Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined 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 intended to challenge or infringe upon 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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V – Wagers, Wins, and Losses"I'm in," Kara said, tossing several cubits onto the middle of the table. She stared down Ares, waiting for even the slightest telltale sign of what he might be holding.
"I raise," Ares said, increasing the bet by another twenty cubits.
"Me too," Apollo said, tossing another forty onto the quickly growing pile of cubits.
"No, I'm out," she said, dropping her cards on the table. She hated losing, especially when she had already bet so much, but another glance at her cards assured her that she was likely to lose to at least one of the other players, if not both of them. And there's no way I can bluff them both out of this hand.
"Hmm…" Ares said, grinning at Apollo. "You're tough to read, Captain CAG."
"So I hear," Apollo replied, his face an emotionless mask. "It's your bet, you know."
"And you seem in a rush to have me make a decision," Ares pointed out. "Maybe it's because you're bluffing, and you want me to look at all those cubits and panic into folding before I lose anymore."
"Maybe."
"Then again, you might be holding one hell of a hand over there, and you might want me to raise even more."
"Could be."
"What do you think, Starbuck?" Ares asked.
"Dunno," she answered. "Everyone is good at something, and with Lee, I think his natural, gods-given talent is at the table."
"Maybe," Ares shrugged. "After all, it's certainly not in the cockpit."
"Definitely not," Starbuck agreed.
"Joke all you want, but you won't make me slip up," Apollo assured them both. "And it's still your bet, Ares."
"Fine, I call."
"And I win," Apollo said when they both laid down their cards.
"Rat bastard," Ares muttered.
"That's Captain Rat Bastard," Apollo joked. "Still your superior officer."
"Sorry, Captain Bastard," Ares shot back with a laugh. "I assure you I meant no disrespect. Please don't toss me in the brig."
"I'll let it slide this once."
"Better not let your dad hear that," Ares replied.
"What's that supposed to mean?" In an instant, the levity drained from the room.
"Well, the admiral's getting all strict with the military thing lately, is all," Ares explained. "New troops, another converted ship, and even a couple of courts martial, from what I heard."
"Discipline has been getting a little lax," Apollo replied.
"Not debating that," Ares said. "But it feels to me like we're on the road to martial law."
"No." Apollo's tone made it clear that was not a subject open for debate, but Ares either didn't notice, or didn't care.
"I heard martial law was declared once already," he said. "What's to stop it from happening again?"
"That was Colonel Tigh, not my… not the admiral."
"Wanna deal the cards, Apollo?" Starbuck asked, hoping she could get the topic changed before the night devolved into yet another debate on the merits of martial law versus the freedoms of democracy.
"Sure," Apollo muttered, though he did not let the subject drop. "The admiral would never even consider martial law, Ares."
"Why not? Seems to me like it might be a good idea."
"Your bet, Apollo," Starbuck pointed out, reminding Apollo that she and Ares had already played the blinds.
"Martial law is never a good idea," Apollo said, hardly glancing at his cards before he called the blind. Starbuck followed suit a moment later.
"Half the people I see are convinced that Tom Zarek is the Condemned Man in Pythia's prophecies," Ares said. "I'm not raising, go ahead and throw the flop."
"Seriously, you should get out more, because I've hardly heard a peep about Zarek," Apollo said. "You're totally blowing this out of proportion."
"No, you're the one who's out of touch; it's because people don't feel comfortable talking about that stuff in front of you, given that the Old Man is your father," Ares replied. "The Sagitarrons are almost all supporting Zarek, and the Geminons support prophecy. Throw in all the people who owe him favors, and President Baltar finds himself on the hot seat. If there aren't elections soon, we could be looking at some protests, maybe things'll be bad enough to qualify as civil unrest."
"You're exaggerating."
"But if I'm not, wouldn't martial law be necessary to calm things down until order can be restored?"
"I'm not getting drawn into this debate with you again, Ares," Apollo answered. "You may as well ask what I'd do if we found Earth tomorrow, because it's just as relevant."
"Refusing to accept the chances of those circumstances arising is not the same as answering the question, Apollo. And my question is simple – if all hell broke loose, wouldn't martial law be preferable to anarchy?"
"The existence of anarchy could only be due to the complete failure of the civil government, which isn't going to happen," Apollo countered. "And since it isn't going to happen, there won't ever be a situation where the military has any pretext for stepping in."
"How about civil war?" Ares asked.
"I'm betting ten," Starbuck interrupted, tossing a cubit onto the table. Both Ares and Apollo ignored her, and she leaned back in her chair, knowing that the game would be forgotten until they were done with their latest tête-à-tête.
"Civil war," Apollo said skeptically. "It won't happen. It can't."
"Someone's living in denial."
"Forget the politics and philosophy for a minute," Apollo said. "Just from a practical standpoint, there can't be a civil war. The few weapons floating around the civilian population are quickly running out of ammunition."
"You underestimate the black market," Ares chided. "We make ammunition here on Galactica every day, and some of it gets smuggled out."
"What?"
"Can't tell me you're surprised," Ares countered. "There's money to be made, luxuries to be earned. You did some investigating into the black market, yourself. You know how ridiculously well developed it is – weapons, drugs, medication, alcohol, jewelry, even children. And anyway, saying there won't be a civil war just because people don't have guns has got to be the most asinine, naïve thing I've ever heard. People don't need firearms, Apollo. Sticks and stones will do. So will jagged pieces of broken glass, knives, old pipes, assorted poisons, wrenches, candlesticks, and even rope. Never underestimate the creativity of a human being intent on killing another human being. Humanity doesn't need the cylons to wipe it out – I think you'll find most people are quite capable of the task, themselves."
"No," Apollo said, standing from the table and glaring down at Ares. "People have learned, Ares."
"Learned what?"
"That we can't keep living the way we did, divided against each other under the Colonies' guise of order and security."
"Not even the threat of the cylons will keep all these people on the same page forever, Apollo," Ares chided. "Sooner or later, it's bound to come apart at the seams. I'm just trying to get you to open your eyes to reality."
"If that's reality, I don't want it," Apollo said, turning and leaving.
"Nice job, Ares," Starbuck groused. "You just ruined the game." She got up and left the other pilot sitting alone at the table as she walked out, hoping to track Lee down before he got too far. She knew him well enough to know when he needed someone to talk to, and she wanted to get to him before someone else did.
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"I need an honest assessment, Major," Adama said over the wireless.
Dee could hardly believe that the admiral was seriously considering sending in troops to deal with the hostage-takers on Cloud Nine. They'd looked into Sesha Abinell's record and discovered that she was a widow – her husband, Ray, had been killed in a cylon raid against the fleet – and Dee thought that maybe the Admiral was overreacting, that he was being too quick to send in troops when there was still the possibility of compromise.
"Admiral, bottom line is that if we go in there cold, some of the hostages are going to get killed," Rutger reported.
"How many?" Adama asked.
"Figure twenty percent, minimum," Rutger answered. "We need some kind of angle, or it's gonna be a bloodbath, sir."
Admiral Adama quickly gestured across his throat, and Dee cut off the line to Rutger's marines and turned her attention to unobtrusively eavesdropping.
"We can't negotiate with terrorists," Adama said, Baltar and Tigh standing at his side.
"And even if we normally might consider it, we certainly can't turn over Ms. Valerii," Baltar replied.
"Ms. Valerii is a frakking machine," Tigh grumbled. "Given the fact that there are so few humans remaining that we can keep an accurate, minute-to-minute count, I don't think we should ignore the option of saving human lives by letting a few nutcases destroy our cylon hostage."
"Sharon's a military asset," Adama said. "We're not surrendering her."
"Absolutely not," Baltar agreed.
Tigh kept silent, allowing his resigned shrug and disapproving stare to speak for him. Dee found herself smiling at the scene, knowing that the president was completely unaware of the silent argument being waged by the admiral and his XO.
"So if we're not going to give them what the want…" Baltar prompted.
"We're going in," the admiral said.
"People are going to die if we do that," Baltar pointed out. "The Colonel made a valid point – there are few enough of us left as it is. Do we really want to help out the cylons in making humanity extinct?"
"If we wait, or bargain, or appear soft, we're only going to encourage more people to try taking hostages to make their point," Adama explained. "I don't care whether they're asking for the cylon or more hot meals," he added, clearly more for Tigh's benefit than Baltar's. "We don't negotiate with terrorists – we take them out. End of story."
"I don't know that I can give the go-ahead on a rescue attempt," Baltar said.
"I don't remember asking," Adama grunted.
Dee realized at that moment that she hadn't been the only one eavesdropping – time itself seemed to stop in C.I.C. as everyone stopped moving, and even breathing, as they waited to see what would happen next. She looked toward the entrance to C.I.C., half-hoping to see Lee walk in and fix the situation, to smooth over the conflicts between the military and civilian government the way he had so many times before. She ignored the fact that another reason she wanted him to come in was simply to have another chance to see him, to maybe make up in some small way for the fact that they'd been forced to cancel dinner on Cloud Nine when the admiral temporarily suspended leave in order to get his newest pilots additional training runs and simulator time.
"If I could have a minute, Admiral," Baltar said, looking to Dee like he was clearly asking for Adama's indulgence rather than politely demanding a moment of privacy to chew him out, the way Roslin would have.
Adama nodded, and took a few steps away from Tigh, out of eavesdropping distance for everyone but Dee. And she took full, discrete advantage of the opportunity.
"Those are civilians in that café," Baltar began, "and--"
"This is a military decision," Adama said, cutting him off.
The president stood still for several moments, strangely appearing more as if he was listening to someone than as if he was getting his thoughts in order. "Those are civilians who've taken civilians hostage," Baltar finally countered. "I don't see how the military can claim authority here."
"It's a security matter," Adama replied simply.
"I don't seem to recall the military stepping in every time there was a security problem back in the Colonies," Baltar retorted, clearly hitting his stride in the conversation and becoming more aggressive. "I think you should stand down, at least until we make a token attempt at a non-violent resolution."
"The reason the military didn't get involved in these situations back in the Colonies is because there was a civilian police force," the admiral said. "We don't have a police force here; we only have military. There's no other option if you want to end this."
"And I'm not ruling out a military solution," Baltar hissed. "I'm simply stressing that we should try something else, first."
"Mr. President," Adama said through gritted teeth, obviously trying to sound patient, "every minute we wait will simply encourage others to take hostages every time they want to get our attention. We've already had cylon sympathizers sabotage our ammunition stores, almost killing one of my best pilots, and detonate a bomb on one of our most strategically important ships. What do you think they're going to do if we let them think the idea of taking hostages might get them somewhere? The woman doing this today is simply a grieving widow; how long will it be before some rabble-rouser starts using this as a recruiting ploy?"
"I understand your concerns, Admiral, but what if they're just looking to be heard? Do we really want to kill more of our people when there's no evidence at all that these hostage-takers are willing to get violent?"
A burst of chatter over the wireless distracted Dee, and she gasped as she turned to the Admiral. "Sir, you have to hear this," she said. Adama walked back over to Tigh and picked up the wireless, Baltar and Tigh listening in with him.
"You haven't given me an answer, Adama," Abinell said.
"There's been some debate regarding your demands," Adama admitted.
"Then let me give you incentive to speed you along," she replied. "I have Colonel Tigh's wife over here."
Dee heard the XO gasp; when she looked at Tigh, she saw that he was white as a sheet.
"Saul?" Ellen asked, her voice coming in over the wireless. "Bill? Just give them what they want." Several moments passed before Adama replied.
"All right," the admiral said, his shoulders going rigid, displaying none of the defeat that was in his voice. "You can have the cylon. We'll need time to secure her for transport and bring her over there."
"You have thirty minutes," Abinell said.
"I need forty-five," Adama answered. "I'm not risking my crew's safety by taking her out of her cell until I can be certain she has no chance of escaping and getting anyone killed."
"Fine. Forty-five," Abinell relented. "And don't try anything, Admiral. We'll be ready if you double-cross us."
"Of course," Adama said.
Adama glanced at Dee, again giving her the signal to cut off the line.
"I thought you said we can't negotiate," Baltar said immediately.
"Get me Rutger," Adama said, ignoring the president's comment.
"Yes, sir?" Rutger asked.
"It's a go," Adama ordered.
"Confirm go," Rutger responded, making certain he followed protocol.
"Go," the admiral repeated.
The line went dead, and the tension in C.I.C. seemed to take on a life of its own. Finally, Adama said, "I'm sorry, Saul. I know this isn't the way you would choose to do this, not with Ellen in there." Tigh only nodded in reply.
"I did not authorize an assault," Baltar spat, not bothering to keep his voice down. Now it wasn't only Dee who could listen in on the three men.
"That was a military decision," Adama said simply.
"The hell it was," Baltar replied. "This was not a situation where the military--"
"She grabbed a hostage who had value to my XO," Adama growled. "That was going to cloud the issue, and from the tone in Ellen's voice, I have no doubt she believed they were capable of shooting hostages. So I let them believe they were about to get what they wanted, and that'll make them relax for a few moments."
"And even more so since they think your arrival is forty-five minutes away," Baltar said, much calmer, now understanding Adama's ploy. "You made certain that you bargained for time, doubtlessly making them think that you needed an extra fifteen minutes to get troops in place in case you were going to double-cross them. And when you hit them seconds later, instead…"
"It'll give us out best chance," Adama said. "It's the angle Rutger was looking for."
"Admiral, it's over," Dee said, hearing Rutger report in over the wireless.
Adama, Tigh, and Baltar all listened as Rutger's voice came through. "The room is secure, sir," he said.
"Losses?" Adama asked.
"I have two men down," Rutger said, "one of them KIA. Gunny should be okay, though; he only took one in the leg. Abinell and her people are all dead, and we lost two hostages, with four others wounded. Mrs. Tigh is okay, though."
Colonel Tigh let out an audible sigh of relief, but Dee's attention was more focused on the tired, defeated expression that passed over Adama's face for a brief moment before he regained his composure. Baltar, though, kept staring at Adama, his face unreadable.
"That could have gone better, Admiral," the president finally said.
"And it could have gone worse," Adama pointed out.
"Seven people are dead, and several more wounded."
"And the situation has been resolved," Adama countered. "Our jobs are to keep the people alive long enough to find a place where we can make a new life. The fact is that not everyone will make it, and every day we wake up knowing that we may have to make decisions that will get some people killed. That's the job."
"And I suppose you're fine with condemning two innocent people to death?"
"We killed the hostage-takers and clearly showed that we won't shy away from using force if civilians are in the way. Not even if those civilians are family members," he said, directing a sympathetic nod toward his XO. We don't negotiate with terrorists; it's that simple. And if getting those two innocent people killed helps keep dozens more from being used as tools by other terrorists, then so be it. I'll be able to sleep at night."
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"Hey, Ares!" Starbuck called from the bottom of the Chimera's lowered hatch.
"What the hell do you want now?" Ares yelled out, his slightly slurred speech punctuated with a hearty laugh. That was enough to confirm Starbuck's suspicions – Ares was holding out on her.
"Permission to come aboard," Starbuck said as she walked up the stairs and into the ship's common area. At the top of the stairs, she found Ares sitting with his feet up on a table, a bottle of beer in his left hand as he tossed cards onto the table with his right. "Solitaire?" Starbuck asked.
"No, a game called high-low," Ares answered. "It's a drinking game."
"And you're all alone."
"Not anymore," he pointed out. "So how about you grab a beer and join me?"
"That looks like real beer," Starbuck commented.
"That it does," Ares agreed, holding the clear bottle up to the light, gazing at the deep brown color and the scattered bubbles racing toward the foamy surface.
"Is it real?"
"Yup."
"Where'd you get it?" Starbuck asked. Apollo had told her about some of the wonders of the black market – all of which she had thus far been too busy to enjoy for herself – but she hadn't dared to think anyone still had genuine beer. It'd been over six months since the Colonies had been destroyed.
"This is some of the last of my personal stash," Ares admitted. "And I'd be quite honored if you joined me."
"Well, with an invitation like that, how could I say no?"
"A woman after my own heart," Ares said with a smile, gesturing toward a dark gray box half-concealed in a hatch hidden behind a false wall.
Starbuck couldn't help but wonder how many other false walls were on the ship, or what Ares had used them for before the war. "I was wondering if you could help me with something," she said, trying to keep her brain focused on the task at hand.
"Shoot."
"This is strictly classified," she warned him. "What I'm about to tell you can't go any further than this ship."
"Of course," he said with an impatient wave. "I'm the very soul of discretion. So spill."
"I'm serious," Starbuck said.
"So am I," Ares countered. "I mean, have I even once called you to task about the way you feel about Apollo?"
"What?"
"And have I sat you down and asked you why you keep dwelling on your idealized image of that pyramid player back on Caprica?"
"How the frak--"
"I've been around," Ares interrupted. "I've been serving with soldiers and pilots for years, and I know how it is. You think you need something waiting for you when the war is over and you get to hang up your guns. Despite how you feel about Apollo, you can't imagine yourself ever settling down with anyone who's seen you do the things you've done, seen you kill and watch friends be killed. You need the comfortable dream of settling down with someone who won't remind you of the war every time you look at him across the kitchen table. Of course, that's not even considering the fact that he's Zak's--"
"Enough," Starbuck growled. "Another word, and you can forget I ever came by."
"Well my point is that because I'm so discrete and trustworthy, you'd never hear me talking about that stuff."
"I just did," Starbuck pointed out.
"I mean with other people," Ares said, grinning as he chugged the rest of his beer.
"I'm gonna kill Helo," Starbuck muttered.
"What, you talk to him about all that?" Ares guessed.
"He's the only one I talked to, so I know that's where you heard it."
"Hey, he never told me a word," Ares assured her. "And to tell the truth, I'm very hurt that you didn't think to confide in your good buddy Ares. I told you, Starbuck – I've been around. Besides, you think it's any coincidence that Apollo was doing the same thing as you?"
"Huh?"
"Yeah, he had a girl on Cloud Nine," Ares explained. "Someone he could spend time with, someone who could pretend he was a normal guy. With her he didn't have to be the CAG, he didn't have to be the Admiral's son, and he sure as hell never had to explain to her – or himself – how he could do some of the things he's done. It's natural. We're soldiers, and we all do what we do, but it dirties us in a way."
"Remind me never to drink beers with you again, okay? I'm not into the whole 'Drunken Philosophy by Ares' spiel you have going on."
"Fine," Ares said, walking over to grab another beer. "So what is it you want?"
"Umm, yeah, right," Starbuck replied, trying to get her mind back on track. Between having Ares explain to her his thoughts on all of her deepest wishes, and then proceed directly into an account of some girlfriend she didn't even know Apollo had – and why the hell does that bother me so much? she wondered – she was thrown thoroughly off-balance. "I wanted to, umm… I wanted to ask for your input on something."
"Something super top secret," Ares said in a hushed tone, a comical look on his face as he made a big production of searching every shadow for eavesdroppers.
"Yeah, and since you were a pilot and an operator, I--"
"Ooh, someone's planning an op," Ares interrupted, now sitting up eagerly as he absently twisted the top off his beer.
"Yeah," Starbuck confirmed. "And other than me, the admiral, the colonel, and now you, no one knows."
"Not even Apollo?"
"Not even Apollo," Starbuck confirmed.
"Then this is gonna be fun," Ares said. "Fill me in."
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He's way overdue, Dee realized, looking once again at the flight record for Raptor 492. Lee and Racetrack had left with some nuggets twenty-eight hours earlier on a twenty-two hour training flight, and the only comfort Dee had was that she knew she was now not the only one worried. Two other Raptors had been launched to search for Lee and his two pairs of nuggets, but all they'd found was empty space where Lee should have been.
It should have been Starbuck out there, Dee thought, surprised that the idea could even cross her mind. Starbuck was Lee's friend; he would never understand Dee contemplating such things. In fact, if Lee was able to know in advance that something was going to go wrong, it would have been him, and not the admiral, who reassigned the flight at the last minute, Dee knew.
"DRADIS contact," Gaeta's voice announced. "It's our lost Raptor, admiral."
"Dee?' Adama asked, gazing in her direction. A moment later, Racetrack's voice came over the wireless. Dee put it through over the speakers.
"This is Raptor 492," Racetrack reported. "I'm declaring an immediate emergency and requesting priority approach – I need the flight deck cleared." No sooner had she said the words than Tigh was on the line to the deck, making sure the crews were safely out of the way.
Billy's on shift right now, Dee remembered. I hope someone is down there with him; he's not ready to handle an emergency landing yet.
"What's your flight status?" Adama asked Racetrack.
"I'll report after landing, sir," she answered anxiously. "I can hardly keep it under control."
"Oh, gods," Gaeta muttered. Dee looked in his direction, where he was magnifying an image of the returning Raptor. The ship had obviously been in a heavy firefight – its hull was blackened and scored from weapons fire, with the left wing cleanly blown off and enough shotglass-sized holes to make Dee marvel that the Raptor was still operational.
It was then that Dee realized two important facts. First, the muffled sound of Racetrack's voice indicated that she was sealed up in her flight suit, which meant that the Raptor was either depressurized or in danger of becoming so. From the way the ship looked, Dee was willing to bet it was the former. Second, it was Racetrack, and not Lee, on the wireless. That would have been reasonable if Lee was flying and Racetrack was freeing up his hands by handling communications on the wireless, but from what Racetrack said, it sounded like she was flying as well as speaking. What the hell happened out there?
"Put me on with actual," Racetrack said.
"Admiral," Dee prompted.
Adama picked up the line, and Dee took the liberty of listening in. By the time Racetrack had finished speaking, both Dee and the admiral looked like they'd been punched in the gut.
To be continued……………………………