Ron Moore reimagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way meant to challenge any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.
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Author's Note: I haven't written a story in this fandom yet, so it's a good bet that none of y'all are familiar with my writing. After reading comments from last chapter, I feel that maybe a small warning is necessary – I have no qualms about hurting or killing characters, no matter what reviewers may write and irrespective of whether those characters are popular or even my own personal favorites. If it serves the story (and only if it serves the story... I don't take character pain or death lightly), I won't hesitate to take someone out. If you are adamantly against character death, then at some point, in something I may write (whether this story or another), you will not like my writing. I'm not saying anyone is slated to die in this story (and I have a great deal written and the rest completely outlined), and I'm likewise not saying everyone is safe. After putting up with complaints in earlier stories, though, I've learned that forewarned is forearmed.
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III – Changes in the Routine"I'm sorry Ms. Donner, but I'm not exactly sure what it is you hope to accomplish by speaking to me," Dr. Baltar said, his gaze shifting nervously between the plain but strangely attractive author and the pouting cylon hallucination who was sliding out of a red sequined cocktail dress several feet behind his guest.
"Please, call me Tabitha," she said with an ingratiating grin. "I've had a few preliminary conversations with the president, and it's become apparent that I should also speak with those who know her best. The president has an extremely full schedule, so I thought it would be best if I spent some of my day with you."
"I don't have the lingerie – sorry, luxury – of free time any more than the president does," Baltar assured the writer. A quick glance in Six's direction let Baltar know that, for her part, she was no longer burdened by the luxury of lingerie. Now what would be the best way to get Tabitha Plain-and-Short out of my lab?
"My questions are all pretty straightforward, Mr. Vice President," Donner assured her host. "You could probably keep working and hardly notice me. Surely a man who's accomplished as much as you have at such a young age will be able to multi-task."
Mr. Vice President, Baltar thought, letting the words bounce around in his mind. He loved the sound of that title, and he never thought he would get tired of hearing it. He had worked hard for years to earn the title of Doctor but had awkwardly stumbled into the title of Mr. Vice President; he found that, in retrospect, the amount of time and effort spent earning a title had little to do with the way he valued it. He looked away from Six and focused his gaze on Tabitha Donner.
"Gaius!" Six protested, realizing that Baltar had changed his mind as to who would receive his attention.
Vice President Gaius, he chided, thinking the rebuke, hoping, for once, that she would be able to read his mind. He could not be sure whether his message had gotten through, but when he glanced back in the cylon's direction, she was gone. "Perhaps it's time I take a short break," Baltar said with a smile. It was the one piece of advice he could remember from the whirlwind tour that President Roslin had gave him after he became Vice President. Always smile, Dr. Baltar. It makes you seem confident, secure, and trustworthy.
"Thank you, Mr. Vice President," Donner said, pulling a recorder and a notepad from her bag. "Is it okay with you if I tape our conversation?"
"Oh, of course," Baltar said, still smiling as he leaned back in his chair. "Wouldn't want you to misquote me or anything. Not with how important this whole thing may be."
"Now I'd like to start out the same way I did with President Roslin," Donner explained, already taking notes as she spoke. Baltar tried to get a view of what she was writing, but the author was doing a good job of keeping that hidden. He was certain it was all on purpose. "I'm not a reporter," Donner said, "so don't expect this to be written like a news story, simply covering the who, what, when, where, why, and how. At heart, I'm a novelist. Of course, this book is going to be facts and not some fictional fairy-tale, but my experience and style will demand that I write within some form of narrative."
"Of course."
"In order to get that narrative, I'll start out by asking for some background information." Donner brushed an unruly brown curl out of her face and settled her pale blue eyes on Baltar, her expression making him certain that she expected him to say something. He remained silent, so she continued. "It's like the saying that wars begin far before the first shot. I want to get at what really started the war, how it happened, how we were so vulnerable."
"Funny she would say that in those words," Six purred in Baltar's ears, inconveniently appearing right behind him. Over the months, he had grown strangely accustomed to being startled by her, but that didn't prevent him from jumping a slight bit at her words.
"Are you okay, Mr. Vice President?"
"Ah, yes… well, it's my back, actually," he lied, doing his best to cover up Six's unexpected reappearance while also hoping that this would give him a means of directing the conversation away from discussions of how the cylons were able to win such a quick, decisive victory. "I've been having these painful spasms lately. I think it's this lousy chair, but it's not like I can just call someone and requisition some ergonomic furniture."
"Probably couldn't have even before the war," Donner answered. "At least not on a battlestar. I can't imagine the military would have entertained a request like that."
"Probably not," Baltar agreed. "But I keep trying to remind myself that a few back spasms are really nothing in the whole scheme of things," he continued. Six was walking behind Donner, giving her a once-over with an expression that clearly told Baltar that his cylon paramour was disappointed in – and confused by – his decision to select the author's company over hers.
"The whole scheme of things?"
"Well, with things the way they are," Baltar clarified. "I can sit here and bitch and moan about having to spend twelve hours a day sitting in this debilitating chair, in this cold lab, with a mountain of work that I know full well will not be finished until near the very end of my expected lifespan. Or I could sit here and keep reminding myself that at least I have a purpose; I have something to do every day, rather than sit alone on some equally chilly ship full of strangers, all refugees who are just as alone because everyone they knew and loved is dead. I had no family to speak of, and my work pretty much precluded any semblance of a social life. So I didn't really lose anyone, at least not like most of the others did.
"I also have the comfort of knowing that I'm on the one warship in the fleet, so if the cylons come and blow up the ship, it's likely that I'm at least one of the last ones to die."
"And is that something you think about a lot?"
"I don't know that it can be helped," Baltar said. "In fact," he added, watching Six stretch out on a counter across the room, apparently deciding that she would wait until Baltar was done, "I find I have cylons on my mind a great deal of the time." That, at least, elicited a chuckle from Six's direction.
"I see." Again a notation in the notepad, and Gaius sat quietly for several moments as Donner continued to write at a frantic pace. "And you see yourself as lucky?"
"I suppose so. Like I said, I have my work, I have what passes for security in this day and age, and I have a chance to do something to help the rest of the survivors."
"And what is it that you do?"
"Well, obviously, there's the testing of blood samples," Baltar said, gesturing toward his bank of computers and a series of monitors across the room. He noticed that Six was looking increasingly bored, but he did his best to ignore her. "But I've also been trying to help in the way of organizing some of our resources."
"Food? Water?"
"No, human resources," Baltar explained. "It happened quite accidentally, actually. I was speaking with Laura--"
"--You mean President Roslin?"
"Yes. I was speaking to President Roslin, and I mentioned that it would be quite a great help if I could find an assistant or two. I joked that in the old days, I would simply go to the dean and ask for a few graduate students, and once we were done haggling over how much they would be paid for their time, I would instantly have extra staff. Of course, I expressed my disappointment that the dean didn't survive, because with money not meaning much now, the conversation would take all of about thirty seconds.
"Anyway, President Roslin mentioned that maybe we could, in fact, find me some help. That was when we began to discuss the census that just recently started up. Hopefully, we'll be able to find some people with some kind of college or professional experience that could be a help to me here. But we could also use mechanics, manual laborers who have experience with tool and die machines, computer technicians, and just about every other job under the sun. Or under the stars, I guess one would say now."
"So the census was your idea?"
"Partially, I would say," Baltar corrected. "As I said, it came out of a discussion with the President. She's an amazing woman, actually. She's uniquely inspired. And inspiring."
"Are you bucking for a raise, Gaius?" Six joked from her spot across the room. "I honestly didn't know you had it in you to kiss ass so well."
"Well, the president has certainly been an inspiration to the entire fleet," Donner said.
"Yes, but knowing her as I do, I find her to be so much more. I would almost call her a mentor, actually. I never really gave a thought to politics – I thought it was just what people did when they wanted to feel more impo7rtant than they actually are." Donner laughed at that, and Baltar smiled broadly. "Now that I'm suddenly in politics, and as the Vice President, no less, I find that there's actually so much more to it. Maybe it's because of the crises that we face on a daily basis, but this is certainly not just a job for one to satisfy his egomaniacal urges. This is a job that allows one to really make a difference, to serve his fellow man." Baltar stopped, noted that Six was gone yet again, and smiled warmly. "I guess that sounded really corny, didn't it?"
"Not at all, actually," Donner replied, brushing her hand through her hair once again, though this time there were no curls in her face. "I think you have a great deal of character."
"Well, I'm not entirely sure I know how to respond to that," Baltar said, locking his gaze on Donner's. "Maybe I should just discuss some of the other things that have come up in meetings with the president? Or are you on a tight schedule?"
"My calendar is completely clear," Donner assured him. "Right now, I'm all yours, Mr. Vice President."
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"Okay, Starbuck, up and at 'em," Lee yelled, walking over and shaking Kara's bunk. She rolled over and scowled at him, somehow managing the expression while only opening one eye halfway.
"I'm sleeping, Lee," she grumbled, grabbing a worn, pancake-thin pillow and placing it over her face.
"Not anymore, Starbuck. I need you to fly a patrol; Kat is waiting for you on the flight deck."
"I'm grounded," Starbuck moaned from beneath her pillow, her arm blindly reaching out to push Lee away.
"You're hung over," Lee said.
"Well I thought I'd have the day off," Starbuck complained.
"You don't get days off, Lieutenant," Apollo responded. Starbuck removed the pillow and saw a sickeningly satisfied grin on the C.A.G.'s face. "You were grounded, that doesn't mean you get to drink and play cards for fourteen hours a day."
"I was on a winning streak. You can't expect me to walk away from the table while I'm winning."
"But I can expect you to be ready to fly the next morning."
"I'm grounded," Starbuck repeated.
"I need a pilot," Apollo said. "You're available."
"I'm sleeping."
"I seem to remember Zak telling me about this one time he got a pitcher of ice water," Lee commented.
"Don't even think about it," Starbuck threatened.
"I need a pilot," Apollo repeated.
"Why?" Starbuck asked, forcing her body into a seated position.
"If you had been up when you should have been, you wouldn't need to ask," Apollo said. "You would have known just by looking at Hyper."
"What's wrong with Hyper?"
"He says he's just sick," Lee answered, "but the pale skin and cold sweats say otherwise. I think he's been taking stims, just like Kat was. I think we may have to initiate some drug testing around here."
"Hyper would never take stims," Starbuck said, immediately jumping to her friend's defense. "Has the doc confirmed it?"
"Cottle says he's too busy to get back to me," Apollo griped. "He has half the deck shut down because they're decontaminating the sick bay."
"Huh?"
"No shipyards left, so we have to do decon on the fly," Apollo explained, once again smiling. "So that means there'll be so many chemicals being used down there that I know you ain't gonna go down to sickbay instead of a Viper. The stink would make you hurl faster than a plate full of soft-boiled eggs."
"Oh, don't mention eggs, Lee."
"It's not like I said they'd be over easy, all runny and gross mixing with bacon-fat."
"Oh, gods," Starbuck cursed, practically leaping down from her bunk and racing to the head.
"Once you're done puking, I need you down in pre-flight," Apollo called out, starting to whistle as he went back to work.
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"Oh, hello," Ellen Tigh said, poring over the young marine standing in front of her. He was just a shade over six feet tall, with nice, broad shoulders, neatly trimmed brown hair, and emerald-green eyes that drew her in, though not remotely against her will. He seemed to be in his early- to mid-thirties, and she definitely did not recognize him. "Who might you be?"
"Ma'am, I was told that I should come here and check in with Colonel Tigh," the marine responded.
"Is it important?"
"No, Ma'am," he answered, his expression devoid of any hint of emotion.
Ellen Tigh was used to getting a reaction, be it irritation, flirtation, or simple unease. But this one seems completely oblivious. I guess he's what Saul would call a good marine. "And are the marines going to make a habit of coming by our quarters when there isn't anything important to discuss?" she asked coyly, trying harder to get a reaction as she also probed for information.
"Ma'am, I'm in no position to make any statements regarding the future procedures the commander may or may not utilize."
"So the commander sent you?"
"I was sent to report to the colonel," the marine reiterated. "If he's not here, I'll look somewhere else."
"Oh, all right," Ellen muttered. "He's here… in the shower. Would you like to come in and wait?" She knew there was something going on, something Saul had been reluctant to discuss. Perhaps the marine would be more forthcoming. Besides, it's always nice to make new friends.
"No ma'am, I can come back later."
"Who's there?" a gravelly man's voice asked from inside the quarters.
"One of your marines, Saul," Ellen said, opening the door wider and walking from the doorway. She made certain she stayed close, though. If something important was going on, she wanted to know all she could about it.
"Who're you?" Colonel Tigh asked, completely unconcerned that he was standing halfway out in the hall with only a towel covering him.
"Name's Jack Rutger, sir," the marine answered. "I was on the transport that just arrived in the fleet. Commander Adama sent me down here to talk to you."
"Why'd he do that?"
"He said the marines fall under your authority," Rutger explained.
"And you're a marine?"
"I was, sir. I guess you could say I've been reactivated from the reserves. The commander wants me available to stay on the Chimera. He plans on using it as an extra Raptor, I think. But when the ship's not out, I'm supposed to get my orders from you."
"You do realize that you should probably report to Sergeant Hadrian, don't you? She can give you your duties. No reason to come to me during my time off."
"Thing is that I was a major," Rutger said. "Commander Adama said that would make me your second-in-command, so he thought it would be a good idea if maybe I talked to you before I did anything else."
"Yeah… You look young for a major."
"I am, sir," Rutger agreed, no shortage of pride on his face. "Got my promotions due to distinctions in combat. I was Colonial Marine Recon, sir."
"Special Forces."
"That's where I met Lieutenant Fetter, sir."
"Well, I don't know what I'm gonna do with you," Saul grumbled. "Why don't you stay up by that transport of yours for a bit and give me a chance to figure out where you fit in. The commander and I are really in it right now, and I haven't had a second since the attacks… I'm going to have to see what I can give you besides guard duty in the brig."
"I understand, sir. I'll be on the flight deck, sir." Rutger saluted and turned on his heel, his quick stride echoing away down the hall as Saul turned to his wife.
"A major," he commented with a shrug. "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle."
"And what are you going to do with him, Saul?" Ellen asked. She could not believe that Saul was taking the development so lightly; it was obvious that his position was in danger.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, yesterday there were no Marine officers, so they all fell under your authority," Ellen pointed out. "Technically, you're no Marine, Saul; you're a fleet officer. Now that they have a major, they don't need you."
"Then thank the gods," Saul muttered. "Maybe you haven't noticed, spending your time in our quarters as much as you do, but being the XO of a battlestar that's always on the brink of annihilation keeps me busy enough as it is. If Bill wants to give command of the marines to this Rutger, he's welcome to it."
"Oh, and wouldn't that be great," Ellen spat, turning her back on her husband and filling a glass with ambrosia. "The marines would really respect you then."
"Huh?"
"Think for a second, Saul. For once, just think it through. When Bill was shot, the only thing that kept the ship running was order, order handed down from you as the next in the chain of command. The marines were yours, unquestioningly, loyally, and no one would move against you – and threaten the order we need – as long as the marines were yours. If Major Ruger--"
"Rutger."
"Whatever his name is," Ellen shot back, chugging her drink and getting an immediate refill. "If he gets the marines, then you won't have them. Hell, if Bill hands off the marines to the first officer who comes along, the enlisted men will be laughing in their cups. You'll lose all respect, Saul… and then what happens if something else bad happens to Bill?"
"Nothing bad will happen to Bill."
Ellen almost puked when she heard the tone in her husband's voice. Fear. He's full of fear, and it shows every time he thinks about Bill dying. He's afraid of command, even though he knows it could come to him at any time. I have to make him see how capable he is, how deserving he is. How entitled he is. "You never thought anything bad would happen to Bill, but that didn't stop a cylon assassin from gunning him down in the C.I.C., right in front of you while you did nothing."
"Oh hell, not this again," Saul muttered, suddenly finding that he could not get ready for his shift quickly enough.
"Not what again?"
"That's it, Ellen," Tigh said, his tone suddenly ringing with the authority of a bridge officer. It was music to Ellen's ears. "There will be no more discussion about this, is that understood?"
"Yes, Saul." Ellen walked away and sat down, picking up a book and pretending to read as Saul continued to dress. Why is it that he can only muster the force of will to command me, and only after I egg him on? she wondered. By all rights, he's the second most powerful man in the fleet. If only he would figure that out. If only he would act on it. Our lives would be so much better then.
To be continued…………………………