept what happened a little more as time goes on."
"How come you never went to the ... memorial service? Did you get stuck taking care of me?"
"No, not at all," Starbuck assured him. "I didn't lose anybody in the Destruction, so I had no one to remember." He shrugged. "It wasn't that I didn't care, I just didn't hurt like everyone else. So I offered to take care of you and your Dad said okay."
"Why did you pick here to take me?"
That was more difficult to answer. "Well, I guess I wanted to memorialize something. And what I remember losing is the Thorn Forest, where I was born. I don't remember my folks or anything else about it, just the forest. So I asked if anything like trees had been brought and the agro-manager said some saplings had, but they were at the bottom of the list to be planted because they didn't supply food. I asked if I could plant them and that's what I intended to do when everyone else was at the service. I just brought you along."
"I'm glad you did," Boxey said shyly and leaned against Starbuck for a moment. The movement pushed Muffit off his lap and the droid's head hit the ground with a thunk. He made a strange whining sound, almost a whimper, then curled up in a simulation of daggit sleep. Boxey looked over at him and frowned. "Do real daggits live as long as people?"
Starbuck shook his head. "Nowhere near as long."
"So my Muffy, the real one, would be pretty old by now, huh?"
Serina had said the daggit had been Boxey's father's pet and was past its prime when it was killed - unable to run fast enough to dodge a falling column. "He might not even still be around," Starbuck said as kindly as he could.
"I missed him a lot at first," Boxey said, picking at the ground cover around him. "Muffit's getting old, too," he said without looking up.
"He's wearing down, yeah. I think it's probably pretty much the same thing."
"Some of the guys laugh at me for playing with a toy."
"Starbuck waited silently, knowing there was more to come. Apollo would have been in lecture mode by now, telling Boxey how he should respond, what his alternatives were. Starbuck had a feeling Boxey hadn't shared this with his Dad.
Boxey reached over and petted Muffit. The daggit creaked as it turned its head and did an imitation pant of welcome. It's tail moved slightly, barely making a sound against the ground cover. Boxey touched his nose to the daggit's and swiped at his eyes. Then he sat back, leaning against Starbuck again. "Muffit's not a toy," he said as though Starbuck had argued the opposite. "He's my daggit." He swiped at his eyes again. "Do you think Muffit hurts?"
"I don't know, Boxey. What do you think?"
"He makes those funny sounds sometimes. And sometimes he doesn't move right and then he looks confused. I don't think he likes getting old." He pulled back and looked at Starbuck. "What do you do with a daggit that gets old and hurts?" he asked.
Starbuck looked uncomfortable. "Some people say you should take care of them and make them as comfortable as you can."
"But what if you can't? What if you're getting busier with getting ready for the Academy and to get initiated at Temple and don't have enough time? And what if you don't know how to make them comfortable? What should you do?"
"Other people say the kind thing to do is to put them out of their misery."
"Do you think that?"
Starbuck didn't answer directly. "I had a little brown-and-black felix once," Starbuck said softly. "It wasn't really mine; at the foster home we didn't have pets, couldn't afford them. It was a stray, the runt of a litter, and when all the others were sold, the person who owned his dam put him out. I snuck him into the house. My foster parents looked the other way 'cause he was a good mouser. When he got older and couldn't catch mice or really get around much at all, I shared my suppers with him. But when I got the scholarship to the Academy, they said I should put him to sleep, because I couldn't take him with me and he was my responsibility."
"Did you?" Boxey asked in a hushed voice.
Starbuck shook his head. "I put him in a box and walked all the way to the animal shelter. They were willing to take him, but they told me that he was too old to find a new owner and they'd probably put him down in three cycles." Starbuck dropped his head; his eyes filled with tears even twenty yahrens later.
"So you left him?"
"No, I couldn't. My foster parents were right; he was my responsibility. I couldn't put him down, but I couldn't just give him to someone else to do that either. I put him back in the box and ..."
"You killed him?" Boxey asked in a hushed voice.
"I was going to," Starbuck admitted. "At least that's what I told myself. But just as I was leaving, this little kid came in with her mother. They were from our neighborhood, and they were really poor - the Dad had been killed in a brawl a couple of yahrens back and the Mom cleaned houses to make ends meet. The little kid must have been seven or eight, but she was really scrawny, maybe as big as a five-yahren-old. They had just lost their felix to a ground car - that happened a lot on planets - and they were looking for another one. The little kid would have sold her right eye for one, but the mother knew they had to eat. So the first thing she asked, before they even looked at the animals up for adoption, was, 'How much?'. They told her thirty cubits and the mother just shook her head and pulled the girl out the door."
"You gave them your felix?"
Starbuck smiled and reddened in embarrassment. "Yeah. I mean, I told them how old and useless he was, but they didn't care. The Mother even told me afterwards that I had done a blessing." He shrugged. "I just wanted the old fella to have a good home, not a sad ending."
"I'm the only one with a daggit in the Fleet, aren't I?"
"Yup. Muffit is unique. After those first few sectons, no one had time to make androids - I'm not sure anyone even knew how except Dr. Wilker."
"Dad said maybe its time to turn Muffit off. And he doesn't even know about the guys teasing me - you won't tell him, will you?"
"Of course not."
"Do you think maybe some poor little kid might like him?"
"I think there are a lot of little kids who don't have anything to love or anyone to love them."
"Muffit's very lovable."
"Yes, he is."
"Do you know where I could find some of those kids?"
"If you want, I could introduce you to a whole ship full of kids like that right now."
"You mean the orphan barge!" Boxey exclaimed. His face lit up. "C'mon Muffit! We're going to get you a new home!" Muffit struggled to his feet, his tail wagging gamely.
As they headed for the shuttle bay, Muffit trotting behind, Boxey looked back wistfully and said, "I'll miss him though."
Starbuck nodded sympathetically. "I still miss my felix. But I used to go and visit him whenever I was nearby. "
"I could do that, couldn't I?"
"Definitely. I can take you myself. I go at least once a sectare."
"What do you do there?"
"Umm, whatever they need done - play with the kids, read a story, fix the plumbing, It doesn't matter to me what I do."
"You know Starbuck, there's a lot about you that nobody knows."
"Hey, I'll keep your secrets if you keep mine," Starbuck said.
"Deal!" Boxey said and Muffit barked his agreement.