Chapter 7 – Seeds of dissent

Number Six stood in the Hybrid Chamber, staring pensively at the strange creature that lay in the tank in front of her – not human, not Cylon, not machine, but something else. Streams of red numbers played across the walls as the hybrid whispered its strange nonsensical phrases, eyes staring blankly at the chamber ceiling above.

"Repressurise intermix chamber six… the stars of heaven flow across the black waters of perfection… power fluctuation in tier three… execute command override sequence seven… integrate… the whole is greater than the sum of its parts… readjust course to match… the last to fall is the first to rise…"

"Never understood why you enjoy spending so much time here," Number One said, strolling casually into the room. He looked down at the hybrid with mild curiosity. "It's complete jibberish."

"It helps me think – the randomness of it," the beautiful blonde woman replied. "I find it relaxing."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. You Sixes always were too sentimental."

"Have the humans come out yet?" she asked, changing the subject. The Ones always seemed to delight in pointing out the other model's perceived flaws.

"It's only a matter of time."

"What do you think they'll do? Run or fight?"

He smiled. "Does it matter? They're dead either way. The only question is how they check out."

"I wouldn't be so sure. They gave us a little surprise back at the shipyard. One Baseship destroyed and another badly damaged – that's impressive for… what did you call it? An obsolete piece of scrap?"

For a moment, his expression darkened. "The virus was ineffective against their computers. But it doesn't matter. They're alive, for now, only because I let them live."

Her delicate blonde brows drew together in a frown. "Why?"

His smile returned, malicious and calculating. "Think of this as a learning experience. One of us is with them. We'll know everything we need to know soon enough."

*****

Lieutenant Piran was seething as he stalked down the quiet hallway, endlessly replaying his brief confrontation with O'Neil earlier. The man's remarks still smarted, especially because, on some level, he knew the man was right.

It was his fault that his ship had been so woefully underprepared for action when the Cylons attacked. But there had been so much to do, and his 'crew' had been so reluctant to jump to action, he'd allowed things to slide. Anyway, the ship was a heap of junk anyway – who cared if her engines didn't work?

He'd never wanted to join the Fleet in the first place, but his uncle was an influential Commander, and had pushed his father into making him join. Intelligent but lacking motivation, he'd struggled through the military academy, eventually graduating in the bottom ten percent of his class. His assessment reports were always the same – has potential, but no motivation to get things done.

The rest of his career had been largely reflective of his attitude. He'd been posted on a series of minor support ships, where he'd failed to distinguish himself. Eventually, more from experience than merit, he had drifted up to the rank of Lieutenant. There, he'd resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to rise any higher – to do so would have put him in a position of real responsibility, and he'd already proven he wasn't suited for that.

Well, he wasn't going to put up with it any longer. This was his chance – maybe his last chance – to make things right. O'Neil was a fool; a reckless, irresponsible fool, and he was going to get them all killed. He had to be stopped.

He hauled open the door to one of the unoccupied officer's quarters that he'd taken over for himself. Waiting for him was a giant of a man by the name of Tarver. Piran had known him for a year or so now. Hailing from Aerilon originally, he'd left his home planet and joined the Fleet, seeking adventure. He wasn't particularly intelligent, but he did have a kind of low cunning that Piran found useful. He was also as strong as an ox, and willing to use that strength whenever it was needed.

"How did it go?" Tarver asked.

Piran shook his head. "O'Neil won't listen to reason. He's on some kind of power trip."

The big man grunted. "What do you want to do?"

Piran closed the hatch behind him and locked it. "We may have to take action, Sergeant – action that could result in bloodshed. We're doing it for the right reasons, but it'll be dangerous. I need to know now… are you in or out?"

Tarver rose to his full six-foot-six-inch height. "I'm in."

The older man smiled. "Good. Now we need someone with access to the small arms locker."

*****

O'Neil's eyes blinked open, closed again as the harsh electric light blinded him, then slowly opened again. He sat up with difficulty and looked around. He must have fallen asleep on the big leather seats in his quarters. He looked at his watch, realising he'd been asleep for about four hours. Not much to get by on, but it would have to do for now.

He stood up and shuffled through to the wash room, poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down, then looked at his reflection in the mirror. He wasn't looking good. His eyes were shadowed with fatigue, and his jaw was unshaven. His dark brown hair was messed up from sleep, and crusted with dried blood from the head wound. All in all, he looked very un-officer-like.

Using the tap, he wet his hands and ran them through his hair a couple of times, then brushed his teeth, trying to ignore the headache that still dogged him. He wasn't sure if it was a result of the concussion or the drink, but what did it matter? A headache was still a headache.

With his appearance now in some kind of order, he pulled on a clean tunic and stepped out into the corridor for the short, familiar walk to the CIC.

The ship's nerve centre was quiet when he appeared, with most of the stations empty and almost no conversation. Munro wasn't there – O'Neil guessed he'd surrendered at last to fatigue and gone to get some much needed rack time. Samantha wasn't there either, nor was Greene. The DRADIS screens flickered and crackled, showing nothing through the dense clouds that surrounded the ship.

"Who's the officer of the watch?" he asked, wondering if there even was one. Surely Munro wouldn't have just vanished without leaving someone in charge?

"I guess that would be me, sir," Starke said, her voice was heavy as if she'd just awoken. She was sitting at the helm, though she was careful not to touch any of the controls. The ship was on autopilot, slowly orbiting the planet in its upper cloud layers.

"Anything to report?" he asked.

The woman shook her head. "It's been quiet, which makes a nice change." She stretched, arching her back. He could hear the vertebrae cracking as they reordered themselves.

"Have you even slept since this whole thing began?"

She smiled sheepishly. "I think I dozed off for a while earlier. Sorry, sir."

"I think we'll overlook the court martial on this occasion." Spotting an urn of coffee near one of the stations, he walked over and poured a cup. "You want one?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Don't thank me 'til you've tried it." He crossed the room and handed it to her. Her hand was warm and soft when she touched his for a brief moment. She smiled and took a drink, then sighed and ran a hand through her blonde hair.

"You know what I keep thinking about?" she said after a moment.

"What's that?" O'Neil asked as he poured himself a drink.

"The last day I spent on Caprica before I shipped out here. All the little details – what I ate for breakfast, the weather, the people I saw when I was walking down the street. You know what I did that day? I went to the movies."

"What did you see?"

"Another Day Lost."

"Any good?" he asked, because it was automatic when someone told you they'd seen a film.

"Nope." She laughed then, the sound strangely out of place in this place of war. "Can you believe that? The last frakking movie I'll ever see, and it sucked." Her smile faded as she looked at him again. "We're not getting out of this one, are we?"

He avoided her gaze as he took a drink. "We're not finished yet."

"But what can we do? Where can we go? The Colonies are gone."

O'Neil sighed. "You know, I didn't learn much as a fighter, but I do know this: It's not over until the final bell rings. And I'm not hearing it yet."

The woman leaned back in her chair, undoing the collar of her uniform. "Mind if I ask you a personal question?"

He shrugged. "Shoot."

"How did you end up out here, doing duty like this?"

"You don't think this is a noble posting for an up-and-coming officer?" he asked with a wry smile.

"Come on. I saw how you handled yourself in the battle at the fleet yards. Everyone else was falling to pieces, but you knew what you were doing. How did an officer like you end up way the hell out here?"

"That's a long and tedious story," he warned her.

She smiled. "I'm not going anywhere."

He sighed. "All right. But it doesn't have a happy ending."

BATTLESTAR ATLANTIA

SIX MONTHS EARLIER

Major Rick "Knockout" O'Neil finished lacing up his boots and rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders a couple of times to get comfortable in the bulky flight suit. The Pilots Ready Room was a busy place on any Battlestar, and Atlantia was no exception. Viper and Raptor pilots hustled back and forth, either changing into or out of their flight suits, and swapping banter about their recent missions.

He turned and looked at the young pilot who would be accompanying him on this flight. He looked both nervous and excited, a typical reaction for a rookie about to fly solo. But this was not typical rookie. This was Zak Adama – the son of the legendary William Adama. He was practically a VIP.

"You ready for this, Lieutenant?" he asked. This was his first flight aboard the new ship, so the young pilot hadn't earned a call sign yet. But it wouldn't take long.

Adama swallowed and nodded. "Born ready, sir," he said, trying to flash a confident grin.

He was scared, O'Neil knew. "You'll be fine. This is a standard flight plan. You've done it a hundred times in flight school. Now let's get it over with."

The walk down to the hangar bay took about five minutes. Atlantia was a big ship, but an efficient one. The decks were clean and tidy, equipment all squared away, crewmen in spotless uniforms hurrying to their duty stations.

The hangar deck was equally impressive. Rows of Mark VII Vipers were parked along one edge of the hangar, some partially stripped down for maintenance.

He was just heading for his own Viper when a woman's voice shouted over the din of heavy machinery. "Rick!"

O'Neil turned to see a young woman striding towards him, her short blonde hair bouncing up and down as she moved.

He grinned. "I'll be damned. Starbuck."

His grin was matched by her own. "Good to see you again, Rick."

"Talk about a bad penny," he said, shaking her hand. "What are you up to these days?"

"I'm an instructor at Flight School, breaking in the rookies."

O'Neil shook his head in mock dismay. "And I thought you were serious about flying. Never saw you as a school teacher."

He'd known her since her days as a snot-nosed rookie pilot. She was a hell of an instinctive flyer, but her discipline record made for interesting reading. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, he'd always liked the fiery and passionate young woman. She was like a weapon – you had to know how to handle her or you were likely to get hurt.

"Only the good pilots get to pass on their skills. That's why you've never been asked to do it," she taunted. "By the way, when are you going to get your ass back in the ring? You promised me a rematch."

He grinned. Every once in a while, the ship hosted a rank-free boxing tournament. Everyone and anyone was free to take part, and perhaps inevitably given his history, he'd been roped in. He wasn't the fighter he'd been ten years earlier, but he'd easily ploughed his way through the eager young rookies that were thrown into the ring with him. Then he'd been matched up against Kara Thrace.

At first he'd taken it easy on her, not wanting to knock out a woman even if it was a competitive event. But she'd persisted, taking everything he'd dished out and responding with increasingly vicious counter-attacks. The woman simply lived for fighting, either in a cockpit, in the ring or anywhere else she could find it. By the end, they'd both been exhausted, sweating and hurting more than they cared to admit. The referee had wisely ruled the fight a draw, and ever since then, they'd been good friends.

"Now you're dreaming," he said. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you in front of everyone."

"Beating up an old man would be kind of embarrassing," she admitted. "But I'd get over it."

"Less of the 'old man' or I really will kick your ass," he said, pretending to be angry. "Anyway, what the hell are you doing here?"

At that moment, Zak appeared. Starbuck spotted him right away, hurried forward and hugged him. O'Neil watched them. It didn't take a genius to work out what the deal was with them. He supposed in a way he was happy she'd found someone, but he was surprised it was such a young guy.

"Ah, so you had the bad luck of ending up with Starbuck, huh?" he said, giving Zak a look of sincere pity. "You don't know what you're letting yourself in for."

Zak grinned. "I think I can handle her, sir."

Starbuck laughed and punched him playfully in the arm. "We'll see. Anyway, I just came to see you off on your first CAP." With exaggerated seriousness, she straightened up and saluted. "Good hunting, Lieutenant."

Zak returned the salute. "Thank you, sir."

"Why don't you go check out your Viper," O'Neil suggested. "Get started on the preflight checks."

"Yes, sir."

As he walked away, Starbuck turned to O'Neil, her expression more serious now. "Listen, Rick... Do me a favour. Watch out for him, okay? He's still green."

"Okay, I guess I can forget the inverted Shooting Stars, then," he joked. Realising how important it was to her, he became more serious. "All right. I'll go easy on him. Anyway, it's a simple CAP - do a few trips around the block, then we head home."

The woman nodded, looking relieved. "Thanks."

"See you in a couple of hours."

A short time later, O'Neil was strapped into his Viper's cockpit, eyes scanning the computer readouts in front of him. He hit the transmit button for his radio. "Red Leader to Red Two. You ready for this, Zak?"

"Yeah." He sounded uncertain, but determined.

"Okay, let's do this." He switched frequency to Atlantia's CIC. "Red Flight ready for launch."

"Copy that, Red Flight. Standby. Launch in five, four, three, two, one, launch!"

O'Neil was hurled back into his seat as the magnetic accelerators hurled his Viper out of the launch tube and into the vacuum of space. Two seconds later, Atlantia was behind him and he was free to navigate.

For a moment, he stared in awe at the great blue and white expanse of Caprica stretching out beneath him. To his left lay the imposing bulk of the massive orbiting space docks, where several Battlestars and support craft were docked. And above it all was the endless dark of space, thousands of tiny stars glimmering against the blackness. It was an awesome sight, and one that never failed to move him.

"Red Two, form up on my starboard side," he said, getting back to business. He wasn't getting paid to go sightseeing.

"Roger that."

O'Neil watched as Adama's Viper moved in to flank him. Too fast. He was going to collide.

"Red Two, break right!" Instinctively O'Neil jerked the stick, moving him off to port as Zak performed a similar evasive action to starboard, overcompensating with lateral thrust so that he swung out in a wide arc.

Gods damn it, this kid's all over the place, O'Neil thought. Where did he learn to fly?

"Red Two, you okay?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Zak replied, sounding shaken. O'Neil couldn't blame him - he'd almost destroyed a hundred million credit spacecraft.

"That's okay. Take a minute, get yourself sorted out. Get a feel for the controls. The Viper will almost fly itself, so let it." As he was saying this, he kept thinking that he shouldn't be having to walk Zak through such basics. Hadn't he learned anything in flight school? "You feel better now?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Why don't you try forming up on my starboard side again?"

Once more, O'Neil watched as Zak's Viper came in, much slower and more cautious this time. When he was eventually settled into place, O'Neil spoke up again.

"Okay, let's turn to zero-nine-zero to start our patrol."

As they turned to port, Zak began to drift off right before correcting and closing in again. O'Neil shook his head, seriously tempted to scrub the mission and return to the Atlantia. Either Zak was having a real off day, or he was genuinely too incompetent to fly a Viper. Either way, it was dangerous for him to be at the controls.

But to be hauled back to base on his first mission would be a terrible insult, and a blow to his confidence that he might never recover from. And in a more selfish vein, it wouldn't look good on O'Neil's record either, especially not when he was widely tipped to be Atlantia's next CAG.

No, they would press on. He'd never met a rookie he couldn't break in, and he didn't intend to start today.

The remainder of the patrol passed fairly uneventfully. To O'Neil's relief, Zak actually did start to improve over the next hour as he loosened up at the controls. His turns became sharper and more controlled, and he wasted less fuel getting into position.

O'Neil was just getting ready to take them back to Atlantia when his radio crackled into life. "Red Flight, this is Atlantia Actual. We have an unidentified vessel approaching the fleet. Bearing, one-five-six. Move to intercept."

"Copy that, Atlantia. We're bingo on fuel. Isn't there another patrol on the ready line?"

"Negative, Red Flight. It'll be a couple of minutes before they can launch. It's your call."

O'Neil chewed his lip. They had enough fuel to complete the mission, but he wasn't confident in his wingman's abilities if they ran into trouble. But then, he couldn't see much of an alternative. Anyway, the only way to learn was to get stuck in.

"Roger that, Atlantia. Moving now," he said, then changed frequencies to talk to Zak. "Red Two, we've got an unidentified ship moving in. We're going to go check it out. Follow my lead."

O'Neil changed course and kicked in a hard burn to get them moving. Sure enough, he could see a new DRADIS contact. There was no Colonial transponder displayed.

"Red Two, go weapons hot," he ordered, flicking the Master Arm switch on his own weapons. He didn't know what they were getting into, but he didn't intend to get caught off guard.

As they closed in, the distant speck of the unidentified spacecraft resolved itself into the squat, undignified shape of a cargo freighter – the kind of bottom-of-the-line vessel to be found in any spaceport in the Colonies. As they closed in, O'Neil fired up his radio.

"Attention unidentified vessel, this is the Colonial Vipers approaching from your port bow. You are not displaying Colonial identification. Please state your registry number and intentions."

A few moments later, the crackly reply came through. "Colonial Vipers, this is Virgon Heavy Two-Three-Seven, registry One-Nine-Five-Three-Nine. We hit sunspots on the Tauron-Caprica run and it's crippled most of our electronics. Transponder is offline. Requesting permission to dock immediately."

O'Neil keyed the registry number into his computer. A moment later, the code was verified. "Roger that, Virgon Heavy. We'll escort you in."

"Much appreciated."

"Okay, Red Two. Form up on their starboard quarter," O'Neil ordered. "I'll take port."

He watched as Zak's Viper sped past, heading for the cargo ship. Moving in fast – too fast.

"Red Two, watch your angle of approach," he said. "You're coming in a little hot."

Still the fighter closed in, engines at full burn.

"Red Two, pull up!"

At the last moment, the lateral thrusters kicked in and the Viper jinked upward. Too late. The lower edge of the fighter clipped the cargo ship's solid structure, resulting in a brief flash of sparks. The stricken Viper lurched away, yawing left as the damaged engines misfired.

"Red Two, what's your status?"

"I'm in a spin! I… I can't recover!" Zak's panicked voice yelled back.

"Yes you can," O'Neil replied, trying to keep himself calm. "You've trained for this."

Alarms were blaring in the background as the spin intensified. The Viper was approaching its structural limits. "It won't pull out! I'm losing it!"

"Okay, eject!" His eyes were locked on the ship's canopy, praying for it to come flying off. Nothing happened. "You hear me Red Two? Eject! Eject!"

An instant later, Zak's Viper was illuminated by a bright flash as the fuel tanks exploded. Ammunition for the cannons followed a moment later, adding to the blast.

O'Neil closed his eyes, not wanting to watch.

*****

An hour later, O'Neil sat in the pilots locker room, staring silently ahead as his mind's eye endlessly replayed what had happened. He was still wearing his flight suit, not having bothered to change.

"It was my fault," he said at last. "I never should have taken him in with me. He was green."

Starbuck sat on the opposite side of the room. She wasn't crying, but her eyes were wet and red. "He was trained for this. He should have known what to do."

He shook his head. "It was my call." He looked at her. "I'm so sorry."

Starbuck said nothing.

*****

O'Neil straightened up as the verdict was read out. "Major O'Neil, it is the judgement of this court that you displayed negligence and reckless judgement on the day of the accident by allowing Lieutenant Adama to fly when it was apparent he was not competent. We therefore find you guilty of causing death by negligence."

O'Neil raised his chin, keeping his back ramrod straight as the old admiral stared him hard in the eye.

"However, we must also take into account your service record, which has been impeccable up to this point. Therefore, it is with some regret that this court hereby passes sentence. You are to be demoted to the rank of Lieutenant, and your status as a Viper pilot revoked until further notice. This incident will be entered into your service record. Dismissed."

O'Neil felt like he'd been punched in the gut. He saluted the board of three admirals, then turned towards the rest of the court. Starbuck was there, her face tight with carefully repressed emotion. Only her eyes shone with sadness and regret.

Beside her sat Commander William Adama. His old pockmarked face was set and grim, but his icy blue eyes bored into O'Neil without remorse. This was the man responsible for his son's death.

O'Neil looked away, unwilling to face the grieving father.

*****

O'Neil sighed and took another drink of coffee, his story concluded.

Starke was silent for several seconds, mulling over everything she'd heard. "So you were posted out here."

He smiled grimly. "It's the only place that would have me. I'd never find a place on any Battlestar – not with that kind of history. So…" He spread his arms. "Here I am. Isn't life great."

"But if you'd stayed on Atlantia, you'd be dead now," the woman reminded him.

He shrugged, as if it made no difference to him. "Maybe."