Encounter At Dawn
Part 26: The Plainly Spoken Truth

"Well, it works," Hailey looked at the readouts on her tablet PC and frowned, "after a fashion. The problem is, inertial dampeners really need to be added at the designed stage if they're going to work properly. That's why we haven't fitted them to our atmospheric fighters on Earth."

"Still, a fifty-percent reduction in g-forces is better than nothing." Tyrol did his best to clean is hands on an already oil-soaked rag, but succeeded only in spreading the smears of lubricant about, "Given enough time, I'm sure that I can rig something better up."

"Time is the one thing we don't have." Hailey disconnected her computer from the makeshift adapter that let it interoperate the data coming from the Viper's on-board systems. "We have four more days before we have to start transferring fighters and people over to the Pegasus, and it's probably going to take us that long to rig up dampeners on the rest of the strike-wing."

"Then I'd better see just what she can do." Apollo walked towards them, dressed in his flight suit, helmet in one hand, "Lieutenant Hailey, I presume? Major Lee Adama, Colonial Fleet."

"Major." The Air Force officer nodded politely, unsure just how she was supposed to act around Colonial Officers. "Well, we think we've ironed out all the bugs, but keep an eye on the warning lights: the last thing you want is a sudden increase in G-forces without warning."

"Now that looks a little better." O'Neill stood on the Odyssey's command deck and looked out at the rest of the fleet they had managed to put together.

The Pegasus was still flanked on either side by an Asgard science vessel, but he'd seen first hand just how much work had been done in such a short space of time. He'd already scheduled a trip out to the inner of the systems two asteroid belts to conduct a live-fire exercise to test just how effective the upgraded weapons and hastily added shields were in a real world situation. The last thing anyone wanted was to go into battle against the Wraith and find that the ship's systems just weren't up to it.

The Daedalus and the Samantha Carter hung in space just ahead of the Battlestar: the Earth-built ship was a lot smaller than its Colonial counterpart, but the graceful Asgard Battlecruiser dwarfed them all, second only in shearer size to the Cylon Resurrection ship that sat in orbit, surrounded by a number of Basestar's. O'Neill knew that the bulk of their fighter-screen would be made up of Cylon Raiders, and he longed to see the crescent-shaped ships in action. And if what he had been told was true, they might just have the answer to the problem of fitting a working faster-than-light drive to a fighter, something the best and brightest minds on Earth had been working on for almost ten years with no success.

"You're sure?" Weir re-read the report to make sure she hadn't made a mistake the first two times.

"As sure as we can be of anything." McKay nodded, "The Zed-PM Mr Zarek is almost completely unused. I don't think I need to tell you just what that means to us."

"Enough power to run Atlantis for years, if needs be." Weir suppressed a yawn, "Sorry; I've been two days since I last managed to get some sleep."

"You should talk to Carson, when he gets back." The scientist suggested, "We can't have you zoning out on us through lack of sleep."

"What about you?" The expedition leader asked, "How are you feeling?"

"If you're trying to ask about my post-traumatic stress, then I am trying to ignore it by throwing myself into my work, or so Dr Heightmeyer tells me." There was a look of grim humour on McKay's face as he sifted uncomfortably in his seat, "And I have to admit that there is probably a bit of truth in it."

"What happened to you on the Galactica wasn't your fault." Weir did her best to sound reassuring; she'd seen the effects of post-traumatic stress during her time as a diplomat in some of Earth's worst conflicts. The last thing she wanted was to lose someone she was directly responsible for to it.

"I know that, on an intellectual level." McKay admitted, "But it's just, they didn't listen; no matter how many times I tried to tell them that I wasn't a Cylon, they just didn't want to believe it. I've never seen anything like the raw hatred they have for them."

"I have, too many times: Yugoslavia, Rwanda, Chechnya and Darfur." Weir closed her eyes as painful memories, "They may call it 'Ethnic Cleansing' on CNN to avoid upsetting the audience, but genocide is genocide."

"And now we've got to convince them to ask the Cylon's for help." McKay winced, "I don't envy you."

One advantage of being an Admiral rather than President was that it was a lot easier to arrange a little privacy: while space was always a premium on any starship, let alone a Battlestar, naval architects had long ago come to the conclusion that a commanding officer needed somewhere that they could be alone, to contemplate and relax away from the rest of the crew. Indeed, the cabin was often the proverbial eye-of-the-storm, the one island of tranquillity in the middle of the constant hive of activity that was the Galactica.

Comparatively, Colonial One was a insane asylum in which the inmates were running riot. With the destruction of the Cloud Nine and thus the hastily constructed Quorum chambers, the former liner was now home to the entire civilian arm of the Colonial government. Every cubic centimetre of available space had been pressed into one use or another, meaning that even the Presidents supposable 'private' quarters were often used for staff meetings of one kind or another. Therefore it wasn't surprising that if the President wanted a totally private conversation with her senior military commander, she had to visit him rather than the other way round.

"You've been busy." Roslin sat back in the surprisingly comfortable armchair, "When we talked about appointing a full-time liaison officer to Atlantis, I had no idea that you had Captain Agathon at the top of your list." She frowned slightly, "Care to tell me why you chose him?"

"Helo's proven remarkably good at finding the common ground between different groups." Adama looked at his Commander and Chief across the top of his glasses, "I don't know anyone who could have done a better job with Dogsville. He's come a long way in a relatively short space of time. Had the war not happened, he could have expected to been given command of his own ship, a few more years experience."

"Yet you remove him from the chain of command and give him what amounts to a desk job?" The President sounded suspicious, "I'm sure that someone else would have been better suited to the job? Lieutenant Gaeta, perhaps?"

"Perhaps, but I need Mr Gaeta where he is." Adama shook his head, "No, the real reason you don't like me assigning the Agathon's to Atlantis is Hera: if they stay there, so does she."

"True; I somehow don't see Dr Weir or General O'Neill taking kindly to any attempt to take her away from her parents." Roslin agreed, somewhat reluctantly, "You know, some people might say that we have a very odd relationship."

Her words hung heavy in the air, seemingly dropping the ambient temperature to around that of liquid helium. Adama put down the file he'd been absent-mindedly looking through and removed his glasses. Roslin tried to read his expression, but his face was set in stone, the same blank mask he used when he had to make a hard decision.

"I don't regret what happened." Adama's voice was cool and level, "I admit that I have, feeling for you; feelings that are perhaps more than I should have, given our relative positions in our society."

"And I have feelings for you, like wise probably more than I should have." Roslin agreed, "But the question is, can we retain our working relationship? I've come to rely on you as my moral compass, the one person I can trust to do what they think is best, no matter what the cost."

"That is just years of military discipline." The Admiral sat back in his chair, "And there have been times when I have had to look for you to find my own way. I don't want to lose what we have, so perhaps now is not the right time to, see what else there is."

"Agreed." The President nodded, "We'll not mention it again until after we've dealt with the Wraith."

"Come on in or get lost; either way, close the damn door." A voice came from somewhere in the darkened room.

Helo thought for a second, then stepped in and closed the door. He waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark, then looked around: maybe thirty members of the expedition, along with crew members from the Daedalus and the Odyssey sat in what looked like it was once a lecture hall of some kind. But where the podium had once been, someone had erected a large screen, and the young Colonial officer suddenly realised that he was standing in some kind of theatre.

"Captain." General O'Neill whispered, motioning to an empty seat, "You'd better sit down; the movie is about to start."

"Sir." Helo slipped along the row and into the offered seat as the lights dimmed even lower, "The map I was given said that this was some kind of conference room."

"A little white lie we tell so the bureaucrats back on Earth don't flip out over 'unnecessary expenses'." O'Neill explained, "This place was set up by Colonel Sheppard a year ago: people donate their DVD's to a library, and every night, a couple of films are picked at random and shown. Anyone who's off duty is free to attend, but it's strictly on a 'first come, first served' bases. Truth be told, you're lucky to get a seat."

"Maybe I should come back later?" Helo asked, moving to get up.

"No; this will probably tell you more about Earth than anything else." The General smiled, "Sit; you might even enjoy it."

"What are the films called?" Helo asked as the screen came to life.

"Oh you're in fore a real treat." There was a glint of amusement in O'Neill eye, "Tonight we have The Life of Brian and Monty Python and The Holy Grail."

To Be Continued...