Chapter 2
Commander William Adama sat back in his chair and looked over the duty roster that was before him. Essentially, everything looked fine to him. There seemed to be a fair rotation among the squadrons for the patrols, and he didn't see any major holes in the schedule. He might request that they add a few more Vipers to the rear quadrant, or possibly another Raptor if it was available. While he understood that it really didn't matter where they'd come from or where they were going, as jumping could place Cylons at any point in space, his instinct was still to cover their retreat to the best of his ability. Thankfully, for the first time in months, they had both the planes and personnel to accomplish that.
The first few months of their flight had been perilous. Until they had managed to secure enough food and fuel to hold them for the better part of the year, and repair the ships that had been damaged in the initial attack and subsequent jumps, he hadn't been able to rest for a moment. Now, with all ships operational and well supplied from the few planets they had been able to orbit long enough to restock, he was in less fear of an imminent defeat. They could keep going for a while, at any rate. His only regret was that of all the planets they had encountered, none had been readily habitable.
It hadn't been easy juggling the fleet while he sent his best crewmembers to other ships to make repairs. He'd been more than a little nervous spreading their resources that thin, and didn't for a moment believe that they were at all safe from their enemies. His hope was that they were far enough out that Cylon influence wouldn't affect them, but the warrior in him knew better. He would never underestimate his enemy. Complacency had started this war, and he wouldn't let it be the end of them all.
In addition to the Cylons, lately he had been dealing with numerous internal threats as well. The crew was getting tired; that was the bottom line. They needed something besides the war to get them going again, so it had seemed to make sense to follow President Roslyn's suggestion to try to get back to some of their traditions. Well, if not make sense, at least give him a relatively harmless way to placate her.
She wasn't well. That had become apparent in recent meetings. She was pale, losing weight, and he had a feeling that it was more than simply the stress of command. She handled command remarkably well for someone who had not asked for the position. She was insistent, but reasonable. She was confident, yet willing to ask about that which she did not know. She was intelligent, and yet she wasn't a know-it-all. Under different circumstances, they might even have been friends. However, his interest in her health was not a matter of friendship, but of professionalism. She could not do her job if she was ill, and he could not do her job and his own as well. By necessity, their jobs were quite different.
So when she had asked him for this, with no political strings attached, he had decided that he could concede this one non-military decision to her, and say a gracious thank-you that he did not feel. If she won this battle, perhaps she would concede to him at a future date when their lives depended on it.
He had announced the celebration to mixed reviews. The bridge crew seemed enamoured with the idea, whereas the pilots and deck crew were more reserved. He thought it had to do with the degree to which the war had truly been experienced at its outset. The bridge might have heard the reports and tabulated statistics, but it was the pilots who watched their friends and comrades shot from the skies, and it was the flight crews that had taken the greatest blow to their numbers. They had lost almost half of their pilots to the war, but they had lost almost three-quarters of the flight crews to the fire. It was a statistic that could not be realized until one had walked through their makeshift morgue and smelled the stench of what had once been your crewmates.
Still, for all their tragedy, his crew had been remarkably resilient. They had taken in civilians and taught them necessary skills to bring their crew back to full force. Retired and civilian pilots had joined their ranks to fill the gap in their squadrons, and dozens of volunteers had stepped forward to rebuild their Vipers and Raptors. Others had stepped forward to begin repairs on the Galactica herself - plumbers, electricians, and various builders had come forward to repair and rebuild, and in some cases redesign.
The only truly significant difference to his ship now, and his ship before the attack, was its compliment. They had doubled their capacity to accommodate all those who were able to help. While it wasn't convenient, there was no way to ensure that they did not lose men again, and the extra men might one day be essential. Men and women had been sworn into Colonial Service, and others had been commissioned as officers. Gradually, their crew had taken shape, and some of his initial fears as a military leader had been quelled.
Others had just begun. There had been food shortages, space shortages, and while he could not help but rejoice at the two hundred pregnancies that had been reported since the war began, he could not help but worry about the future they were bringing children into. Still, these were concerns for tomorrow. Who was it that had said today had enough trouble of its own?
A knock on his door brought his attention away from the rosters, and away from their past. There was likely another immediate difficulty to solve, so he turned towards the hatch and called a clear, "Come in."
The hatch swung open to reveal one of his favorite pilots standing in the opening with an uncertain smile on her face. Yes, he had a soft spot for Kara Thrace, and he didn't mind admitting it. If he hadn't admired her for her pure nerve and strength, he would have loved her for saving his son. She was the best pilot he'd ever seen, his own family included, and that was saying something.
"Am I bothering you, Sir?"
"Not at all, Starbuck. Come in. Are you here to dress me down about the formalities as well?" Her jaw dropped. He nearly laughed, but settled for a smug grin. "I'll take that as a yes."
"I am. concerned about the Cylon threat," she admitted. "Having all your military personnel in one place at one times seems a little counterproductive."
"Have a seat, Kara," he told her gently.
"Sir?"
"This will take a while," he admitted. "Yes, I'm mandating attendance for the majority of our military staff, but I will by no means leave duty sections unattended. You should know me better than that."
She nodded her head in agreement and she took a seat on the edge of his neatly-made bunk, the only other place to sit in the cramped quarters. "I understand that, but with the rest of us in a central location, won't we be an easy target?"
He thought about that for a moment. "Only if I was expecting an attack from within the Galactica," he finally said. "If our threat is indeed Cylon, then where we are located on the ship is irrelevant. If our enemy is within, then attack could come at any time, from anyone, and it doesn't matter if we're all in one room or not."
"You don't think we have Cylons among us, then?"
He thought about that for a moment as well, pleased that Kara had the sense to wait for answers rather than rambling on while he attempted to put his feelings into words. "I'm sure we do," he told her quietly. "In a compliment of fifty-thousand people, I'm sure more than one is a plant."
"And you're not concerned?
"That's a trick question," he accused. "Of course I'm concerned. But at the moment, I think the Cylons are the least of our threats. We've had more than one person break under the strain of the war. Not everyone came back from losing their friends and family, and we may yet lose more to depression, suicide, or insanity. If we don't' have some form of normalcy for people to cling to, then the situation will worsen even further."
"I don't think you give us enough credit," she complained.
"Perhaps I don't," he admitted. "But I can't take it for granted. I watched one of the greatest minds of our time disintegrate before me. The pressures we've undertaken could push anyone to insanity."
"You're talking about Baltar?"
"Among others," he said simply. "Do you realize that we have had a significant crime increase in the last few weeks? Just as we've finally secured what we need to survive, many of our people are losing the desire to do just that. Theft has always been a problem, but we're seeing an increase in murders, rapes, attacks, and a host of other violent acts. I've had to dispatch security forces to many of the ships in the fleet, just to keep people safe. Our primary threat really isn't the Cylons right now. It's ourselves."
"So wouldn't it make more sense to declare a holiday or something?"
"Maybe it would," he said thoughtfully. "But the brunt of the stress is on our military. You're the ones flying, patrolling, serving as security and keeping the rest of the fleet together. And you are also the ones under the greatest stress from losing co-workers, having your jobs bounced around, or in some cases changed altogether. It's our military that has suffered the most. So it follows, that the morale of our military is where we must begin."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she looked at the floor. "Isn't it the military personnel that are complaining about the celebration, though?"
"Primarily," he said with a slight grin. "But for the most part, my people are the only ones I really speak with. The President manages the civilians just fine, and I'm not inclined to offer to help."
"You have enough on your plate," Kara admitted.
"So the award ceremony and subsequent banquet are going to happen," he told her. "Followed by as formal a dance as we can arrange, given the fact that we're holding it in a hanger bay."
"Yes, Sir," she acknowledged. She stood to leave, giving him a brief smile, before she halted at the closed hatch. "Commander?"
"Yes, Starbuck?"
"About that dance, what's your policy on fraternization?"
"Planning on asking one of our non-coms?" he asked her with a grin.
"I'm asking for a friend," she admitted. "You've made your thoughts on the subject pretty clear in the briefings, but I'm not sure how the rules change when you're requiring us to have a partner."
William leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling in deep thought for a moment. "I think that if our military members are - discreet - then who comes as who's partner is a matter that's up to them."
"And if we don't come with a partner at all?" she asked.
"Then you are missing a wonderful opportunity," he suggested. "I am requiring participation in the festivities, but don't think I plan for this to be a regular event. It has its purpose now, but we still have a long way to go before this is over."
She nodded. "Have a good night, Sir."
"Good night," he returned. "And Starbuck?"
"Yes?"
"See that you relay this discussion to my son. I don't want to have it again."
Kara didn't turn, but he could hear the smile in her voice. "Yes, Sir."
Chief Tyrol took a last look at the deck schedule and cross-referenced it to the plexi-glass board before him. He had all of his Raptor's aboard, and only two Vipers yet to return from tonight's missions. Two more were already set in the port launching bay, ready to go as soon as the current patrol landed. It was good to be flying with a full crew again, even if it meant more repairs and occasional problems. Tired pilots couldn't be expected to remain indefinitely alert, and accidents had just been a matter of time. Spreading out the work meant that everyone had more rest.
"Greenbean and Cowboy coming in," the CFO informed him. "Ready to launch next patrol."
"Do it," he told her.
He didn't bother to watch and see if his order had been followed. He knew his men - and women - and trusted them implicitly. If they occasionally got on his nerves, it was something he didn't want to dwell on.
But regardless of his determination not to dwell, his gaze drifted over to his figurative right arm, Cally. She was probably the most talented mechanic he knew, at least since losing Prosna, and a decent person on top of it. She was efficient, reasonable, and fiercely loyal. Lately, she was also a royal pain in the ass.
The entire ship was buzzing about the upcoming awards ceremony. Every woman he knew was pulling out old dresses, dusting off dress uniforms, and giggling about who was going with whom. It was enough to make a civilized man puke. But among all these women, his chief mechanic chose not to follow the flow and instead was riding him about fraternization with pilots.
He wanted to ring her neck.
He wondered if she was right.
Cally was the one that was always honest with him when it came to Sharon. Cally had kept others from walking in on encounters more than once, although he hadn't known about it until later. She was also the only one of his deck crew with the guts to tell him to his face that he was out of line. The hell of it was that she was right.
Okay, he was in love with Sharon Valerii, and had been for longer than he could remember. It was as though he'd taken one look at her and fallen head first in a way he didn't know was possible. It was sappy and romantic and completely unlike him. That much he would admit. The part he was less inclined to dwell on was that she was a pilot, and he was only the crew chief.
It made him crazy. He'd been in the military long enough to come to respect the ranking system, and even most of the policies. Cally was right about he and Sharon; it wasn't smart. She was their division officer, and responsible for everything from their fitness reports to promotions. A relationship with her was not only blatant fraternization, but also a direct conflict of interest.
It had seemed pretty harmless in the beginning. She'd been a Rook, and he'd just been showing her the ropes on the flight deck. He hadn't expected to fall for her, but it happened quickly and easily. That probably wouldn't have been an issue, except that the attraction was mutual. At one point he had even convinced himself that it was just physical - something he could get over. Then the war had begun, and he'd honestly believed that he would never see her again. It was frightening how that had put it all into perspective. Once he'd had her back, he sure as hell wasn't letting go.
Unfortunately, neither one of them could leave the military to make it legal. She couldn't resign her commission when pilots were so desperately needed, and he definitely couldn't quit when some days he was all that held the flight deck together. It was an absolute mess.
They were able to sneak in some time on occasion. She had brought a kid back from Caprica, Boxey, and they had essentially adopted him. No kid could be expected to live in military quarters, and it wasn't appropriate for him to stay with Sharon, so he had moved with the kid into a family unit. It wasn't bad, and the privacy was something anyone could envy. If it had made keeping Sharon close just a little easier, he hadn't questioned it.
Until lately.
Cally had hit him again with the whole fraternization issue last week. It wasn't that she disliked Sharon - far from it - but that she was worried about their careers. Discipline wasn't a matter of going to the brig or standing a court martial. During wartime, it was damn easy to get kicked off the Galactica for even minor offenses. Being with Sharon was walking a fine line with military law. Truthfully, it was leaning way over that line.
He had tried to talk to Sharon about it, and they'd shared one of the many shouting matches that he'd become accustomed to. She had walked out. He had said some things he truly regretted. And poor Boxey was too confused to know what the hell was going on.
So it had just been him and the kid lately. He missed her. Boxey missed her. And if the bed was damned cold, that was just something he was going to have to get used to. Cally had been right in a lot of ways. But she'd been wrong about one thing - the danger wasn't only professional. Being without Sharon was definitely personal.
"Starbuck's Viper is set."
His head jerked around and he found Cally walking up to him, a report in hand. He'd asked her to completely overhaul the plane, as much to keep her out of his hair as anything, and he hadn't expected her to finish this soon.
"Any problems?" he asked.
"The gimbals again," she admitted. "With all the maneuvering and bouncing around, they fly apart on about everything. We had to lock down a couple of the Raptors this morning, too. Same problem."
He nodded at that. The design of the gimbals was so sensitive that it didn't take much to throw them off. Unfortunately, without them there was no balance at all to the spacecraft, nor was there any alternative that he knew of. If he could design something that would work, without constant readjustment and reworking, he could make himself a fortune. Or, he could have. Money wasn't really an issue since the war had begun.
"Thanks," he told her simply. "Anything else?"
She stood there for a moment, looking down, and he was reminded again just how young so many of them were to be thrust into such positions of importance. "I just wanted to apologize, Sir."
That caught him off guard. "For what?"
"Butting into what didn't concern me," she admitted. "About Lieutenant Valerii. It's none of my business. I'm sorry I spoke to you about it."
Tyrol glanced around to make sure they weren't within hearing distance of anyone else. The bay was comfortably empty. "You spoke to me about it more than once," he accused. "Why the change of heart."
She shrugged one shoulder looking embarrassed. So young. So damn young. "I ran into Sharon," she muttered. "She's almost as miserable as you are."
He raised one eyebrow. "So much for staying out of my business," he muttered, and turned to leave.
"Chief?" she called after him.
"Is this professional?" He turned back to glare at her, reminding her without words who was in command of the flight deck.
"Yes," she said simply.
"Spit it out."
"She's missing marks, and you're screaming at everyone. It affects everyone's job, and it's making all of us crazy."
"I don't hear anyone else complaining," he growled.
"You know nobody would say a word against you," she shouted, clearly frustrated. He knew the feeling. "You're practically a god around here after how you stood up to Tigh for us, and even more since you pulled this deck together from spare parts. No one is going to question you."
"Except you."
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and lowered her voice. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm sorry I butted in, and I'm sorry I yelled, and I'm sorry that I care about the frakking rules. I wish I could just blow it off like everyone else, but you're the one that taught me that rules were there for a reason, and if anyone could understand why I'd be worried, I would think it would be you."
Chief Tyrol took a deep breath, echoing Cally's action. Then he took another. And another. "I know you mean well," he finally said. "I appreciate your concern. I've just had enough of it."
She looked just a little shattered at that, and he had to admit he'd been harsh. But she was right about one thing. He was miserable, and at that point in time he really didn't care if everyone else was as well.
"Yes, Sir."
"Get back to work," he told her calmly.
"Yes, Sir."
"And put Starbuck back on the roster," he called out as she walked away. "Keeping her grounded when her bird's ready is asking for trouble."
Cally turned back, nodded, and then silently turned back to walk away.
Commander William Adama sat back in his chair and looked over the duty roster that was before him. Essentially, everything looked fine to him. There seemed to be a fair rotation among the squadrons for the patrols, and he didn't see any major holes in the schedule. He might request that they add a few more Vipers to the rear quadrant, or possibly another Raptor if it was available. While he understood that it really didn't matter where they'd come from or where they were going, as jumping could place Cylons at any point in space, his instinct was still to cover their retreat to the best of his ability. Thankfully, for the first time in months, they had both the planes and personnel to accomplish that.
The first few months of their flight had been perilous. Until they had managed to secure enough food and fuel to hold them for the better part of the year, and repair the ships that had been damaged in the initial attack and subsequent jumps, he hadn't been able to rest for a moment. Now, with all ships operational and well supplied from the few planets they had been able to orbit long enough to restock, he was in less fear of an imminent defeat. They could keep going for a while, at any rate. His only regret was that of all the planets they had encountered, none had been readily habitable.
It hadn't been easy juggling the fleet while he sent his best crewmembers to other ships to make repairs. He'd been more than a little nervous spreading their resources that thin, and didn't for a moment believe that they were at all safe from their enemies. His hope was that they were far enough out that Cylon influence wouldn't affect them, but the warrior in him knew better. He would never underestimate his enemy. Complacency had started this war, and he wouldn't let it be the end of them all.
In addition to the Cylons, lately he had been dealing with numerous internal threats as well. The crew was getting tired; that was the bottom line. They needed something besides the war to get them going again, so it had seemed to make sense to follow President Roslyn's suggestion to try to get back to some of their traditions. Well, if not make sense, at least give him a relatively harmless way to placate her.
She wasn't well. That had become apparent in recent meetings. She was pale, losing weight, and he had a feeling that it was more than simply the stress of command. She handled command remarkably well for someone who had not asked for the position. She was insistent, but reasonable. She was confident, yet willing to ask about that which she did not know. She was intelligent, and yet she wasn't a know-it-all. Under different circumstances, they might even have been friends. However, his interest in her health was not a matter of friendship, but of professionalism. She could not do her job if she was ill, and he could not do her job and his own as well. By necessity, their jobs were quite different.
So when she had asked him for this, with no political strings attached, he had decided that he could concede this one non-military decision to her, and say a gracious thank-you that he did not feel. If she won this battle, perhaps she would concede to him at a future date when their lives depended on it.
He had announced the celebration to mixed reviews. The bridge crew seemed enamoured with the idea, whereas the pilots and deck crew were more reserved. He thought it had to do with the degree to which the war had truly been experienced at its outset. The bridge might have heard the reports and tabulated statistics, but it was the pilots who watched their friends and comrades shot from the skies, and it was the flight crews that had taken the greatest blow to their numbers. They had lost almost half of their pilots to the war, but they had lost almost three-quarters of the flight crews to the fire. It was a statistic that could not be realized until one had walked through their makeshift morgue and smelled the stench of what had once been your crewmates.
Still, for all their tragedy, his crew had been remarkably resilient. They had taken in civilians and taught them necessary skills to bring their crew back to full force. Retired and civilian pilots had joined their ranks to fill the gap in their squadrons, and dozens of volunteers had stepped forward to rebuild their Vipers and Raptors. Others had stepped forward to begin repairs on the Galactica herself - plumbers, electricians, and various builders had come forward to repair and rebuild, and in some cases redesign.
The only truly significant difference to his ship now, and his ship before the attack, was its compliment. They had doubled their capacity to accommodate all those who were able to help. While it wasn't convenient, there was no way to ensure that they did not lose men again, and the extra men might one day be essential. Men and women had been sworn into Colonial Service, and others had been commissioned as officers. Gradually, their crew had taken shape, and some of his initial fears as a military leader had been quelled.
Others had just begun. There had been food shortages, space shortages, and while he could not help but rejoice at the two hundred pregnancies that had been reported since the war began, he could not help but worry about the future they were bringing children into. Still, these were concerns for tomorrow. Who was it that had said today had enough trouble of its own?
A knock on his door brought his attention away from the rosters, and away from their past. There was likely another immediate difficulty to solve, so he turned towards the hatch and called a clear, "Come in."
The hatch swung open to reveal one of his favorite pilots standing in the opening with an uncertain smile on her face. Yes, he had a soft spot for Kara Thrace, and he didn't mind admitting it. If he hadn't admired her for her pure nerve and strength, he would have loved her for saving his son. She was the best pilot he'd ever seen, his own family included, and that was saying something.
"Am I bothering you, Sir?"
"Not at all, Starbuck. Come in. Are you here to dress me down about the formalities as well?" Her jaw dropped. He nearly laughed, but settled for a smug grin. "I'll take that as a yes."
"I am. concerned about the Cylon threat," she admitted. "Having all your military personnel in one place at one times seems a little counterproductive."
"Have a seat, Kara," he told her gently.
"Sir?"
"This will take a while," he admitted. "Yes, I'm mandating attendance for the majority of our military staff, but I will by no means leave duty sections unattended. You should know me better than that."
She nodded her head in agreement and she took a seat on the edge of his neatly-made bunk, the only other place to sit in the cramped quarters. "I understand that, but with the rest of us in a central location, won't we be an easy target?"
He thought about that for a moment. "Only if I was expecting an attack from within the Galactica," he finally said. "If our threat is indeed Cylon, then where we are located on the ship is irrelevant. If our enemy is within, then attack could come at any time, from anyone, and it doesn't matter if we're all in one room or not."
"You don't think we have Cylons among us, then?"
He thought about that for a moment as well, pleased that Kara had the sense to wait for answers rather than rambling on while he attempted to put his feelings into words. "I'm sure we do," he told her quietly. "In a compliment of fifty-thousand people, I'm sure more than one is a plant."
"And you're not concerned?
"That's a trick question," he accused. "Of course I'm concerned. But at the moment, I think the Cylons are the least of our threats. We've had more than one person break under the strain of the war. Not everyone came back from losing their friends and family, and we may yet lose more to depression, suicide, or insanity. If we don't' have some form of normalcy for people to cling to, then the situation will worsen even further."
"I don't think you give us enough credit," she complained.
"Perhaps I don't," he admitted. "But I can't take it for granted. I watched one of the greatest minds of our time disintegrate before me. The pressures we've undertaken could push anyone to insanity."
"You're talking about Baltar?"
"Among others," he said simply. "Do you realize that we have had a significant crime increase in the last few weeks? Just as we've finally secured what we need to survive, many of our people are losing the desire to do just that. Theft has always been a problem, but we're seeing an increase in murders, rapes, attacks, and a host of other violent acts. I've had to dispatch security forces to many of the ships in the fleet, just to keep people safe. Our primary threat really isn't the Cylons right now. It's ourselves."
"So wouldn't it make more sense to declare a holiday or something?"
"Maybe it would," he said thoughtfully. "But the brunt of the stress is on our military. You're the ones flying, patrolling, serving as security and keeping the rest of the fleet together. And you are also the ones under the greatest stress from losing co-workers, having your jobs bounced around, or in some cases changed altogether. It's our military that has suffered the most. So it follows, that the morale of our military is where we must begin."
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she looked at the floor. "Isn't it the military personnel that are complaining about the celebration, though?"
"Primarily," he said with a slight grin. "But for the most part, my people are the only ones I really speak with. The President manages the civilians just fine, and I'm not inclined to offer to help."
"You have enough on your plate," Kara admitted.
"So the award ceremony and subsequent banquet are going to happen," he told her. "Followed by as formal a dance as we can arrange, given the fact that we're holding it in a hanger bay."
"Yes, Sir," she acknowledged. She stood to leave, giving him a brief smile, before she halted at the closed hatch. "Commander?"
"Yes, Starbuck?"
"About that dance, what's your policy on fraternization?"
"Planning on asking one of our non-coms?" he asked her with a grin.
"I'm asking for a friend," she admitted. "You've made your thoughts on the subject pretty clear in the briefings, but I'm not sure how the rules change when you're requiring us to have a partner."
William leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling in deep thought for a moment. "I think that if our military members are - discreet - then who comes as who's partner is a matter that's up to them."
"And if we don't come with a partner at all?" she asked.
"Then you are missing a wonderful opportunity," he suggested. "I am requiring participation in the festivities, but don't think I plan for this to be a regular event. It has its purpose now, but we still have a long way to go before this is over."
She nodded. "Have a good night, Sir."
"Good night," he returned. "And Starbuck?"
"Yes?"
"See that you relay this discussion to my son. I don't want to have it again."
Kara didn't turn, but he could hear the smile in her voice. "Yes, Sir."
Chief Tyrol took a last look at the deck schedule and cross-referenced it to the plexi-glass board before him. He had all of his Raptor's aboard, and only two Vipers yet to return from tonight's missions. Two more were already set in the port launching bay, ready to go as soon as the current patrol landed. It was good to be flying with a full crew again, even if it meant more repairs and occasional problems. Tired pilots couldn't be expected to remain indefinitely alert, and accidents had just been a matter of time. Spreading out the work meant that everyone had more rest.
"Greenbean and Cowboy coming in," the CFO informed him. "Ready to launch next patrol."
"Do it," he told her.
He didn't bother to watch and see if his order had been followed. He knew his men - and women - and trusted them implicitly. If they occasionally got on his nerves, it was something he didn't want to dwell on.
But regardless of his determination not to dwell, his gaze drifted over to his figurative right arm, Cally. She was probably the most talented mechanic he knew, at least since losing Prosna, and a decent person on top of it. She was efficient, reasonable, and fiercely loyal. Lately, she was also a royal pain in the ass.
The entire ship was buzzing about the upcoming awards ceremony. Every woman he knew was pulling out old dresses, dusting off dress uniforms, and giggling about who was going with whom. It was enough to make a civilized man puke. But among all these women, his chief mechanic chose not to follow the flow and instead was riding him about fraternization with pilots.
He wanted to ring her neck.
He wondered if she was right.
Cally was the one that was always honest with him when it came to Sharon. Cally had kept others from walking in on encounters more than once, although he hadn't known about it until later. She was also the only one of his deck crew with the guts to tell him to his face that he was out of line. The hell of it was that she was right.
Okay, he was in love with Sharon Valerii, and had been for longer than he could remember. It was as though he'd taken one look at her and fallen head first in a way he didn't know was possible. It was sappy and romantic and completely unlike him. That much he would admit. The part he was less inclined to dwell on was that she was a pilot, and he was only the crew chief.
It made him crazy. He'd been in the military long enough to come to respect the ranking system, and even most of the policies. Cally was right about he and Sharon; it wasn't smart. She was their division officer, and responsible for everything from their fitness reports to promotions. A relationship with her was not only blatant fraternization, but also a direct conflict of interest.
It had seemed pretty harmless in the beginning. She'd been a Rook, and he'd just been showing her the ropes on the flight deck. He hadn't expected to fall for her, but it happened quickly and easily. That probably wouldn't have been an issue, except that the attraction was mutual. At one point he had even convinced himself that it was just physical - something he could get over. Then the war had begun, and he'd honestly believed that he would never see her again. It was frightening how that had put it all into perspective. Once he'd had her back, he sure as hell wasn't letting go.
Unfortunately, neither one of them could leave the military to make it legal. She couldn't resign her commission when pilots were so desperately needed, and he definitely couldn't quit when some days he was all that held the flight deck together. It was an absolute mess.
They were able to sneak in some time on occasion. She had brought a kid back from Caprica, Boxey, and they had essentially adopted him. No kid could be expected to live in military quarters, and it wasn't appropriate for him to stay with Sharon, so he had moved with the kid into a family unit. It wasn't bad, and the privacy was something anyone could envy. If it had made keeping Sharon close just a little easier, he hadn't questioned it.
Until lately.
Cally had hit him again with the whole fraternization issue last week. It wasn't that she disliked Sharon - far from it - but that she was worried about their careers. Discipline wasn't a matter of going to the brig or standing a court martial. During wartime, it was damn easy to get kicked off the Galactica for even minor offenses. Being with Sharon was walking a fine line with military law. Truthfully, it was leaning way over that line.
He had tried to talk to Sharon about it, and they'd shared one of the many shouting matches that he'd become accustomed to. She had walked out. He had said some things he truly regretted. And poor Boxey was too confused to know what the hell was going on.
So it had just been him and the kid lately. He missed her. Boxey missed her. And if the bed was damned cold, that was just something he was going to have to get used to. Cally had been right in a lot of ways. But she'd been wrong about one thing - the danger wasn't only professional. Being without Sharon was definitely personal.
"Starbuck's Viper is set."
His head jerked around and he found Cally walking up to him, a report in hand. He'd asked her to completely overhaul the plane, as much to keep her out of his hair as anything, and he hadn't expected her to finish this soon.
"Any problems?" he asked.
"The gimbals again," she admitted. "With all the maneuvering and bouncing around, they fly apart on about everything. We had to lock down a couple of the Raptors this morning, too. Same problem."
He nodded at that. The design of the gimbals was so sensitive that it didn't take much to throw them off. Unfortunately, without them there was no balance at all to the spacecraft, nor was there any alternative that he knew of. If he could design something that would work, without constant readjustment and reworking, he could make himself a fortune. Or, he could have. Money wasn't really an issue since the war had begun.
"Thanks," he told her simply. "Anything else?"
She stood there for a moment, looking down, and he was reminded again just how young so many of them were to be thrust into such positions of importance. "I just wanted to apologize, Sir."
That caught him off guard. "For what?"
"Butting into what didn't concern me," she admitted. "About Lieutenant Valerii. It's none of my business. I'm sorry I spoke to you about it."
Tyrol glanced around to make sure they weren't within hearing distance of anyone else. The bay was comfortably empty. "You spoke to me about it more than once," he accused. "Why the change of heart."
She shrugged one shoulder looking embarrassed. So young. So damn young. "I ran into Sharon," she muttered. "She's almost as miserable as you are."
He raised one eyebrow. "So much for staying out of my business," he muttered, and turned to leave.
"Chief?" she called after him.
"Is this professional?" He turned back to glare at her, reminding her without words who was in command of the flight deck.
"Yes," she said simply.
"Spit it out."
"She's missing marks, and you're screaming at everyone. It affects everyone's job, and it's making all of us crazy."
"I don't hear anyone else complaining," he growled.
"You know nobody would say a word against you," she shouted, clearly frustrated. He knew the feeling. "You're practically a god around here after how you stood up to Tigh for us, and even more since you pulled this deck together from spare parts. No one is going to question you."
"Except you."
She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and lowered her voice. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I'm sorry I butted in, and I'm sorry I yelled, and I'm sorry that I care about the frakking rules. I wish I could just blow it off like everyone else, but you're the one that taught me that rules were there for a reason, and if anyone could understand why I'd be worried, I would think it would be you."
Chief Tyrol took a deep breath, echoing Cally's action. Then he took another. And another. "I know you mean well," he finally said. "I appreciate your concern. I've just had enough of it."
She looked just a little shattered at that, and he had to admit he'd been harsh. But she was right about one thing. He was miserable, and at that point in time he really didn't care if everyone else was as well.
"Yes, Sir."
"Get back to work," he told her calmly.
"Yes, Sir."
"And put Starbuck back on the roster," he called out as she walked away. "Keeping her grounded when her bird's ready is asking for trouble."
Cally turned back, nodded, and then silently turned back to walk away.