Even before Commander William Adama stepped through the hatch of Galactica's wardroom he knew what the men and women gathered around the long conference table had been talking about: him, or more precisely, him and President Roslin and whether they'd reached an agreement.
Roslin had still been too sick from her latest round of treatment to participate on the committee, but she was still President. The emergency Senate had made Adama second in line of succession. He did what was necessary to hold the government together, but no more. Besides this was clearly going to be a military operation and thus well within his venue. He had asked the President's approval more out of politeness than real legal necessity under the provisional government's emergency rules.
Adama had spent last evening at the President's sickbay bedside. It had been hard for him to argue with the white husk of a woman. She treasured life like no one else he'd ever met -- his no less than her own and he had seen the hurt in her eyes as he explained the committee's plan and its probable outcome. But for better or for worse, this morning she'd agreed with him. He'd prevailed, more because he was right than anything else. Human kind would never be truly safe until every Cylon was a pile of rusted out parts.
"Attention on deck," someone demanded. Ten pairs of worn out ship boots hit the deck in a raucous symphony of dull thuds and scraping chairs as everyone in uniform rose to rigid attention, eyes forward, looking at nothing, trying to think nothing. Even the three civilians sat up straighter although their worry-wrinkle bracketed eyes tracked Adama's progress across the compartment as though he were the man-eating World Snake foretold in the Sacred Scrolls and they were his chosen prey.
Adama couldn't quite get a grasp on their fear. All the civilians would live. Only Colonial soldiers would die, and they'd all seen plenty of death over the last three years. Perhaps the civilians didn't want any more, even though they'd all agreed it couldn't be avoided. A few would risk almost certain death so the rest could live. The Cylon home world had to be destroyed.
Forcing himself to walk slowly and steadily, Adama took his place at the head and said, "At ease, and be seated." He sat down, poured a glass of recycled water and downed the whole foul-tasting thing in three swallows. His mouth had been as dry as space -- the old fight-or-flight reaction, but he couldn't do either just yet. He had to tell them the President's choice and they had to finish their plan. "President Roslin asked me to tell you how proud she is of your work. She looked it over last night and …" Taking a deep breath, he carefully said the words, "it's a go, ladies and gentlemen."
Adama tried to meet the eyes of everyone at the table with calm reassurance, but he was a father first, and out of the corner of his eye he watched his son Lee, sitting to his right on the far side of his executive officer Colonel Tigh and navigator Lieutenant Gaeta. For long seconds Lee stared at his father with his lips pulled tightly into a pained grimace, then the expressive young face stilled, and Adama could see Lee's mind turn inward.
When presented with an insoluble dilemma, Lee buried it inside and let it eat his heart out. He'd done the same thing when his brother Zak had died five years ago, and two years later his mother in the Judgment. And Adama knew Lee was having marriage problems, which would only add to the pain and confusion. Fathers always know things like that. Right now, the only help Adama could give was a little time for recovery. Putting on his reading glasses, he nodded at the woman to his left. "Doctor Massinger, could you possibly go first?"
The blonde civilian geophysicist had been staring at the hands she'd clenched around an empty cup. Hearing her name, the scientist twitched upright and looked at Adama with a puffy red face that was on the brink of tears. Before even trying to speak, she rubbed her eyes, pinched her nose, and took several trembling breaths. "I'm sorry, Commander. My son signed on as one of your Viper pilots six months ago. He said he wanted to do something important with his life. I just … I guess I was hoping you'd come up with another plan."
Adama wanted to say, So did I, but stayed silent. This was no time to be either human or humane. Holding on to a non-committal smile, he waited for her to continue.
She picked up a small notebook and thumbed it open. "If we can't make it to Earth, G89 is about the best alternative we're likely to find. Weather extremes exist, of course, but the atmosphere is breathable, the ionosphere is stable, the seas adequate for rainfall generation, at least some of the flora is safe to eat, and the fauna … well, the fauna …" The doctor actually smiled, although her lips wavered at the corners. "Some of them are awfully big by our standards, but they're also edible, as you already know."
One of the first things that exploration parties to Zodiac had brought back to the fleet had been fresh meat. Just two of the planet's horned and scaled monsters had yielded three tons of white flesh. It hadn't been beef-steak by any stretch of the imagination, but still tasty and natural protein unlike the synthesized mud they'd been eating. For the first time since the battle at Ragnar, they'd been able to lift the food rationing. There'd been food parties on every ship, and people had eaten themselves sick. On the next trip the scout ship had brought back two more of them. Butchering animals as big as Vipers had been a real trick, but somehow Cook had managed. He'd only asked for an extra ration of shower water afterwards.
Massinger continued, "It's a young world, by our standards. Just two billion years old, but meteorology, virology, everything looks good. We'll make it here, Commander Adama. My team has picked a primary building site where the Roslin River feeds into the largest saline sea and three secondary ones on the two other continents. Temperate climate, apparently stable land masses -- they're the best we could find." Talking about hope and the future had raised the doctor's spirits. Her face had lost its flush and when she looked to the man to her left, she almost grinned. "If Bart here's ready, so are we."
Adama nodded. "Thank you, doctor. The Galactica will help as much as it can before we leave. Captain Barthmelent, I believe you have a landing schedule?"
And so it went around the table, each man or woman picking up a pile of paper, a notebook or a model and explaining the future, everything from how they planned to hide the carcasses of the remaining forty starships from prying, spying eyes; to the health status of the forty thousand surviving human beings; to the battle-readiness of the Galactica and if she really could make the required FTL jumps to the Cylon home world. Adama hadn't realized there was so much paper left in the entire fleet. Paper and paperwork had survived every battle and Cylon attack. It just refused to go away.
They'd been through the plans already once, but only in theory, testing and arguing each idea. This time they were setting it in place. Those not speaking took notes. They were planning not only the salvation of the human race but also the deaths of two hundred and twelve volunteers. More than a few hands shook as they wrote.
Gunnery Officer Gibson reported on the ordnance that the Galactica would leave with the new colony -- one thousand mixed rifles and side arms and ten tons of small caliber ammunition, about two-thirds of what was left. The Galactica only needed the fifty-oughts for her dorsal batteries, the twelve-oughts for the Vipers and maybe five hundred rounds of nine millimeter for the penetration party.
And of course, one asteroid, but Gibson wouldn't have one of those in his armory.
They'd reached the far end of the table. Adama thought, If I'm the supposed spiritual father of this frakkin' table full of fools, then surely this woman's the mother. Commander Doctor Elena Lighter of the research ship Paracelsus had been one of the most renowned geneticists of the Twelve Colonies. She was also a loyal Colonial soldier and Adama's friend. "Commander Lighter, your report on the legacy project?"
The brown-skinned woman nodded and stood up. Bending over to pick something up from the deck, she hauled a dark-green twelve-liter glass jar onto the table, thumping it down next to a short stack of yellow and blue cards.
Lighter said, "We're going to set up two hundred of these. As Captain Silliams told you, the Paracelsus will land intact at the primary site, be buried and continue to function as the hospital and the in vitro crèche." Lighter's fingers played along the jar's smooth rim. "Commander Adama, I really wish you'd reconsider and exclude the young women. We have only ten thousand fertile females as it is and growing babies in glass jars is hardly an exact science."
Adama shook his head. He and Lighter had been over similar ground countless times in the last three days. "All of my crewmen are equally valuable whatever gonads they're packing around, and if this mission has any hope of succeeding, I'll need the best." The scientist looked like she had another protest in her so Adama tried to beat her to it. "No one will go that doesn't want to, Lights, they'll all be volunteers, both the men and the women. And don't forget, this is just a precaution. We're going to do our best to make it back alive."
Yeah, right, Commander Lighter's eyes said. No one believes you'll be back, not even you. That's why you're only taking volunteers, remember? "It just would be such a waste, Bill, more than two hundred of our finest men and women."
Adama couldn't let that pass unchallenged. "No one knows that better than me. They're my people. All of them."
The men and women around the table had calmed as they'd listened to the hope-filled colony plans, but Lighter's impassioned pleading had rekindled the earlier fear. Even the Galactica senior officers on right side of the table, Captain Kelly, Lee, Colonel Tigh and Lieutenant Gaeta, looked uneasy. Adama had to pull them back. "Is there anything else you need to tell us, Commander?"
Lighter had begun to sit down. She straightened back up. "You know the rest of it. It's the same as yesterday. As soon as you announce our plan, we'll be looking for fifty or sixty couples to foster your babies. I've set up a collection lab down in your sickbay and …" she picked up the stack of colored cards "… I've taken the liberty of making up the match cards. I'll hand them out as I do the blood tests and gather the sperm and eggs. Just make sure all the volunteers come see me so I can make your babies for you. No one wants to lose their legacy."
"Don't worry, they'll donate or they won't go."
Before Adama could call on someone else, a knock sounded at the wardroom's hatch. It was a cart from the galley with a lunch of sandwiches and what they still called coffee, although it resembled that beverage only in color and caffeine kick. It was time for a break.
As Adama turned to speak with Colonel Tigh, he saw his son leave. He already knew where Lee was going, and even if he didn't entirely approve, it was Lee's choice as the Air Group Commander. He'd soon be back.