Chapter 3

William Adama was content. It seemed a stupid word for what he was feeling, but it was as close as he could get. Amidst the tragedy around him, for this moment in time they were not in imminent danger, he had his family around him, and no major crises were demanding his attention. As the Commander of the last battlestar, and the reluctant military leader of humanity's survivors, it was a feeling he knew to be very rare.

At the moment he was just watching a scene that would have made any father proud. Well, any commander too, for that matter. His Commander of the Air Group was sitting with his plotting specialist and mapping out routes for possible exploration for necessary raw materials. It wasn't that they were low on anything in particular — they were actually doing quite well given what they had started with — but it was rapidly coming to a point where they would need to begin creating new materials rather than making due with the old. They needed to begin making parts for their fleet, possibly even entire new ships, and for that they would need the raw materials.

The last six months had been relatively free of disasters, so they had done their best to convert less habitable ships in the fleet into more factory-oriented craft. They had managed to put together the equipment necessary for melting and shaping metals, creating various forms of plastics and other silicon based necessities, and manage a few of the other details that had been taken for granted planet-side for so many years.

Now that they had the equipment available, and the personnel trained, it was time to begin bringing in the materials necessary for the processes. That meant exploration more specific than a general look-and-see mission. It was a specific seek-and-find that required more planning, more plotting, and a hell of a lot more luck. He was hoping they would have the skill to pull it off. He had to believe that they would. Faith had brought them this far, so it would have to take them further.

But aside from his pride in his son and the job he was doing as CAG, he was also proud of his entire bridge crew. They were essentially unchanged from the men and women he had worked with before the war, but their skills were much more finely honed. His presence on the bridge, or Colonel Tigh's in his absence, was more a technicality than necessity. Lieutenant Gaeta could effectively run the ship, and had on more than one occasion. Captain Kelly could do it as well, although he preferred to stay off the bridge when he could arrange it. They were a crew who could do their jobs without asking why, and without missing a beat. They were the main reason he was able to sleep at night.

But as a father, there was an entirely different level of pride in his own son serving under him. It was nearly forbidden by Fleet regulation, but concessions had to be made for limited personnel of rank. Lee had been Chief Pilot by both rank and experience, not by Adama's personal choice. For that matter, when his son had been appointed to the position, the eldest Adama hadn't even known that he was alive. It wasn't favoritism, but pure military organization and structure. If it also put his son on the bridge with him at least twice a day, then a father just had to take pleasant rewards as they came.

"Finding anything?" the Commander asked as he approached Lieutenant Gaeta and his son. He didn't want to interrupt them, but his curiosity was getting the better of him.

"Scanners are showing higher mineral levels in this quadrant," Gaeta informed him. "But it's not a particularly smooth ride."

"We'd have to jump in and jump back," Lee confirmed, looking up at Adama for a moment with his wife's eyes. That blue flash still startled him on occasion, but he'd learned to ignore it. "And that could get tricky with such different weights going in and coming out."

"We managed it with Tylium," Adama reminded them. "Isn't that a heavy ore?"

"Not particularly," Gaeta corrected. "At least not once it's processed. We don't normally jump with the raw ore. It's denser than the fluid form, and a lot heavier. We prefer sub-light transport when we can manage it."

"Should we turn the fleet?" he asked carefully. The path they were on now was clear and open, with a number of useful planets scanned in their path. None showed signs of life or acceptable environmental levels, but they were showing both water and vegetation, which were always things they were on the lookout for.

Lee looked up at Gaeta and the question was in his eyes as well. "I'd jump it before we made that big of a course adjustment," Lee said. "Passive scans aren't always reliable, and active scans are detectable. We need to be sure what we're looking for is there before we redirect an entire fleet."

Gaeta nodded his agreement. "Do we have the ships for that?"

Lee looked down at the clipboard that was never far from his hand. He always knew where what was, and who was flying it. It was one of the things that William most admired about the Captain. He didn't take anything on faith; he always had it in writing right before him. "It'll be tight," he admitted, tapping a few keys to check a second list. "I only have two extra Raptors with functional jump drives. We use the other two for keeping lookout before and behind the fleet."

"It should only take one," William said firmly, and then to Gaeta, "Go ahead and plot it. We can't miss an opportunity." The lieutenant gave a nod, and quickly left them alone. Lee's eyes were back down on his roster, and his mind was likely on who he would assign to the mission. Still, his son's scrutiny was rather intense for what was essentially a routine mission.

"Everything okay?" he asked in a softer voice, one that wouldn't carry across the bridge.

Lee's eyes flashed up at him again, and once more William saw Iilya looking up at him. It didn't happen often, so it took a moment to peg what was causing the connection. After a few seconds, he had it. Lee was worried about something. It was the same expression his wife had shown before every one of his deployments. "Yeah," Lee obviously lied. "No problems."

"Try again," he prompted his son.

There was the quirk to one side of Lee's mouth as his eyes dodged away. He knew he had been caught. "Nothing's wrong with the flight deck or crews. I'm just not sleeping real well lately."

"Really?" he asked, and he knew there was more humor in his voice than was probably professional. But this wasn't a professional discussion. Not anymore.

Lee shrugged one shoulder. "I'll get through it," he hedged.

William took the seat next to his son that had been vacated by Lieutenant Gaeta and pulled the star chart closer but really didn't see it. "Is it Kara?" he asked sofly.

Lee's indrawn breath told him more than his words. "Yes and no," Lee allowed. "Mostly it's me. Just having trouble getting some things straight in my mind."

William smiled genuinely at that. "You always did think things to death," he remarked. "It's a fine skill planning missions, but once the execution begins you have to be faster on your feet."

"Some missions don't get past the planning stage," Lee grumbled. "And maybe they shouldn't."

William didn't have to look at his son's face to know that they weren't discussing planetary exploration or Viper flights. The mission in question was decidedly more personal in nature. The commander in him still held a measure of concern, but the father in him was getting frustrated with dancing around the subject. He had a feeling his son was, too.

"If you need to talk, I get off in about two hours," William told him.

That brought Lee's eyes back to him. "Thanks," he said gently. "But I think I have to work this out for myself."

"Maybe," Adama allowed. "Or maybe you should talk to someone besides me."

He didn't wait for Lee's reaction, but instead he stood up and slid the chair back into its place beneath the desk with a practiced hand. One thing you learned on the bridge was that when things happened, they did so quickly. Tripping over a chair wasn't what you needed to do.

"Let me know when you have the mission set," he requested in a louder voice, the one that carried whether intentional or not throughout the bridge. "And run the roster by Colonel Tigh."

"Yes, Sir," Lee replied, and then went back to working with his clipboard. William watched him for a moment, then someone else caught his eye. With a slight frown, he walked towards the Draedus console.

"You're early, my friend," he said softly. "Problem?"

"Just bored," Paul replied with a slight smile. "Thought I might as well be bored here as bored in my room. At least here I get some paperwork done."

William smiled at that. Colonel Paul Tigh, who was essentially his right arm when running this ship and the fleet in general, absolutely hated paperwork. Unfortunately, as the Executive Officer of the Galactica, that was primarily what his job encompassed when they weren't in life or death struggles. William gave the orders, and Tigh logged them and sent them out so that the crew carried them out. Even when William gave a direct order, it was still Paul that had to make sure it was logged and then follow up on its execution.

"And you think it'll be more interesting here?" William asked with a smirk.

"Couldn't be worse," Paul admitted quietly.

"Well, if you're here anyway, go check on the com-chatter. We probably have at least a dozen requests for one thing or another and we may as well start trying to get things done."

"Yes, Sir," Paul said with an unhappy smile and turned to do the work.

William worried about his friend. Paul was not a happy man. He had never been a barrel of sunshine, but back when they'd been flying Vipers at least the man had had as many good days as bad. He had also had as many days in the bottle as out, but it was something William had overlooked due to friendship and Paul's willingness to keep his intoxication confined to off-duty hours. Since the fleet had begun its journey, alcohol had been essentially eliminated from their concerns. The few bottles that had existed were quickly consumed, and he had passed a regulation barring the production of more.

He didn't have any illusions that this was an entirely alcohol-free fleet. Any prohibition was an invitation to home-designed stills and underground activity. So long as there was sugar and yeast, some alcohol would be present. But on the Galactica, possession was severely punished so it hadn't been a problem. One or two bottles of home brew had been discovered, and those individuals had been immediately reassigned to less than ideal positions on other ships. The Galactica was a warship, and the only one they had. No one could know when the Cylons might jump in on top of them, and absolutely every officer and enlisted man would be needed on the spot. He couldn't have them drunk — not even one. Besides that fact, the potential for abuse in the depressive wake of the war had been far too high. He had wanted an escape himself on occasion, so he knew that his crew had to feel the same. Removing alcohol removed one possibility for disaster.

But for some, the discontinuance of alcohol consumption had been an issue. He had kept it quiet, but William had sent his XO to the Life Station for the first days following the attack. He had known that withdrawal could be dangerous, and Paul had been one of the most consistent alcoholics that William had ever seen. Sure enough, the physician had reported that even with medications to reduce the initial withdrawal phase, Paul had been out of it for several days.

The official story had been that the XO had received a head injury during the last battle before the jump. It had been an easy way to justify a week of bed rest and close observation before he returned to duty. The reality was that most of the crew knew of Paul's problem even though they never said a word. Well, they didn't say a word to his face. The Commander had heard the running jokes for weeks, but he said nothing to either confirm or disprove the crew's suspicions. It was the only thing he could do to help his friend.

Paul's return to duty had signaled a new phase in his life. He was as competent on the job as he has always been, but without the indecision that had always been a part of him. The detox had been as much mental as physical, and Paul seemed determined to thank him in the only way that he could — by being the best damn XO than anyone had ever seen. Some days he tried a little too hard, but William appreciated the sentiment. Paul had now been dry for two and a half years, and gradually he had gained a small measure of respect from his crew. It was still tenuous —still new — but the seed of trust had taken root, and William firmly believed it would grow.

And Paul was more than determined to make it so. He had worked himself tirelessly since he had been discharged from Life Station, and frankly he put in as many hours as Adama did himself, or perhaps even more. He was endlessly patient with the crew — not counting those couple of blowups at the beginning — and was not above doing a few jobs that were normally considered "below" his rank. Hell, William had even seen him working on a backed up toilet a few months back. Definitely not in the XO's job description.

"Nothing too urgent," Colonel Tigh said as he approached the Commander from behind. "Just a couple of routine maintenance requests, and a few disciplinary issues. It's nothing that a few extra security guards and a couple of mechanics can't manage. Do you want me to send them out?"

William nodded. "I trust your judgment," he reminded Paul. When those blue eyes flashed up to his he knew he'd hit a nerve.

"Then why don't you call it a day?" the XO suggested. "No point in both of us being here. I'm sure you have something you'd rather be doing."

"Not really," Adama admitted. "But I should go check in with the President on the rest of the fleet's status. The ship captains may come to us, but you know the rest of the people go straight to her."

Paul nodded with a smile. "Tell her hello from me," he requested with a wink.

"I'll do that."

William managed to make it all the way out of CIC before the smile slipped through. Watching Roslin and Tigh in the same room was like seeing a fireworks display. However congenial the XO could manage to be with his crew — even the female members — he was a little too old fashioned to take orders from a woman. Something about Laura Roslin just plain rubbed him the wrong way, and the two couldn't manage to stay in the same room with one another for more than thirty seconds. As a fairly adept diplomat, William found the situation hysterical. He had a lot better sense than to relay the greeting that Tigh had sent him with. He wanted this to be a pleasant meeting. On the other hand, the President might find the remark as funny as he did.

Housed on the Galactica, the new Presidential Cabinet took up the vast majority of what had once been officer's quarters. It was the only area with individual bathrooms and larger beds that remained on the warship. His officers had long since moved into group or family quarters as a concession to space and efficiency. Most of them didn't mind, and the few that did hadn't been terribly vocal. On the other hand, he hadn't given them much of a choice. While Colonial One had been a good ship, she wasn't particularly fast and had no defenses. The cabinet was far safer on the Galactica, and it prevented unnecessarily stretching the security force too thin.

William took a look at the few papers he had grabbed prior to leaving the bridge. They were simple status reports on the Galactica's supplies and that of the rest of the fleet. It was the first thing Laura always asked for. Then she would drill him about security issues, repair needs, and tactical status. The whole briefing would take exactly eleven minutes if there were nothing out of the ordinary. He'd had the same meeting nearly every day since she had taken over as President. At this point, he didn't even mind it very much.

His preoccupation with his reports almost caused a head-on collision with one of his pilots. He jumped a good three feet, and papers floated every which-way. He was in the midst of apologizing for not watching where he was going, fishing around on the floor for his reports, when her laughter hit him. "Good morning, Starbuck," he told her with a grin, not even needing to see her face to know who it was. "You missed your run today."

Kara had knelt down to help him retrieve the scattered papers. She looked up at his remark, and he watched a veil fall over silvery green-gray eyes. He never had been able to figure out just what color her eyes were, but they were huge in her face right now, as though he had surprised her.

"Yes, Sir," she finally agreed. "I slept in."

"Not on duty?" he asked unnecessarily. He knew the roster. He knew she knew he knew the roster.

"Not today," she replied. But her voice wasn't level, and there was something there that bothered him.

"Problem?" He didn't elaborate. He knew there was one, or he wouldn't have asked. He also knew she was less likely to tell him about it than anyone else in the fleet. She could be an absolute clam when she wanted to be.

"No, Sir," she replied, as he had expected. A sneaking suspicion was growing in his mind that whatever had his favorite pilot tied up was the same thing that was bothering his son.

"Lee getting on your nerves, yet?" he asked casually, and made sure that his eyes were trained on hers when the words came out. The reaction was just what he had expected. Her eyes went from wide open to clearly averted. He had hit the target. Now, he just needed to know what that target was.

"No, Sir," she replied, and he nearly winced. Three "sirs" in a row was enough to grate on any commander's nerves outside a court martial. It was especially annoying from someone as independent as Kara. She was most deliberately not making waves, and Kara on her best behavior was a sign that trouble was brewing.

"When's your next shift?" he asked her softly.

"Tomorrow on mid," she replied.

"Get some sleep between now and then," he advised. "You don't look like you feel well."

She nodded and handed him the few papers she had retrieved. "I will. Thanks."

"Thank you," he replied, gesturing to the reports. "Now try to watch out for old men in the corridors. Without our glasses, we're dangerous."

That finally brought a smile. "I'll do that."

As she walked away, he wanted to ask her what the hell was going on, but he had about as much chance of getting information out of her as he did his son. And somehow, he imagined that either one might have just as little insight as the other. Something was going on between them, and he had an idea about what it was. But a father could only do so much for his children, and he knew that this was one thing Lee would not thank him for interfering in. They would have to settle it in their own time, and in their own way. So long as it didn't begin interfering with their duties or affecting their health, he would let them do just that. If either of those two eventualities occurred, he'd have them both in his office and to hell with the consequences.

Thankfully, the days of identification badges and permits were long past. Adama nodded pleasantly to the guard outside the entrance to the cabinet housing, and approached Roslin's door. Two quick knocks were followed by a long pause. He was early, so it didn't surprise him that she wasn't ready.

She did surprise him when she opened the door. "Commander?" she asked with a startled expression. "You're early."

He had expected many things, but the President of the Colonies standing there in her bathrobe wasn't one of them. "I'm sorry," he sputtered. It was all he could think of to say.

She lifted one eyebrow but she did smile. "Come in," she invited. "I'll change in the bathroom."

He debated simply standing in the hallway, but decided that it would be more embarrassing to explain the situation to a passerby than to get caught walking into her room before she was dressed.

Thankfully, she wasn't one of those women who took an hour to put on clothes and makeup. Within five minutes she had returned to the sitting area of her room with a simple suit on and her own clipboard. "Anything interesting going on?" she asked quietly as she sat down in a chair opposite him.

"My relief to the shift showed up early," he explained. "I thought we could get this over with and both of us have more time later in the day."

"Very efficient," she agreed. "And our status?"

He looked at her for a moment, and for some reason he was struck with a blast of humor at the situation. Part of that came from relief. She was looking better. Her treatments had been done for nearly two years, but she had taken forever to get back to herself. Now she had finally regained not only the weight she'd lost but also the color and energy. She was no longer the fragile leader of a lost civilization, but rather the true President of the Twelve Colonies. Six months ago they had made it official, and she had been elected by an overwhelming majority. She had been more surprised than he had been. She had done a fine job of keeping the civilians together, and had put her life on the line for them more than once. In addition, she was a known entity, and was a member of the original cabinet. When you put that all together, most people didn't care that she was a woman, or that she had been ill, or even that she was little more than a glorified school-teacher. She cared about her people, and they knew it. But that wasn't what he found funny.

"Status is normal," he replied. "And Colonel Tigh says hello," he added with a grin.

It had been worth it. Her poised features broke into a self-conscious smile and she shook her head. "Am I ever going to live that man down?"

He laughed gently. "Not likely."

She shook her head and rubbed at her eyes. "I wish I knew what it was about that man that annoys me so much," she mused. "If I did, I'd just eliminate it and move on."

"I'm sure he feels the same way," William said with a smile. "And I'm sorry. I shouldn't tease you about it. Everyone has their weak points. I suppose he's yours."

"I'm sure it's mutual," she said dryly. "But at least we can laugh about it now. I haven't been tempted to hit him in months."

"I'm not sure that's mutual," he returned with a straight face. There was a slight pause while they absorbed it, and then both of them broke into laughter. "He's a good man," the Commander finally said as he wiped tears from his eyes. "One of these days I'm going to make you see that. I may not always be here to run the fleet, and in my absence you'll have to get along with him."

She nodded, thankfully retaining the smile on her face. "Let's just make sure it's a long time off. I don't think our race would survive the two of us trying to cooperate."

"Maybe not," he agreed. "But at the moment our race is doing rather well. We've had four more births today," he began as he looked over his reports. "All healthy, and mothers are doing well. That brings us to almost fifty babies so far this month."

She nodded approvingly. "By the way, is there progress on the central nurseries for the Rising Star and the Galactica?"

"Not yet," he answered. While civilians were her area, of concern, the fact that this particular discussion involved his ship made the issue his decision. "I still think we need to keep it off the Galactica. This is a war ship, and not a place for children. Go ahead with plans for the Rising Star, though, by all means."

"I understand the Galactica's purpose, but you can't start separating families, and our military personnel are having children, too. How many births on the Galactica alone last year?"

"Ninety-seven," he replied. "But there's still the issue of nursing. There's no point in a daycare when mothers have to be present to feed their babies."

"But when they're toddlers, those mothers will be ready to go back to work, and they'll be needed on the job. We need to have some form of a daycare set up to accommodate that when it happens. The Galactica has what, two-hundred infants?"

"Close to it," he admitted.

She nodded. "The oldest are more than a year old, now," she reminded him. "Old enough for solid food and working parents if necessary. I'm not talking about mandating it, but the mothers who are non-military may be our first resource for caring for babies of working mothers. This project can't wait."

"Yes, Sir," he agreed reluctantly. It went against every one of his warrior's instincts, but she had a point. He couldn't kick his people off the ship for following directions and continuing the race. But neither could he put them back to work if they had a child on one hip.

"Now, what else do we have?"

William pulled out his rosters and scooted over closer to the President. This just might take longer than the eleven minutes he had planned for.