Red In Tooth And Claw
Chapter 9: Games Of State

The Chief looked at the woman for a moment, unsure how to react. For as far back as he could remember, the rest of humanity had been split into three groups: his fellow Spartans, UNSC personnel (Dr Halsey fell into this group, even if she was technically a civilian), and the general population. It was no big surprise that it was among his fellow Spartans that he felt most at ease. Having grown up together, they could read each others mood and body language, could sense what their team mates were going to do and react accordingly. It was that sence of oneness that made them so deadly on the battlefield.

Other UNSC personnel were treated with respect due rank and merit; no Spartan would ever disobey an order from a superior officer, assuming that it was legal and did not countermand any standing orders. He had also found that regular humans were capable of bravery and valour equal to any Spartan: Chief Mendez, Master Sargent Johnson, Captain Jacob and Commander Miranda Keyes, Lord Hood and Staff Sargent Mobuto, who he had never met, but had proven his worth attempting to recover the Activation Index for the first Halo.

Civilians on the other hand, were a near total mystery to him. True, he'd met some high ranking government officials when the UNSC had wanted to prove that they were worth all the tax money that had been spent on them, and he'd helped more than one group of refuges escape a Convenient besieged planet, but beyond that he'd had no real contact with the outside world since becoming a Spartan. Not knowing what to do, he fell back on the one piece of advice Mendez had given them on the off chance that they were ever cornered by the press; say nothing.

"Do I take that as a yes?" Biers asked, holding up her camera, the light on the front illuminating the silent Spartans face, "There are rumours going round that you claim to be from Earth, that you're a member of the Thirteenth Tribe?"

The Chief had never been taught to play cards, but he had a natural poker face with no tell.

"I'm sure you can understand our interest." The reporter continued, "We'd all very much like to know if and when you'll be taking us to Earth. Can you tell us roughly how long such a journey would take?"

Without warning, and with the speed and precision of a striking cobra, the Chief's fist shot out and grabbed the camera out of the startled woman's hand, his body moving so fast that it seemed to blur. He examined the camera for a moment, then crushed it in one massive fist, the cheep plastic casing shattering into a thousand shards. Suddenly frightened, Biers backed away towards the hatch, only for it to open up behind her to admit Shaw and a pair of Marines.

"What are young doing here?" The Major asked, glaring at the reporter with such intensity that they should have left her a smoking stain on the deck, "Out! Now!"

Not needing to be told twice, Biers took off with one last glance over her shoulder at the once again motionless Spartan, who watched her leave with hard, blue eyes.

"Still making friends, I see." Shaw gestured towards the crushed remains of the camera, "Come with me: the President wants to meet you."


Roslin had always felt ill at ease in the Galactica's small conference room. True, it was larger and better equipped than its counterpart on Colonial One, but the bare metal walls of riveted metal were a constant reminder that the Galactica was a Battlestar first and foremost. She looked around the room to see how the other occupants were taking their surroundings. Admiral Adama sat at ease behind his seat, master of all he surveyed. It had become clear early on in their working relationship that when they were on the Galactica, his word was law, to be treated as if it was a commandment from Zeus himself.

To Adama's immediate left sat his son, who looked every bit a younger version of his father, somehow managing to make even a duty uniform look dashing. It took a schoolteachers eyes to spot just how uncomfortable he actually was with his recent and sudden promotion, how heavily his rank insignia weighed on his shoulders. She remembered the time they had first met, and she had jokingly addressed him as 'Captain Apollo', not realising how apt the name was given his father's solid, Zeus like, resolve. But now the son was on the way to surprising the father; if his skills as a pilot weren't so vital to the survival of the fleet, she would have attempted to draw him into the murky world of politics. But she was sure that like any true solider, he liked being able to look his enemy in the face as they did battle.

Baltar stood in the far corner, attempting to hide the fact that he was talking to himself yet again by smoking a cigarette. Roslin regretted, not for the first time, making the undeniably gifted scientist her Vice-President, even if it had blocked Tom Zarek's power play. While Baltar had his uses, utmost amongst which was a total lack of interest in politics, his constant womanising and questionable mental state were drawing unwelcome attention among some of the more critical members of the press. Still, he had served his purpose, and come the next election, she would find a more reliable running mate, like maybe a bilge rat?

Her eyes finally fell on the suit of armour that lay one the table in the middle of the room, its chipped green surface reflecting the harsh lighting. Baltar had gone over it piece by piece, and couldn't find anything that could be positively identified as being Cylon technology. That said, he hadn't found anything that looked like it had been produced by any of the Colonies, either, and seemed to contain more computing power than the Galactica. That alone was cause for concern: if the Cylons were able to get hold of the technological advances it represented, then it could spell the final nail in the coffin for the Colonial way of life.

There was a knock on the hatch, and the Marine standing guard opened it to admit Shaw, followed closely by the Master Chief, how managed to look both totally human and somehow alien at the same time. His eyes scanned the room, noticing exits, weapons and working who would be a problem in a fight. In a matter of seconds he was able to formulate six ways of getting out of the room should things turn bad, two of them involved recovering his armour in the process, assuming that it hadn't been tampered with or otherwise booby-trapped.

"Master Chief, I'd like to introduce Laura Roslin, President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, my son, Commander Lee Adama of the Battlestar Pegasus." The Admiral introduced everyone, "I believe you've already met Dr Baltar, our Vice President."

"Madam President, Commander." The Spartan nodded politely, standing at ease with his hands behind his back, "Doctor."

"Well, it's nice to finally meet you, Master Chief." Roslin examined him over the top of her glasses, "And with all due respect to your rank, 'Master Chief Petty Officer 117' is a bit of a mouthful. I take it you have a name."

"Yes." The Chief nodded, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his back ramrod straight.

Roslin waited for a couple of minutes that seemed to drag on forever, then carefully removed her glasses and set them down on the notepad before her, "Care to tell us what it is?"

"With all due respect, ma'am, no." The Chief remained perfectly still, "You do not have the necessary clearance; the true names and identities of any and all members of the Spartan Corp. is considered Top Secret/Eyes Only."

"So you're not going to tell us?" Apollo asked.

"Are you a senior officer within the United Nations Space Command?" The Spartan countered.

"No." The former fighter pilot admitted.

"Then you have your answer." The Chief's tone of voice remained calm and level, "I have agreed to answer some of your questions out of necessity, but there are limits. Do not attempt to cross them."

"Do you know where Earth is?" Baltar looked up, taking an active interest in the proceedings for the first time, "In relation to our current location, that is."

"Not without access to a star chart, no." The Chief shook his head, "And even if I did, giving you such information would countermand several standing orders."

"Are you a Cylon, or part of a Cylon plot?" Roslin asked, taking her glasses off and careful placing them on the table before her, "I only ask because a straight answer would save us all so much time."

"No." The Spartan cocked his head slightly to one side, "Are you part of an insurrectionist plot against the UN and her government?"

"No, but I admit that I have about as much evidence of that as you do that you're not a Cylon." Roslin admitted, "Less, in fact, given that our people have run every test they can on you and while they find your unique physiology, interesting, you do not appear to be a Cylon. Or should I say, unlike any Cylon we've yet encountered."

"What the President is trying to say is that we don't know what to do with you." Adama leaned forward, "Your very presence on this ship presents me with a number of security problems, but not a many as setting you among the civilian population would. At least here, I can keep an eye on you. Having discussed this with the President and my Son, we have come to the conclusion that we will have to place you under quarantine until such time that we can conform, one way or another, just what you are. Fortunately we have an area within the starboard flight-pod that can be sealed off from the rest of the ship. It's not much; a few machine shops and a disused wardroom, but it will let us keep you away from the rest of the crew and any such civilians as may be on board the Galactica. You will not leave this area without permission from either myself or Colonel Tigh, and at no time may you carry a loaded side-arm. We will allow you to install any support equipment you need from your ship and the supply pods you gave us, and I will assign an officer to act as your liaison. But I ask you, for your own safety as much as anything else, maintain a low profile; there are those in this fleet who are likely to take a dim few of a 'cyborg' such as yourself."

To Be Continued...