Commander William Adama was tired. Beyond tired if he was honest; he was bordering on exhaustion. Only the fear that if he let himself sleep he might not be able to wake back up kept him from falling into the small, unmade bunk across from his desk and letting nature take its course. He was too old for this shit. He was supposed to be retired, not running what little was left of the military. He was supposed to be bouncing grandchildren on his knee, not herding the last survivors of humanity into an uncertain future. He was supposed to be…
But it didn't really matter, did it? He would do what he had to, because he was there to do it. It was a part of who he was. He had never been one to shirk responsibility when it was thrust upon him, and he'd be damned if he'd start now. There was work to be done, and precious few people were left to do it. Two fewer today then there had been the day before.
Salik's report told him that the previous day had given them another five suicide attempts; only two had been successful. He supposed he should be grateful, but Adama was anything but. He was angry, frustrated, and positively disgusted with the entire situation. Part of the emotion was religiously based; suicide was forbidden in the Holy Scrolls. But another part of his irritation was that he understood. Despite his religious upbringing, and despite his own innate tenacity to hold on to life, he understood the desire to leave this disaster behind. Even the unproven next life couldn't be any worse than what they were facing; and either was as unknown as the other.
So he understood, and sympathized, and yet it still angered him that so many could be so selfish. Yesterday they had lost a cook and a medical technician, and had nearly lost two mechanics and a pilot. Each and every life not only had its own individual value, but was essential to the survival of his battlestar, the fleet, and for that matter the entire human race. It was irresponsible and damned selfish to even consider backing out of the responsibility that survival had placed upon them. No, it wouldn't be easy; but it wasn't a choice. It shouldn't be a choice. They had survived for a reason; he just wished to hell that he knew what the reason was.
There had been no sign of Cylon pursuit, but that really meant nothing. For all they knew they might be surrounded by Cylons, infiltrated by them, or heading into the middle of their empire. There was purely no way to be certain. His best guess was that they were somewhere between those extremes. Surely there were a few Cylons in their midst, if they indeed looked and acted human. Most likely there had to be some Cylon pursuit occurring, although jumping was the most secure method they had for concealing their escape. And probably the Cylons did have a further reaching empire than the Colonies had imagined, or so one would think given the advancements they had made within their own race.
But as bad as things were, they could be far worse. They were alive – many more than had originally been thought – and so far they were able to house and feed the surviving members of humanity. Granted, security was becoming an issue. Armageddon had a way of bringing about the best and worst in people. Many had sacrificed their lives for the good of others, and yet some had begun to take advantage of the lack of formal law enforcement and structures. There had been dozens of rapes, many attacks, more fights than he could keep on his roster, and even a couple of murders. All of humanity was not the best it could be, but that was part of life. It always had been.
And his responsibility was to protect those lives – the innocent, the criminal, and everything in between – and find them a place to live, then to get them there safely. It was an impossible goal. It certainly didn't surprise him that he had become exhausted just trying to keep abreast of what was going on.
Seated at his desk, his head in his hands, he sent a quick prayer to the Holy Lords. It was a prayer for strength, and for patience, and mostly for guidance. He didn't know what to do. He never had. He was just making it all up as he went. At times like this, he wondered if the Lords did the same thing. Maybe there wasn't a grand plan, or a logic to the universe, or anything bigger and wiser than man. Maybe there was no hope. Maybe there was no point.
A knock on the hatch drew him from his morbid thoughts, and he was grateful. He hadn't let himself slump into this type of thinking since he'd lost his son years before, and he didn't want to go back. It was normal to doubt the wisdom of the universe when challenges were faced, but it didn't solve anything. It didn't help anything.
"Come," he called out.
The door opened slowly, almost tentatively. He knew then that it wasn't Tigh or Gaeta; those two had been in his room a dozen times this evening for one thing or another, whether he was here or not. When a head finally popped around the doorframe, he was startled but not displeased. "What do you hear, Starbuck?" he asked softly.
She gave a sheepish grin, but didn't say her lines. Either she was as tired as he was, or she just wasn't okay. Both were equally plausible and understandable. "I guess… I just wanted to see how you were doing," she admitted as she slid through the door and pulled it closed behind her. Had it been anyone else, he might have wondered what the agenda was, but this was Kara. She was the closest thing to a daughter that he'd ever had. If she was asking, she meant it.
"I've had better days," he admitted. "But I'm still here. How about you?"
She gave a shrug. "The same," she said. "Overworked, underpaid, and generally miserable."
"A warrior's lot," he told her with a smile, the old joke seeming far less funny than it had once been. "Honestly?"
She leaned back against the door. He would have offered her a seat, but the only one was his bed and he hadn't yet made it up. The mattress didn't look inviting. "I'm tired," she said. "But managing. Most of us are."
"Most," he agreed, and he was reminded of those who had not managed, or who did not want to manage.
"I came to ask a question," she said.
"I thought you'd come to check on the old man," he said with a raised eyebrow. She had the good grace to blush at that. "What's the question?"
"I have… a friend," she said haltingly. It wasn't like her; Kara never hedged. "I was wondering what the official policy is going to be for attempted suicides," she finally said. "I know that dishonorable discharge is customary, and in wartime it's potentially desertion, but…"
"But if we hold to that, we're going to be kicking out half of our fleet?"
"Yes, Sir," she said with relief.
"Who's your friend?" he asked, gesturing her to the bed anyway. It was in no worse shape than hers likely was.
She took a seat, looking nervous, her hands tucked between her knees. He didn't know if she was that insecure or if she was cold, but either way it wasn't like Kara. Belatedly he realized that she was under at least as much stress as the rest of them, if not more. Everyone was being pushed to the limit. It was daunting to realize that even the legendary Starbuck – even Kara – had limits. "Beth Cally," she said, then cleared her throat. "Crewman Specialist Cally," she corrected.
His eyes closed in pain. He'd seen the name on his roster, and he'd hoped it had been a mistake. He'd hoped, and yet he had known better. Suddenly the sweet smile of the young mechanic flashed into his mind. Lords, she was just a child. They were all children. How in hell was he going to protect them?
"I realize what she did was definitely against regs," Kara was saying. "But she's lost a lot… I mean, we all have, but she's lost most everyone. I don't think she really meant to do it. I even talked to the doc in Life Station, and he said that she'd been pretty out-of-it with not eating or sleeping, so it may not have even been her fault. I guess… I want to know if you're planning to court-martial for the attempts, because if you are I wanted to start looking for someone to represent her. And you said that you'd be inventorying professions, so I thought maybe you'd have information about where I could get her some council."
He held a hand up to stop her. "Kara, I'm not court-martialing anyone for being human right now," he said gently. "I'm working on getting someone in to provide some counseling, or at least some guidelines on how to manage these kids. At this point, it's all we can do to persecute those who act against others. She wasn't trying to hurt anyone; she was trying to stop hurting. That will be taken into account."
Kara released a pent-up breath and visibly relaxed. "Thank you," she said simply. "She's already scared… all she has left is her job."
"And she's damned good at it," he admitted. William rubbed his tired face, wondering when he had last showered or shaved… he couldn't even remember. "Lords, we've lost so many. I was down to the flight deck this morning, and it was… unbelievable. Damage reports can't tell you what the crews are living with. I don't know how they're holding together as well as they are."
"It's a battle," she admitted. "For the pilots, too. There aren't a lot of us left from the Galactica. We're filling up the squads, though. We've already had over a hundred men report who were either found in dead ships or picked up planetside. It'll take a while, but we'll have things running again before you know it. If they… if we need to fight, we'll be ready."
He smiled at the enthusiasm which he was far too old to share. "I'm hoping it isn't necessary," he admitted. "We need time to regroup, repair, and… maybe just live a little. I'm still waiting for the rush of separation requests; not many people would want to stay in the fleet with a war going on."
"You'd be surprised," she told him. "Most everyone wants to fight back. It's easier to be mad than to hurt."
"So it is," he agreed. He had told her the same thing years before, and he had a feeling that they were no longer talking about semi-anonymous crewmen anymore.
Kara was silent for a long time, and when she spoke her words neither surprised nor confused him. He had expected this. "I told him."
He looked up at her – at clear green eyes that were steadily holding his own despite the fear there – and he smiled. "I assume you mean that you told Lee about Zak's… flight test."
"Yes. He needed to know."
William shook his head and sighed. "You didn't have to do that. Lee and I can work out our own squabbles. Don't try to focus his anger on you. It won't make him any more accepting of me."
She shook her head as he had. "Why didn't you tell him?" she asked, exasperation clear in her voice. "I understood at first, because I know you wanted to protect me and give him time. But it's been two years. He deserved to know the truth."
"The truth is that you were in an unacceptable position and you made a poor decision based on inexperience and emotion. That's all. Kara, we've been over this before; I don't hold you responsible."
"Lee may," she argued. "He has the right."
"It isn't his place to judge," William argued. "Not me, not you… hell, not anyone. If he's giving you a hard time, you come to me. Understood?"
"Actually, he's taken it pretty well," she admitted with a small smile. "All things considered, anyway. We haven't… talked about it or anything. There hasn't been time. But I wanted you to know, because… the two of you…"
"Kara, stop."
"No!"
"Kara…"
"There aren't a lot of families left!" It had burst from her, as though she were fighting to keep it in, and she just couldn't. "I don't want to get in between yours. Not again; not ever. Please… I…"
"Kara," he began. She didn't let him finish.
"You lost one son because of me," she said, her eyes closing as the grief poured through her expression, her body shaking with the control it took to hold herself together. He could almost see the force of will she exerted not to fly apart. "I don't want you to lose another. You've come too close to losing him… twice. Please don't lose him again; not because of me."
He watched her for a moment more, and the fatigue he'd felt suddenly seemed more than overwhelming. He'd had a lifetime of regrets and disappointments – Lee's lifetime – and none of those wrongs had to do with this woman. She hadn't forced him to leave his family behind, and she hadn't ordered him to lie to his son. She had simply made a mistake – the same mistake anyone in love would have made. She didn't deserve to pay for it. He on the other hand deserved more penance than he could ever hope to pay. His decisions had always been selfish; nothing was likely to change. He was still selfish.
"Kara…" He looked at her for a moment, then just gave up. He left the small chair at the desk to sit beside her on the bed and put an arm around her. She was stiff and unmoving as he did so. "I won't lose Lee," he said gently. "Not over this. And you won't lose him either. Yes, he was angry – probably he still is. But he's also Iilya's son, and as such he has a heart that was made to forgive. It will come with time, for both of us."
"So many people are just… giving up," she said, her voice breaking but her eyes dry. "I don't understand it. This just… it makes me want to live even more, just to prove I can. Is that wrong?"
"It's exactly right," he said, giving her rigid body a gentle squeeze. "You're young, and you have a lifetime ahead of you. You have skill, and spirit, and you have a lot of people who both care about you and need you. It's okay to want to live through this; I wish more people did."
"But… I have you, and Lee, and I still have a lot of friends around. I guess… Lee doesn't have that. Everyone he knows, except us, he's lost. And if he's mad at us…"
"You're afraid that he'll be as desperate as some of the others?" William asked.
Closing her eyes, she nodded. Her hands were still held tightly between her knees, her body was still held rigidly against the shivers that he could feel coursing up and down it, and he could see that she was far more frightened than he had first thought.
He wasn't sure how to comfort her without making her think he was belittling her concerns. He wasn't; they were valid. But as many differences as the Adamas had, he did know his son. If losing Zak hadn't pushed Lee over that precipice, then nothing could. "Talk to him," he finally said. "Kara, it's something you need to do. He may be angry, and he may be unwilling, but you need to sort this out. Hell, hit him if you have to," he said with a gentle shake, slightly worried when she didn't even smile at the attempt at levity. "You know you can take him if it comes to that. Make him listen; it's all you can do."
"That didn't work for you," she said softly, finally meeting his eyes with wide, green pools of fear.
"You're a hell of a lot better looking than I am," he said with a raised eyebrow, grateful to finally see the flicker of a smile. "And he likes you better than he ever liked me. Just talk to him, Kara. Something tells me he'll listen."
The look she gave him was frankly disbelieving.
"And as for the rest, try not to worry. I'm not taking disciplinary action against the people who have attempted to end their lives. I'm taking precautions to ensure that this insanity stops, but I'm not going to arrest them. They have enough problems as it is. My only goal is to get them back to work, get them some help, and hopefully get us all through this."
Kara took a deep breath and nodded, looking back down at her hands. He gave one last gentle hug, wishing that his feeble attempt at comfort had been more effective, and then stood. She did the same almost immediately afterwards. "Thank you," she told him. "For the information… and for listening. I know how busy you are…"
"The day I'm too busy for you is the day I quit," he said with all honesty. He had not been there for his family in the past – he knew that – and it was time for some changes. The end of the world had a way of making a man realize what was important; what was left of his family was damned important.
She smiled at that and took a step towards the door. Just before reaching it, she turned, walked quickly back to him, and threw her arms up around his neck. The hug was hard and fast, and seemed to surprise her as much as it did him, but he accepted it gratefully. He squeezed tightly, reminded almost absently of the feel of having his son in his arms after thinking him dead. In her way, Kara meant as much to him as Lee did; she wasn't blood, but she was indeed family. She said nothing more as she released him and backed away, gave him half a smile, then exited through the hatch.
William experienced a vivid flash of memory of the dozens of times he'd gone home on leave, and when he'd left after each short visit his boys had hung on him as though they would never let him go. It had hurt, but it had reassured him that they still loved him, still knew their father, and that they would be there for him when he returned. Once he'd managed to get clear of them, and Iilya's clinging good-byes, Kara would stand by the door looking as though she wanted so much to do the same thing. He'd always offered her open arms, but only once or twice had she actually hugged him. It wasn't that she disliked him – he had never felt that from her – but rather that she just didn't share those emotions with anyone. He doubted that she even admitted them.
Moments later, as he still stood looking at the closed hatch, he wondered if maybe he wasn't the only person who had shifted his priorities because of the war. Maybe he wasn't the only one reevaluating what was important. Maybe he wasn't the only one who wasn't sure where to go from here. Maybe he wasn't the only one who needed the touch of someone alive just to know that he was living too.
He hoped that Kara and Lee would talk. Frankly, he would love to be a fly on the wall when it happened. His son wasn't an easy man to talk to – he had his faults – but William knew that Lee's soft spot for Kara was as wide and deep as his own. Given time, they would work it out. Given time, they would be family again. And hopefully, if the Lords were with them, He might be a part of that family as well.
William gave one more glance at the bed, then with great regret seated himself at his desk and reached for his glasses. He had work to get done; the sooner he had it finished, the sooner he could sleep.