The Last Rites

A Racetrack Chronicles lacuna

Simon J. Dodd

The battlestar Galactica.

Before the battle of the Colony.

"Admiral, I realize you're busy, but if I might walk with you for a moment?"

"Lieutenant Lowell. What's on your mind?"

"Honor, Sir."

"'Honor.' That's going around."

Nightlight nodded. "There's an old saying about the focusing effect of a hanging in the morning. This mission's likely to be one-way, you said it yourself. Which is—that's what I wanted to ask you. Everyone knows that, and they volunteered anyway."

Adama eyed him without breaking stride. "Time is short; is there a point coming?"

"Racetrack and Skulls. They volunteered for the recon. Now they've volunteered for this mission. I'd like to think she—that they will come back. But if they don't, they should die with their ranks."

"You're asking me to reinstate them."

They had reached Adama's cabin and Nightlight followed him through the hatch without waiting for permission. "I am asking that you recognize the reality that you have in fact reinstated them, and to not withhold from them what goes with that."

Adama leaned toward him, fists balled on his desk, voice taut. "Whether they die with or without a piece of metal on their collar… You think that makes any difference?"

"I think that you, Sir, of all people, understand exactly what difference it makes. You have asked that she do a job. She volunteered. She deserves her commission."

For just an instant, the legendary-Adama-mask-of-blankness cracked. "You really want to talk to me about what they deserve?"

"Yes." Nightlight held his ground. "She made a mistake. We have all made mistakes, Sir. Choices that brought us to this moment. I believe," his voice rose, "that she tried to talk to you about that." Rose further: "And perhaps if you—"

"That's enough." Adama slumped into his chair and turned away. "We can't change what's done."

Nightlight opened his mouth and closed it again. Not for the first time since the mutiny, he wondered whether he might be having some kind of psychotic break. One more try. You've pushed this far. "True. But for just a few more hours, we have unmade choices before us. With all respect, Sir, you can and shouldchoose wisely and honorably."

Adama glanced in Nightlight's direction with another flash of anger before the mask slammed back down. He fidgeted with his wedding-ring, then sighed heavily. "You love her."

"Yes."

"She love you back?"

"No." Without hesitation.

That seemed to catch Adama off-guard. He made eye-contact for the first time since sitting down before returning his gaze to the middle-distance. "I'm sorry." Long moments ticked by. He retrieved two pairs of Lieutenant's rank-devices from a drawer, and, weighing them in his hand, picked up the phone. "Reinstate Lieutenants Edmondson and McCall. Thank you." He stood and offered the pins to Nightlight. "You understand they're not coming back from this?"

"None of us are."

"So why?"

"Because I love her."

"Is that enough?"

"Yes."

"That's honorable, son. It's not smart, but it's honorable."

"Thankyou, Sir." Nightlight stiffened to attention, only the faintest trace of acid in his voice. He bit his tongue; he had pushed his luck far enough and Adama could still change his mind. If you have been to this crew a model of anything, Admiral, Sir, he didn't add, it is that.

Catch up with Racetrack, Gareth, and more in "The Racetrack Chronicle," available as a free eBook on March 18; visit www. TheRacetrackChronicle .com for more information.