The admiral of the fleet, of what remains of the human race, sits on the edge of his bed in his skivvies. He can't sleep. He has always been able to sleep. He had learned how years ago because you couldn't let worry about your people or your decisions keep you awake. A soldier has to be able to sleep through anything whenever he gets the chance.

He stands and pads over to the bar in the soft amber of the night light and pours two fingers from the bottle, only two, and returns to the bed. He won't start again. He used to do this long ago in order to relax at night, before getting back in the service. He drank too much then. He won't use it now, he can't, to bar the images that keep crowding his mind, the images of his son, of what they may be doing, have done, to him.

His thoughts return to the good days, seeing Lee as a boy running with Zak on the beach, playing ball or lost in a book on the sofa, or smiling that day he brought home the telescope. Hears the boy laugh. Never cried past the age of six. Not that he ever saw. Of course, he wasn't there that often.

The admiral takes a drink.

He had actually been relieved when Lee decided to quit the military. No more secret, pounding heart every time he shot out of a launch tube. No more questioning his own motives when passing out assignments. He should have been safe, as safe as anyone in the fleet could be.

When your guard is down. That's when it always happens, when you least expect it. Just like New Caprica.

They're hurting him. My son. His lip quakes. Tears fill his eyes and he lowers his head, clutches the thick glass nearly hard enough to break.

The one who waits had been full of contempt.

It wasn't the right time, you fool, and see what it got you. You let anger get the best of you. The Cylon is right, your ego got the best of you because of her, Kara Thrace. Got, got, got, that's you. If you want to survive this at all intact, you had better start using your brains instead of your godsdamn male ego. Besides, you might learn something along the way. Something besides what she wants you to, I hope. You are learning, aren't you . . . fool?

He hadn't found a seam in the alloy collar, not with the edge of his hand, anyway. Perhaps with his fingertips, if he had the use of them. Ma'am's cuff is malleable and open-ended; he had felt it pull. It isn't much information, but something. Such little gains are everything. They are all he has. Like following the wall to its end this time, perhaps to see what is beyond.

He has been out of bed a few times before, getting a little exercise by scooting his feet across the warm floor, shuffling along with one hand against the wall. It had felt strange the first time; he had jerked his hand back. It is not as hard as a normal wall, yet not exactly soft, more like . . . . He had touched a recently caught shark once when he was a boy, only the shark had been cold. The wall is warm. A barely perceptible tingling had run up his arm. It still did, but he had gotten used to it. It isn't altogether unpleasant.

It has always been dark at this end of the room, but grows lighter as he approaches. There must be a sensor in the wall or ceiling, perhaps even the floor. The doorway is large, three times larger than a hatchway, and it opens onto a corridor of glimmering, flowing red lights.

Back against the far wall stands a centurion, its metallic form all scarlet reflections and malevolent stillness. Lee freezes - the thing does not move; its eye slit remains closed. He has never had a chance to really look at, inspect, a live one before. It almost feels . . . voyeuristic. He keeps looking while his heart slows to normal. Moves his hand forward along the wall right to the opening. He's going to move into the doorway. Slowly, as big as you please, he's going to do it. He does, steps right in front of it, one arm stretched out against the wall.

The slit opens and the red gleam inside goes back and forth, back and forth. The right arm raises six inches.

It may kill me, Lee thinks, looking up. They are less than six feet apart, and it is nearly twice his size. He looks into the eye and wonders where so much of his fear has gone. My enemy. Did they program you with hate? Or just to kill. Or worse, you have the memories of all those who died before you. If so, how do you keep from tearing me apart?

He is on the brink, lifts a foot and knows death is a step forward, a mere instant away. Stares into that eye and has never been more alive. He smiles. Who would have thought.

"Not this time, my friend." Steps back, turns, used his other hand on the wall and shuffles off the way he came.

It's important to develop a sense of humor in your situation, as long as you're circumspect in how you use it. A little sarcasm can't be helped.

"What if it had killed him?"

"It didn't."

"Someone should have been monitoring the room."

"Of course they should. But there are so few of us now, and we all are concerned with this truce with the humans."

"We are. I realize all of us will be mortal when this is done."

"I only hope it is worth it."

"So do we all."

They have been given a room and have privacy for the first time since coming aboard.

Kara steps into Sam's space, fists on hips, and glares up at him.

"How did you do it? What did you say to her?"

"Aren't you the least glad I'm here?" He doesn't say it as though he is glad.

"Don't change the subject, Sam."

"I told her husbands and wives had to stay together at a time like this."

"Oh, right."

"We're having a baby."

"What!"

"You being the Chosen One, she'd want you content."

"Content!"

"Kara--"

"You frakkin' son-of-a-bitch!"

He reaches for her, takes her arm. She tries to pull away.

"Kara, Kara! What's wrong with you? What's wrong!" He grabs both arms and gives her a shake. "Why are you so angry? What have I done that's so terrible? Aren't I the one that's stuck with you through all this? Now I risk my neck to back you up on a Cylon basestar, and it pisses you off. What the hell is going on?"

She ceases to struggle, stands there with her arms at her sides looking down at her feet. He has stuck a pin in her and released all the steam.

"I don't know." She raises her head, looks at his face. "You were safer on Galactica."

"You don't think I can take care of myself?"

She leans her forehead on his chest. He's here, after all. She'll allow herself this moment to do it. Anyway, he'll listen to her better afterward. She wouldn't have realized this before, before the . . . thing happened.

He circles her with his arms, and they stand there for a while. It is good, and it is quiet, and she can smell his sweat, his Sam smell, her Sam. She thought she was so unlucky, poor, poor me. But she loves these men. Sam, Lee, Karl, Adama. They love her. Had she died? Is that what it took? Dying?

She pulls back and gazes into his eyes. "You have to promise me, Sam. If something happens, if I don't make it. You have to get Lee out."

"We don't know where he is."

"I'm going to find out. Promise."

"Kara, you're--"

"Give me your word . . . on our marriage vows."

"All right, on our marriage vows."

She puts a hand on his chest. "Thank you, Sammy."

Sharon Agathon is packing up all those little things her daughter might need during the hours they will be away, plus a little extra, just in case it turns out to be more than the usual, considering what is planned.

"I don't trust them, especially not that blonde Six who acted like the leader."

"None of us do, Sharon, but we don't have much choice. Not for a chance like this." Helo is peering in the small mirror and buttoning up his jacket. He calls her Sharon, but she calls him by his call sign. It's a habit they have never broken.

"And for Lee," she says, shoving a stuffed puppy into the bag and angrily turning toward him.

"Hey." He faces her, takes one step and places his hands on either side of her face. "Adama would never risk the fleet only for his son. You know that."

"I would for Hera."

He smiles. "That's different."

He bends toward her--

"Meeee?" Hera peers from beneath the table, a rag doll in one hand.

"You too," he says, and lifts her up with a tickled smile. He bends again, taking his wife in his free arm and kissing her, holding her a little longer than most mornings. "I'll see you later, when it's over."

"Yes, you will," she says with resolution, and lets his hand slide from hers as he leaves through the hatch.

She is already in her flight suit, the top turned down. "Let's go, baby girl." She grabs the bag and her daughter, closes the hatch and heads off down the corridor. A stop at day care, then the lockers for her helmet and other equipment. She will no longer be Sharon then, but Athena. No longer a mother but a pilot, ready for war.

They are almost there when she spies him moving through a cross corridor with three of his women, and he spies her. A brief second and Baltar looks down at her daughter. What is he doing up here, anyway? Preaching where he doesn't belong? Sharon pulls her daughter and looks down to see Hera practicing her new wave - hand held high, a folding and opening of the fingers. Baltar is smiling and waving back.

He wakes when she sits on the bed. At least it doesn't take so much to wake him any longer. She has already strapped one arm down and is reaching across him for the other when he lifts a hand to stop her. She grabs his wrist. He cannot begin to budge her arm.

She calmly turns her head toward him. "You have made a mistake."

He breathes. "Yes ma'am," and lets go. She completes what she started and throws the sheet aside, exposing his legs.

"You are sorry," she says, as she straps down his right ankle.

"Yes ma'am."

"Say it."

"I'm sorry."

She straps the left ankle down.

She pulls the sheet up to his waist and sits closer, brushes her hand across his forehead. "I have done this for your protection. The ship may not be entirely stable for a while, and it's possible you could be tossed about to injury. Neither do I want you out of bed." She leaves her hand at his cheek, searches his face, then stands, turns and leaves.

They're going into battle, he thinks, and his heart begins to pound. Galactica will be nearby, relatively speaking. His arms tense, he pulls at the restraints, hands clawing. Closes his eyes, opens his mouth, heaves a breath. Thought he had given up, but this. Do they know he's here? Have any idea he's alive? It doesn't matter. His father can't risk the fleet. The Cylons are attacking, and the fleet has to run, has to jump as quickly as possible. He's dead anyway, as far as they're concerned. He may as well be. If he was free and found a way he would blow this ship up. Only he's not free. There is only one route to freedom from here, when he is ready to take it. It's only a matter of waiting until it will do some good.