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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VIII – Religion and Philosophy"Good morning, Sibyl," a little girl called out as she ran past Doreah's quarters aboard the Aeolus. It was still very early, only minutes after the sleep period had officially ended on the ship. Soon the others would be opening the doors to their own quarters as they began their days, and Doreah hoped that she would have all of her laundry – now hanging on a line in her doorway – taken down and folded neatly away before anyone saw her. The aura of a Sibyl would doubtless be diminished if my neighbors saw my smallclothes hanging out to dry.
Not for the first time, Doreah found herself longing for her old home at the Oracle of Lydia. She had spent years studying the Sacred Scrolls, honing her own talent for prophecy. Only months from taking her final vows and officially becoming a Sibyl, all of her dreams – along with the temple and surrounding neighborhood – had come crashing down around her.
The worst of it had been the second week after her flight from Geminon. She had felt the stares of the people; they all saw her intricately braided hair, and they knew what it meant. At first, they had all taken comfort in her words, her assurances. Stories had spread that she was a Sibyl, and the most devout had come to her for blessings. Not soon after, when the initial shock had begun to wear off and logic returned to people's minds, the obvious question arose – what kind of prophetess does not foresee the end of the world.
Many had railed against such accusations, but Doreah had often felt that even her greatest supporters sometimes questioned her gifts. Even worse, they've sometimes questioned their own faith, she admitted to herself.
Her work was done and she was just about to walk into her quarters when she heard two muffled voices coming from down the hall, where the young girl had run. Hoping to make certain that the girl was all right, Doreah walked slowly down the hall, arriving at a turn that prevented her from seeing who was talking, though she could make out the words clearly now that she was closer.
"I don't buy it," a deep, rumbling male voice said. He was trying to whisper, but his voice did not lend itself well to the attempt.
"How can you deny it?" another man asked. He sounded young, his voice not even fully changed yet, and Doreah smiled when she realized that the young man was trying to deepen his own voice and whisper at the same time, resulting in a vibrato tone that almost made her laugh.
"This is Tom Zarek you're talking about," the older man answered. Doreah was now intently interested in the conversation; she knew the name Tom Zarek, and she had heard that he had done a great deal to improve the conditions on her ship. "He's been a nice guy, but he's still a convicted terrorist. You can't be serious."
"Pythia was pretty clear on this," the young man countered. He had given up his attempts at whispering, though he still kept his voice low. Now Doreah recognized him. It's Deacon Connor, she realized. She knew the young man from one of her prayer groups. He had arrived on the ship only a day before the outbreak of the Trojan Plague, explaining that he was searching for a purpose and had heard that there was a Sibyl on board her ship. Doreah had accepted him into her flock as she had everyone else who had come to her.
"Pythia lived thousands of years ago, and you're a fool if you believe a thing she wrote."
"You say that after all that's already happened?" Deacon asked. "What about the caravan of the heavens and President Roslin's illness? It all fits. And so does the Condemned Man."
"So you say."
"And when the leader of the people succumbs to death, the Condemned Man will rise, and the people will forgive him for having opposed their lost Leader," Deacon said, reciting one of Pythia's passages. "We know Roslin is going to die, and we know that Zarek has opposed her."
"So has Adama," the older man pointed out. "He went and arrested her. And Tigh declared martial law. All Zarek did was run against her candidate in an election for the new vice-president."
"The Condemned Man will achieve atonement," Deacon argued, citing another passage. "I think he did that when he helped Roslin escape the brig and hide from Tigh. She forgave him for opposing her."
"That's stupid."
"Well, I don't see any other former convicts – or condemned men, as Pythia would say – running around opposing the president and then getting forgiveness for what they did," Deacon answered. "Zarek is the one who's going to deliver us to Earth. Pythia said so."
"Your mind's been clouded by hanging around that woman down the hall," the older man said. "She has you hung up on prophecy and religion, when you should be spending your time finding your next meal."
"Whatever," Deacon said. "Someday you'll see, and you'll wish you would have listened to me when you had a chance to show your faith in the gods."
"Uh-huh," the older man grunted.
Doreah realized their conversation was over, that one or both of them might turn the corner and see her eavesdropping. She rushed back the way she had come, as quietly as possible, and was safely in her quarters by the time Deacon walked past her door.
Breathing a sigh of relief, she thought over what she had just heard. Deacon is only a child, but I think he may be right, she decided. She allowed the idea to sit in her mind, and the more she thought about it, the more it felt like the truth. She knew in her heart that Tom Zarek was the Condemned Man, the way she had always felt the truth when it had been delivered to her.
"I have to spread the word," she muttered to her empty quarters. "It's time to stop looking at the suffering of the past and turn instead to the future. I'm a Sybil… maybe the last Sybil. It's time I act the part."
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"I believe you ordered nine Harpy III concussion missiles?" Apollo called up to Ares as he pulled up next to the Chimera with a weapons lift. As usual, Ares was working on his ship, this time poring over a circuit board he had pulled from near the stern. It seemed to Apollo that Ares spent almost as much time on maintenance as he did actually flying.
"Took long enough," Ares complained, though his broad smile belied his attempt at crankiness.
"There are four more that have been reserved for your ship, too," Apollo promised.
"You gonna help me load them?"
"Do I look like a deckhand?"
"Actually, you do," Ares joked. "But then again, maybe I'm delusional. I might be coming down with something."
"That's not funny."
"Neither is forcing me to do every bit of maintenance on my ship," Ares countered.
"You had the opportunity to have a crew assigned to it," Apollo pointed out. "You're the one who turned down my offer."
"They wanted full specs," Ares reminded him.
"And that surprised you? You were never all that bright, but seriously…"
"Hey, it doesn't bother me much, but Drake flipped out when I told him that Galactica's techs would have full access to his upgrades. As if someone's going to steal an idea and make billions of cubits by patenting it before him. As if that's a concern for him…"
"Not everyone has gotten used to the fact that everything is different now," Apollo said. "Believe it or not, it seems like the prospect of impending doom doesn't cheer most people up the way it does you."
"See, I knew you'd end up using that against me," Ares complained, walking up to Apollo and starting to look over the missiles on the rack.
"Not using it against you," Apollo responded, "just pointing out that you seem to have a unique point of view. You can't expect the civilians to be gung-ho about this war. They're caught in the middle – like civilians always are – and if we lose, they all die."
"Then they should get their heads out of their asses and get themselves into the fight," Ares grumbled, focusing on one of the missiles near the bottom of the rack. "This one's got a bad guidance thruster," he said.
"What are you talking about?" Apollo asked.
"The thruster's bad," Ares repeated. "Right here," he said, pointing to the defective part. "I'm not hitting anything out there with this; it'll just go spinning off into space."
"No, I meant what are you talking about with the civilians?"
"They should wake up and smell the coffee," Ares explained. "There's no such thing as civilians anymore – the word should be banned."
"We can't do that."
"Why not?"
"For one thing, that would put all of the authority under the commander," Apollo pointed out. "We can't have that, and he's made it very clear he believes that there should be a civilian commander in chief."
"And the result is that we have to put up with tens of thousands of civilians who are a drain on our resources," Ares argued. "The whole fleet can only move as fast as the slowest civilian transport, which, in case you haven't noticed, isn't very fast."
"We can't leave people behind."
"They eat our food, they drink our water, they breathe our air, all while providing a breeding ground for diseases and giving nothing back to the rest," Ares said. "I heard a group of cylons got aboard the Galactica during one of their raids."
"Yeah."
"And what happens when they decide to use the same strategy against your civilian ships?" Ares asked. "They'd be like lambs to the slaughter, and you know it, Apollo."
"I don't see how putting them all under military authority is going to change that," Apollo countered. "Let's just say for a minute that we declared everyone to be drafted into the military."
"A valid suggestion, given the emergency nature of our current situation. The Articles of Colonization did provide for a military draft, you know."
"But not for 100 military service," Apollo argued. "There has to be a civilian population to support the military. There are plenty of ships out there that pull their own weight by helping to keep the Galactica supplied."
"And once again, what happens if a bunch of cylons gets aboard those ships?"
"Then we'll have to go in and take them out."
"Why not start training people across the fleet?" Ares suggested. "Wouldn't that make more sense? Word has it you're gonna be training police, so why not add some military training, as well? There are too many ships, and too few soldiers. The major concern so far has been about getting pilots, and that's all well and good, but some new marines would be a good idea, too."
"And how, exactly, are you planning on arming all of these new marines?"
"We have several machine shops here on Galactica," Ares answered. "Why not refit some of them to make weapons? It's not exactly rocket science, Apollo. We can get most of the raw materials from planets, moons, asteroids, and even comets. Not to mention the fact that every time Starbuck gets back from her latest one-on-ten cylon killfest we have a whole Viper's worth of new scrap metal."
As much as he wanted to continue arguing the idea, Apollo saw some merit in Ares' proposal. I've considered some of the same things myself a couple of times, he reminded himself. But while crafting new weapons and ammunition is a simple enough goal, universal military service is over the top… "I'll mention it to the commander," Apollo promised.
"Good."
"But only if you wipe that satisfied smirk off your face," Apollo threatened. "If I was in the mood to see that, I'd go hang out with Starbuck."
"Well, if you could stand the sexual tension, you would," Ares replied. "You two should seriously just get it over with and sleep with each other."
"You know, sometimes you sound almost intelligent, and then you screw it all up by not knowing when to stop talking."
"It's always been my downfall," Ares shrugged. "But that doesn't mean I'm wrong."
"Have fun loading these missiles on your own," Apollo said, suddenly deciding to get some paperwork done.
"You can' be serious."
"I'm always serious," Apollo assured him. "That's one thing you'll have to learn."
"Wasn't always that way," Ares called out as Apollo reached the exit hatch. "You used to be fun."
Used to be, Apollo thought as he walked down the corridor, for the first time oblivious to the fact that he was alone in the hallway, now cleared of other crewmembers in order to reduce the chance of infection to the pilots. But that was a long time ago, and everything's different now. It's so different that I'm actually starting to see merit in some of Ares' half-assed ideas.
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Helo kept one eye on the clock as he ran his hand through Sharon's hair. He often felt that he got more out of his visits than she did, even though the notion seemed absurd. She was locked in a cage – for her protection as much as ours, Helo realized more with every passing day – with no one to talk to and well aware that she was surrounded by people who wanted her dead. All alone, with nothing but fear and a little bit of spunky anger, and I actually have the nerve to find more comfort from her than she can get from me. It made Helo feel a little guilty.
"I have to go," he whispered in her ear. Her hand clutched his more tightly, and it tore at him that he couldn't stay longer.
"Just a few minutes more," Sharon pleaded.
"That's what you said a few minutes ago," Helo answered, helpless against a thin smile.
"This time I mean it."
"Okay. A few minutes more." Helo relaxed and leaned into Sharon's body, enjoying her warmth, absorbing her smell, listening to the slow, relieved breaths that were the only outward indication that she was still alive. Helo didn't say anything else – he knew he didn't have to. The physical closeness, the comfort and support it provided, meant more than any mere words could provide.
Not for the first time, Helo wondered at his feelings. He had never truly been in love with a woman before, despite what he had believed at so many times when he was younger. The first woman he had fallen for was a friend named Ilene; that had been when he was fifteen, and it was over by the time he was seventeen. During college he had had a few girlfriends, and he had actually planned to marry a woman named Anne before her parents decided they didn't like him around their daughter and she failed to stick up for him. But not since then, he realized. Nothing that could possibly pass for serious, and now that I'm with Sharon, I finally have some perspective – the relationships I used to think were serious were nothing more than passing infatuations masquerading as true love. This is real, this is true. So much so that it changes not only how I feel now, but I how I feel about everything else I've ever done, everyone else I've ever known.
Helo had been alone for years, never fully realizing or understanding it. Looking back on it all now, he had to admit that he had been in love with Sharon Valerii for as long as he could remember. He had flown with her for so long, living for their time in the Raptor when it was just them, when the chief was out of sight and out of mind. In the Raptor, they clicked. Sharon was the mind and the hands, Helo the eyes and ears. As long as they were flying, it was almost like they were extensions of each other. When the flights ended, they went their separate ways to their separate lives.
Helo doubted he would ever come to terms with the irony that his decision to surrender his seat on his Raptor, giving up all that he had known and loved, was what had finally brought Sharon into his arms. On Caprica, he had fooled himself into believing that Sharon had cared enough to leave the chief and risk certain death to bring him back into her life. But was I really fooling myself? he wondered for the umpteenth time. She was really there, and she really cared. Maybe it wasn't the same body that had been out here with the chief, but they say that the cylons all share the same mind. He stifled a chuckle, thinking that on some level, his rationalizations sounded like the things he told himself when Anne allowed her parents to break them up at the end of college.
Don't theorize, don't tell yourself that it's definitely this way or that, he told himself. Deal with what you know, what you see. It's what you're good at. He took a deep breath, relishing the scent of the shampoo in Sharon's hair. Truth be told, he was reasonably certain that everyone's hair smelled the same on Galactica – after all, they were all issued the same type of shampoo from the quartermaster – but despite evidence to the contrary, Helo believed that Sharon's scent was different. And he needed it.
"It's time again," he whispered.
"I know." He had expected – even hoped – that she would try again to make him stay. But if she agreed, he would have no choice but to leave.
"I can't be late for the meeting," he explained, though she already knew that. He hoped that maybe his voice would help bring her as much comfort as hers brought to him.
"It's important," she agreed. "When are you coming back?"
"As soon as I can."
"Promise?"
"Cross my heart."
"Now that you admit you have one, instead of playing the cold-hearted, bad-ass soldier all the time," Sharon joked, bringing a smile to Helo's face.
"Who would have thought?" he replied.
"I always did," she assured him. "Every time we went out in the Raptor, every time I felt how close we were – almost like we were parts of the same person – I knew you had a heart. There was no other way we could have been so close."
"I have to go," Helo said, trying not to think about the nature of the two Sharons – that never ended with anything other than confusion and a headache.
"Only say good things about me," Sharon said as Helo stood up and walked toward the door, motioning for the marine to let him out.
"What else could I possibly say?" Helo asked with a smile.
Once he was out of the brig and headed toward his meeting with Dr. Drake, Helo started focusing on answers to potential questions that might come up. "Is there anything she's ever said or done that would ever have made you suspect she wasn't really human?" Drake had asked during their previous meeting. Helo had been stumped, completely unable to think of a single instance that he could cite as a response; it had made him feel foolish at first, since he and Sharon had spent so much time together and she had turned out to be indisputably not human. No, he decided, she's every bit as human as anyone else I've ever met. Every doubt he might have had was wiped away when he took a deep breath and smelled the scent of Sharon's shampoo clinging to him.
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"This would have been more fun with a few more players," Starbuck commented, not for the first time.
"Think of it as a chance to hone your skills," Apollo replied. "Despite what you always say – and may even believe in that smoke-clouded mish-mash you call a brain – Full Colors isn't all about luck."
"So my having the vast majority of the chips right now has nothing to do with luck, but with my superior skill?" Starbuck asked, taking a long puff of her cigar. "Could it really be that my smoky mish-mash brain is just that much superior to yours?"
"And you wonder why no one ever wants to play cards with you anymore."
"I don't wonder," Starbuck said with a casual shrug. "It's because I used Racetrack's face to redecorate the table last time I was on a losing streak."
"That didn't help," Apollo admitted, ignoring the truth that the incident had had nothing at all to do with a losing streak.
"Don't worry Lee, I'll get you to believe in luck someday," Kara assured him.
"Is this where I'm supposed to insert some joke about getting lucky?"
"I would," Kara said with a smile.
"I don't doubt it." Lee dealt the cards and watched as Kara looked at her hand. The corner of her lip curled the slightest bit, and she tapped her index finger absently on the table, her expression and behavior practically shouting, 'These cards suck, Lee! Please take all my chips from me this hand!' Apollo wished he could oblige her, but a look at his own hand made him doubt he'd be doing much more than bluffing, no matter how bad Kara's cards were.
"Can I ask you something?" Apollo said, laying down his cards and putting off a decision as to how best to proceed with his hand.
"Just did," Kara replied.
"You know what I mean, Kara."
"Go ahead, Lee. I don't think there are any secrets left between us." Lee didn't miss the sarcasm in her voice, but he passed on the opportunity to take the conversation in a different – and inevitably destructive – direction.
"You ever think about dying out here?"
"Huh?" Starbuck put down her own cards and gazed intently into Lee's eyes, trying to read his expression. That was, perhaps, the last question she ever expected to hear from him.
"You know what I mean," Lee explained. "We're not getting help from anyone, and we're fighting a losing battle."
"No offense, Captain, but you better not let anyone else hear you talking like that," Starbuck said. "I remember reading something about morale when I was back at the Academy. Something like bad morale can kill an army just as surely as bullets."
"Uh-huh." Apollo smiled, but he did not change the topic. "There isn't anyone else here, Kara. It's just you and me."
Starbuck sighed and leaned back, considering how she wanted to answer the question. Lee – as annoying as ever – sat in complete silence, patiently waiting for her answer. "I don't know that I've really thought about it," Starbuck finally said. "I mean, once in a while it occurs to me that my luck isn't going to hold out forever--"
"There you go talking about luck again," Apollo interrupted.
"--But it's not something I let bother me," Starbuck continued without missing a beat. "I mean, I'm a Viper pilot. It's a dangerous job, and I knew it was something that could get me killed. Really doesn't matter whether I'm shooting down smugglers or pirates, or whether I'm squaring off against cylons after the fall of the Colonies. My job is the same either way – I go out and keep shooting my targets until they shoot me first. Pretty simple, really."
"You make it sound that way," Lee admitted. Ares seemed thrilled at the situation, and Starbuck is at least indifferent. Am I the only one who has thought through our situation or what?
"You're just all confused because being the C.A.G means there's other stuff for you to do. All that paperwork is giving you too much time to think." Starbuck gave a frown that looked more like a grimace, and Apollo couldn't help but laugh. "You just need a chance to just go out there and kick a little ass," Starbuck said. "It'll make you feel better."
"Gonna get that," Apollo said with a smile. "And you'll get a chance to do some of my paperwork while we're gone," he added with a grin. Reminding Kara that she would be the acting C.A.G while he was away was the best vengeance he could think of for losing all of his money to her in their game.
"Sure, laugh it up," Starbuck groused. "Just remember – I have it in my power to screw up all of the C.A.P rotations and cause you no end of grief when you get back. I could make it so it'd take you weeks to get everyone's rotation back on track."
"You wouldn't."
Kara grinned ruthlessly.
"You would."
Kara nodded.
"Some friend you are."
"Serves you right," Starbuck said. "You're the one who started talking about getting killed by cylons. Seemed like it was my responsibility to remind you that there are worse things than death."
"Like paperwork."
"Yup," Starbuck agreed. "Paperwork, and these cards. This is the worst hand I've seen all night."
"I know," Apollo admitted. "Not that I'm in any position to do anything about it."
"Feel like a spin in the simulator?"
"You're on," Apollo grinned.
"Hope no one else is using it," Kara said as she stood and raced toward the door, hoping to get to the flight deck before Lee. She had decided that Viper B definitely had the superior computer, and she wanted first dibs.
"Doesn't matter," Lee called out, just two steps behind her. "I can boot anyone out of the simulator at any time. Sometimes it's good to be the C.A.G."
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"Hey," Billy said, smiling broadly when he opened the door and saw Dualla standing there. "What are you doing here?"
"Though I'd come by and surprise you," she told him with a smile.
"Well, I'm definitely surprised." He grabbed her in a quick embrace before taking a half-step back to admire the view. "You look good."
"Just good?" Dualla asked with a playful pout.
"Okay, you look fantastic. How long can you stay?"
"I'm actually on my way up to CIC," she said with an apologetic shrug. "I'm only on for four hours, and then we'll have some time… probably about twelve hours."
"Good."
"But you may be too busy," Dualla told him.
"Huh?" Billy checked his mental 'To Do' list, trying to determine if there was something he forgot. Finished my paperwork, delivered the president's messages, picked up a new supply of chamalla extract from Doc Cottle… Nope, I did everything I needed to. Then a new thought occurred to him. Oh, frak. There's something new and unexpected that I get to deal with now. Joy. Thoughts of spending twelve hours in his cabin with Dee melted like ice in summer.
"I work in communications," Dualla explained. "I hear things."
"What kind of things?" Billy asked suspiciously.
"You'd be surprised." An embarrassed, almost guilty smile spread across her lips. Billy was certain that someday he would get to hear some very interesting stories, but for now he knew he would only get to deal with business. "With shuttle traffic all but completely shut down, communications have become even more important. The amount of chatter is incredible."
"And you keep listening in," Billy surmised, now knowing why she looked a little guilty. "I never really thought of you as an eavesdropping gossip."
"I get bored sometimes," she answered, grinning widely.
"So what's up?"
"You ever hear of a woman named Doreah Spring?"
"Can't say that I have."
"She's a Sybil," Dualla explained. A groan escaped Billy's mouth before he could catch himself. "I know how you feel about religion and the gods, but there are a lot of people who listen to her," Dualla explained.
"And what's she saying?"
"She says that Tom Zarek is the Condemned Man mentioned in Pythia's prophecies."
"Great," Billy muttered. No way will I get to stay with Dualla for a few hours now. Chalk up another reason why it would be better for everyone to be atheist.
"You gonna tell President Roslin?"
"Seems a bit important," Billy said sarcastically. There was a slight flash in Dualla's eyes, the only indication that his tone had hurt her. "Sorry… yeah, I'll get in touch with her right now. Can you set up a secure channel when you get to the bridge?"
"Sure, Billy," Dualla responded, smiling and seeming to pay extra attention to swaying her hips as she turned and walked away down the hall.
She does that on purpose, Billy thought. She loves to torture me, that's what it is.
To be continued…………………………