01 - Battlestar Galactica (27 page)

He’d worried about her happiness, about her impending remarriage, about which
he’d felt relief and contentment, glad to see an end to her loneliness. But
while she had always worried about
him
dying in the service, he’d never
imagined that
she
would be the one to die in a war, with thermonuclear
bombs raining down on her world. She was almost certainly dead now—though he
would probably never know for sure. He’d been so busy since the attack, he’d
hardly slept. And he hadn’t had time to think much about those he had left
behind.

His father was the only family he had left. And his father… His stomach
started knotting, just thinking about his father. So maybe it was better that he
didn’t.
Put the picture down and leave.

That was when he noticed the movement to his right. His father had quietly
walked into his quarters, and before Lee could even react, was standing at his
side. His face was a mess, scraped and with a blood-soaked bandage taped over
his left temple; that must have been some fight he’d been in. He didn’t say
anything to Lee right away, just looked at him, and looked down at the picture
Lee was still holding, a hint of a smile on his face.

Lee dropped his gaze back to the photo, and had to work to bottle up his
feelings again. There would be another time to mourn his mother’s death.

“I’m sorry,” his father said, as though reading his mind.

Lee nodded. He placed the photo carefully back down on the table. “I,
uh—gotta go,” he muttered, and turned away.

As he walked past his father, the commander’s arm shot out and caught his,
stopping his movement. Lee turned, surprised, not knowing what to say. Or what
his father wanted to say. For a moment they both stood there, looking at each
other in a kind of arrested shock. The air was heavy with things they might say
to each other, things neither one of them was likely to say.

As suddenly as the last movement, his father stunned him again by pulling him
into an awkward hug. Lee resisted at first. How long had it been since he had
last hugged his father, or wanted to? As his father’s arms tightened around him,
Lee stood rigidly at attention, fighting the emotions. But the feelings were
deeper and stronger than his resolve: the pain and loneliness breaking out of
their prison and bubbling up. Feelings he didn’t want to admit to: longing for
forgiveness; love for his father, buried almost beyond retrieval… but not
quite.

Almost against his will, he brought his own arms up to return the embrace, pressing his hands against his father’s back. He could feel the
contortions in his own face; he knew there were tears somewhere down there,
wanting to get out. That wasn’t going to happen, he was too strong for that—
wasn’t
he?
—but something was breaking down on the inside, because he felt a strange
sense of gladness and release… a letting go. But of what? The years of anger?
The walls he had struggled,
labored
to maintain? It was so
hard
to
keep those walls up. Maybe he didn’t have to do that. Wouldn’t Zak have wanted
it this way? Wouldn’t his mother?

At last, he and his father stepped apart. His father nodded in obvious
gratitude, but still couldn’t quite look him in the eye. And he knew then that
his father was struggling as much as he was.

Neither of them spoke as Lee left the cabin. But something had changed, and
there would be no going back from it.

Galactica,
Conference Room B

Billy Keikeya looked up from the notes he was organizing, as President Roslin
paced the room. Since they’d moved the two disaster pods off
Galactica
and onto a small transport assigned the task of distributing the supplies
(damned meager supplies!) to the rest of the fleet, President Roslin had been
acting like a caged cat. And in fact, they
were
caged; there were two
armed guards outside the room, by Colonel Tigh’s orders. Theoretically they were
there to ensure the president’s safety. But it was perfectly clear that they
were there to contain the president, to keep her from wandering the ship or
making any further demands.

At least they had been permitted to stay on board for a while. Tigh had
rescinded his order that they get off the ship at once—probably thanks to
Adama’s intervention, though Billy wasn’t sure
which
Adama.

President Roslin paused to peer out the door of the meeting room. “What’s
wrong
with these people, Billy? Are they so afraid to give up any power?”
She turned and kept pacing.

Billy hesitated to speak, but this very question had been weighing on him. He
drew a breath. “With all due respect, Madame President… I think you may have
overplayed your hand with Colonel Tigh.”

President Roslin turned toward him in surprise. “Excuse me?”

Now he was in it. But though his face burned, he plunged ahead. “Well—when
you tried to give Colonel Tigh a direct order—you know, telling him that he
had
to help us—”

“I haven’t forgotten what I said,” she answered dryly, and with some
impatience.

“Right. Of course.” Billy was starting to get a little flustered now, but he
forced himself to finish what he had to say. “The point is, he’s second in
command on this ship—and the ship’s in danger—and you suddenly forced him to
make a choice between you and his commanding officer. He doesn’t even
know
you. He’s not going to—”

“Obey
me,”
President Roslin finished. “No… of course not.” She
turned around, pressing her palms together in front of her face. “Of course he
wouldn’t,” she repeated. “Which I should have realized at the time.” She
suddenly looked strangely at Billy. “Have you been this smart all along, and I
just never noticed?”

Billy flushed, not knowing what to say.

“I mean it,” she said, rubbing her shoulder absently under the collar of her
blouse. “Did I hire you because you were really smart?”

“Well, I—” he stammered. “I did assume you’d read my resume—so you would have
known the work I—my background.” He looked down at his hands, completely
embarrassed now.

“Well, I’m sure I did. But I have a confession to make. I was so overwhelmed,
and there were so many applicants, that I let Personnel make the pick.” She
chuckled. “Is that so—
wait a minute!”
She stabbed a finger in the air.
“Are you the kid who won a Siltzer Prize for writing a paper on—on—?” She snapped her fingers, trying to
remember.

He finally broke down and grinned. “Diplomacy and Leadership Models. Yes.”

“And you’ve kept your mouth shut all this time?” She was laughing and shaking
her head at the same time.

“Well… you didn’t ask. And there were a lot of other things to think
about—”

“Well, I’m asking now. You just became my most trusted advisor.” President
Roslin suddenly became serious. It was amazing; she was such a nice lady, just
like his mother. But she could be tough as a street cop. “What do you think I
should do with these people? These… leaders.”

Billy drew himself up and unconsciously straightened his tie, even though it
was loosened around his neck. He knew exactly what he wanted to say; he’d been
biting his tongue
not
to say it for hours. “Well—these are military
people. Things like tradition, duty, honor—they’re not just words to them,
they’re a way of life. You want them to accept your authority as President,
you’re going to have to make them see things in those terms.”

“You mean, wave the flag at them?” President Roslin asked, cocking her head.

“Almost. You have to observe the protocols and traditions of the service.
And… you have to
be the president.
All the time. Every minute. Stand up
to them. No, make them stand up to
you.
Don’t lose your temper with them.
But
demand their respect.
Demand that they honor the constitution that
put you in office. The constitution they’re sworn to uphold.”

She was looking at him with very thoughtful eyes now. “I see.”

“And… one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t ever let them think they’re your equal. Because the minute they think they can walk over you, or think you’re not really the
president…” He paused.

“We’re finished,” she said. She blinked and looked away for a moment. Then
she gazed at him. “Thank you, Billy.”

Baltar sat at the end of a small wooden table in Commander Adama’s quarters,
practically the only place he’d seen on this ship that, while lit in a subdued
fashion, didn’t seem oppressively gloomy. He was waiting for the commander and
Colonel Tigh—both gruff, no-nonsense men—to talk their talk with him. He was, to
say the least, nervous, and trying hard not to show it. He was praying—well, not
really
praying,
but hoping fervently—that Six, or his hallucination of
her, would not intrude while he was meeting with the two most senior officers on
the ship. On the ship, hell—in the
fleet.
Most senior military officers
left in the entire
civilization,
for that matter. And here he was, trying
to pretend that he was answering the call to civic duty. Ready to help the fleet
in any way he could! Just ask!

He was afraid they
would
ask. Afraid they’d ask too much.

And yet… at the same time, a most wonderful thing had just happened.
Commander Adama had been attacked by a Cylon man,
a Cylon who looked just
like a man.
They hadn’t come right out and told him yet, but he just knew
that was it. The truth would be out soon—that piece of it, anyway—and he,
Baltar, didn’t have to sweat bullets trying to figure out how to slip the
information out. No, he could concentrate on implicating his fall guy, through
whom he could reveal the presence of that insidious-looking Cylon device in the
CIC. Now, if they asked him to do what he thought they might…

The commander had a sizable bandage on the side of his face, near his left eye, but he was sitting apparently at ease at the table; maybe
it was because of his son, Captain Apollo, coming back from the dead. Plus, they
were in his cabin, his comfort zone. Tigh, on the other hand, was pacing—and the
pacing was making Baltar even more nervous. He snatched a look up and over his
shoulder as Tigh paced back into sight, waving one of his ubiquitous paper
printouts. “Ship’s doctor says, at first glance, everything in Leoben’s body
looked human”—Tigh finally slid into a seat
(thank the gods!)
and shoved
the paper over to Baltar—“internal organs, lymphatic system, the works.”

Which Baltar already knew. While the autopsy had been underway, he had been
given samples of hair and skin and one hour to test them in the ship’s limited
laboratory. Spectrographic analysis of the samples, both before and during
controlled incineration, had revealed nothing of interest. At least nothing that
he
could identify. Then again, chemical analysis was far from his
specialty. He was going to have to fake it if he wanted to be able to “prove”
that Doral was a Cylon.

Baltar suddenly realized that there had been a pause, and they were both
looking at him. He marshaled his thoughts and his scientific jargon. Had anyone
actually
said
to him that Leoben, the man Adama had killed, was a Cylon?
No.
“Right.
Well, uh, the tissue sample yielded unique chemical compounds
during cremation that revealed the nature of the sample to be synthetic.” He
paused, and feigned thoughtful surprise.
“So he was a Cylon!”

“Yes, he was,” Adama said, in a gravelly voice. He paused, then added, “And
now we have a problem.”

“Big one,” Tigh said.

“If the Cylons look like us,” Adama continued, “then any one of us could be a
Cylon.”

Baltar held his look of shock. “That… that’s a very frightening
possibility.”

Adama didn’t argue. “We need a way to screen human from Cylon. And that’s
where you come in.”

“Me?”
Careful, not too eager now.

Tigh came in with a growled, “Rumor has it, you’re a genius.”

“Well, I, uh…” He bobbed his head awkwardly, practically shedding humility
like cat hair. “I’ll certainly give it my all… Commander.”

“Keep this to yourself for now,” Tigh warned. “We don’t want to start a
panic, or have people begin accusing their neighbors of being Cylons because
they don’t brush their teeth in the morning.”

Baltar nodded. “I’ll be very discreet.”

Yes, I will.

As Baltar and Tigh were leaving his quarters, Commander Adama suddenly called
Tigh back. “Colonel.”

Tigh hesitated and returned to the table. “Sir.”

Adama scratched his forehead next to the wound, carefully. “Colonel, the
president is still aboard, is that correct?”

Tigh snorted. “The schoolteacher? Yes, she is. Shall I have her—”

“No.
No.” Adama turned away from his old friend for a moment, and gazed
across the room to a small display case where he kept some of his medals, dating
back to the first Cylon war. A long time ago. But the fight to defend the
Colonies, and their rule of law, had never ended. With his back still turned to
his friend, he said, “Saul, whether we like it or not, Laura Roslin is the duly
sworn-in President of the Colonies. She was the forty-third in line of
succession, and she stayed to do her duty.” Adama turned to face his XO. “She stepped up to the job, Colonel. And as long as she’s
legally in office, it’s our duty to treat her as President. Is that understood?”

Tigh’s face was strained as he held his emotions in check. “Yes, sir.”

“That’ll be all. Let me know when the magazines are ready.”

“Sir,” Tigh said, and turned smartly and left.

Adama watched him until the door was closed, then sat down, grimacing. His
forehead and ribs hurt like hell. And so did his head. He wished he felt as
certain as he had just sounded to his XO.