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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Author's Note: I want to cite Babylon 5 as the source for one of Tabitha Donner's lines. I kept trying to come up with a way for her to explain her point of view, and my brain kept coming back to a line spoken by Majel Barrett in a guest spot. It's the bit about greatness, and J. Michael Straczynski wrote it better than I ever could.
Quick thanks to Raina for pointing out my error in the last chapter. I've consistently mixed up Crashdown and Racetrack in my head, and I don't know why. But anyway, it's been fixed.
Also, big thanks to Elentari2 for beta reading for me. This chapter practically sucked the very soul out of me before she came to my rescue.
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VI – Religion and PoliticsDoreah gazed over the top of her teacup at Tabitha Donner, inhaling the warm scent of cinnamon as she tried to take the measure of the woman. When the novelist had first come to her with her manuscript, asking her opinion about the biography of Laura Roslin and the tale of humanity's flight from the shattered Colonies, the Sibyl thought it was because Donner hoped for a high-profile endorsement.
Doreah smiled at that thought, despite herself. When the Colonies were destroyed she had, in truth, been barely more than an acolyte – she had only taken her final vows a few months before the cylons destroyed everything she knew, including her home in the Oracle of Lydia. She spent weeks, and then months, hiding from her fellow refugees, fearing their suspicions that she was false, that a true Sibyl would have foreseen the impending doom and warned her people. Her only comfort was the knowledge that the masses weren't privy to the mysteries of the Oracles; Doreah knew that she would never have been able to explain that prophecy is impossible unless the gods want their people to know something in advance. If the gods wish to test our faith, they won't warn us that we should prepare ourselves. Our hardships are made that much tougher because we had no idea that judgment was upon us.
The situation changed, though, when Doreah heard a chance conversation and had come to realize that Tom Zarek was the Condemned Man of Pythia's prophecies. Since that moment she had built a following, slowly at first, but now increasingly quickly, like a snowball rolling down a hill. Now when she spoke, people listened; and now, rather than suspicion, she earned gifts and donations as people sought the favor of the last surviving Oracle. It would have taken me a lifetime to earn the title of Oracle before the attacks, Doreah reminded herself. But instead, I had the honor fall into my lap by default when no one else could help guide the people. It's my responsibility to show them the way through the wilderness. And that brought her back to Tabitha Donner.
"Your work had a certain air of… inspiration," Doreah commented.
"I'm flattered," Donner replied.
"I'm not certain it was meant as a compliment," the Sibyl returned. It hadn't taken her long to notice how several sections of Donner's book resembled some of Pythia's prophecies. The language was certainly different, and Donner did not indulge in constant, ambiguous references to vague imagery, but there was a definite feel to the text, something she could not actually describe. To her amusement, she was reminded of something Tom Zarek had said when he was asked to define tyranny and why the word should be applied to the democratic Colonial government. He said he couldn't necessarily define tyranny, but he knew it when he saw it, Doreah remembered. Donner's book is the same – I can't necessarily define the elements of a religious text, but I certainly know one when I see one. Now the question is whether she's a con artist or genuinely, divinely inspired. The fact that she even needed to consider the question was unsettling; Doreah had asked around, trying to find people who knew Donner – or at least knew of her – and no one seemed to have any inkling that Tabitha Donner was in any way devout. But then again, the gods' trials have changed us all in unforeseen ways.
"Have I done something to offend you?" Donner asked.
Doreah was disappointed in herself. I know better than to let someone read me that easily. "Of course not," she assured the writer. "I admit I haven't read any of your other work, but I think it unlikely that it's much like that," she said, pointing to a datapad. The rare, increasingly valuable datapad had been a gift from a spice merchant who wanted a reading, just one of many trappings of luxury and wealth she had received recently.
"This book was biographical," Donner noted. "I used to be a novelist."
"And it shows in your style," Doreah replied. "Your story reads like an epic poem."
"As it should," Donner said. "Humanity was all but wiped out, a massive, unprovoked attack destroying worlds and forcing a handful of survivors into a prophesied flight toward their lost brethren. It's epic in every sense of the word."
"It's not epic," Doreah objected. "It's our life. I don't believe the tone of your writing is correct."
"This is a matter of perception," Donner countered. "I once heard that greatness is never appreciated in youth, called pride in middle age, dismissed in old age, and reconsidered only after death. An appreciation for one's times is much the same," she explained. "We who live in these times are the ones least able to judge what's going on. Our people will one day look back on this time with the wisdom of hindsight, the same way we look back on our forefathers' flight from Kobol. These days – our lives – will one day become legendary."
"That's not something I'd considered," Doreah admitted.
"I'm not surprised," Donner said. "It's hard to imagine that people will spend their lives dreaming about what it must have been like for us, romanticizing the struggle without ever contemplating the constant, intolerable hardships we face. But it's natural that much of the bad will be forgotten or overlooked. No one will dwell upon the fears of mothers who didn't have medicine for their newborns, soldiers who woke up every day wondering if they'd live long enough to climb back into bed that night, or people who started to lose faith in the gods."
"No one will lose faith in the gods," Doreah said confidently. "Our faith is being tested, but we'll be made stronger for it in the end."
"Of course," Donner said.
Had Donner's tone been different, Doreah would have been convinced that the author was patronizing her. But there was certainty in Donner's voice, a conviction that even gave Doreah a flash of hope and optimism. She's no con artist, the Sibyl decided. I don't know yet if there's any divine inspiration at work here, but she's certainly not just using this book to increase her own celebrity.
"So," Doreah finally replied, "would you like to hear my thoughts about your final chapter?"
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Tom Zarek leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath in anticipation of the carefully orchestrated scene that was about to play out in front of him in the Quorum Hall. I've waited years for this day, he reminded himself, watching his fellow members of the Quorum of Twelve settle in, waiting for President Baltar to commence the proceedings. Years spent blindly clawing at power on Sagitarron, more years rotting in a Colonial cell, and months here in this gods-forsaken fleet, waiting for Roslin to die so that my turn could finally come. And now… now it's my time.
Zarek did not dwell on the fact that as long as he'd already waited, he had expected to wait even longer. Roslin's death had come sooner than expected, and Tabotha Donner had reportedly flown through her book. Donner's publishing date was now only days away, and that meant Zarek knew it was time to make his move. Strike while the iron is hot, he often reminded himself. Sibyl Doreah had told him that the forthcoming book did not shy away from referring to Roslin as an object of prophecy. And if Roslin was our great leader, then it's now time for the Condemned Man. It's time for me.
"I suppose I'll get us started with a request from the admiral," Baltar said. "Apparently, one of our Raptors has located an asteroid field that may yield a large amount of raw materials needed by the fleet. Granted, we're not exactly blessed with a large number of production facilities, but it is Admiral Adama's opinion – and I happen to agree – that a short delay now could serve us well in allowing us not to have to stop again in the foreseeable future."
"It's funny you should use that word," Sarah Porter, the Geminon representative, said. She leaned forward against the table, her eyes boring in Baltar's.
"What word is that?" the president asked.
"Blessed," Porter responded. "I thought you a man of science, Doctor."
"Yes," Baltar replied, a trace of a sneer passing across his face.
Zarek fought back a grin – in the short time he had been president, Gaius Baltar had already demonstrated a strong distaste for people not addressing him by his new title. Even when the alternative is to refer to him as Doctor.
"And now you speak of blessings," Porter said.
"I meant it as a figure of speech," Baltar explained.
"And is that all blessings are to you?" the woman pressed. "Clichés that amount to nothing more than poetic fodder for conversation?"
"I assure you I meant nothing by it," Baltar stammered, obviously taken completely off-guard by Porter's verbal assault.
"I know you didn't," Porter assured him, "and that's what makes it worse."
"I don't follow," the president admitted.
"You're a man of science," Porter explained. "In fact, you're a brilliant man, with a great deal of responsibility. The Quorum has already expressed to you our reservations about you splitting time between your lab and Colonial One. But there's a concern that my people, particularly, have about your administration."
"I see," Baltar said, nodding slightly. He waited a beat, and added, "You don't think a man who doesn't wear his faith on his sleeve is an appropriate leader during a crisis."
"This isn't simply a crisis," Porter retorted. "This is the end of a cycle of history, as foretold by Pythia. My people believe in the prophecies contained in the Sacred Scrolls, we believe in the vision that has been passed down from generation to generation. While the rest of the tribes of man continue to give lip service to prophecy, or struggle to argue that the prophecies don't fit, we Geminons use our eyes, and our hearts, and our minds. We see, feel, and know that prophecy is upon us, whether you accept that or not."
"I'm not here to debate faith," Baltar said, clearly knowing that was not a conversation he could ever win.
"And neither am I," Porter replied.
"I think maybe we can move past this situation easily enough," Marshall Bagot interrupted, addressing not only his fellow representatives on the Quorum, but also the assembled members of the media. "There are, indeed, many who would prefer a more… devout man as our president," he added, impressing Zarek with the way he effortlessly appeared to be choosing his words carefully, despite the fact that he was reciting from a script that had been written and memorized days earlier. "But there are also many who are comforted by President Baltar's unambiguously secular leanings. We have to remember that our government calls for the majority to rule, and that majority did so, through the Quorum, when it approved President Roslin's chosen candidate for the office of Vice President. I don't think anyone here should question President Baltar's authority," he said, directing his pre-canned comments to Sarah Porter.
"However, that being said," Bagot continued, "I think that Ms. Porter's concerns are valid. There are a great many in the fleet who are devoted to their religion, who see wisdom, guidance and hope in the prophecies. With President Roslin gone, those people lack a voice in the executive administration. Therefore, I feel that while President Baltar is correct in continuing to delay elections until all of the logistical problems have been addressed, I think it's only appropriate that we deal with the problematic void in one branch of our government – namely, the lack of a vice-president."
Baltar wasted no time in voicing his opposition to that idea. "Going through the motions of naming a new vice president--"
"Going through the motions?" Porter interjected. "Is that all you think it is, like this is some kind of game, or just a way of satisfying the people you probably think of as religious zealots?"
"I never said anything of the kind," Baltar told her. "I'm simply referring to the inordinate amount of time and energy that such a process would demand, energy that would be better spent organizing elections for every office, including not only the vice-presidency, but also the presidency and all of the seats on the Quorum of Twelve."
"Well, I would like to nominate Tom Zarek for the office of vice-president," Bagot said.
"Interesting," Sarah Porter commented, immediately drawing Zarek's attention. 'Interesting' was not what she was supposed to have said.
"Is that a second on the motion?" Bagot asked, awkwardly transparent in his attempt to prompt the planned response from the Geminon representative.
"No, it's not," Porter replied, leaning back slightly, taking in a view of the room.
Zarek wanted to say something, to try to get Porter under control, but he dared not move a muscle. The meeting had been carefully planned to keep his hands clean, to make it appear as if he had nothing to do with getting himself nominated. He knew that it would be obvious to anyone who was in the room, but that subtext would likely be lost in radio and written reports that would be relayed to the masses.
"I have the utmost respect for Dr. Baltar's accomplishments," Porter commented. "I know that President Roslin had a great deal of trust in him, and that she had fully planned to have him follow in her footsteps. But my people have read Pythia's prophecies. We know that the will of the gods must be respected, and Pythia made it clear that the gods planned to have the Condemned Man succeed the leader of the caravan of the heavens. As brilliant as Dr. Baltar may be, his position as the president is an affront to the will of the gods. I will not second Tom Zarek's nomination for the office of vice-president. It's clear to me and my people that Tom Zarek is the Condemned Man, and I'm thus forced to nominate Tom Zarek for president, and for Tom Zarek to immediately assume the office in place of Gaius Baltar."
There was an instantaneous reaction – every member of the Quorum of Twelve – save one – started shouting, wireless correspondents were screaming into their microphones, and newspaper reporters were scribbling away on their notepads, trying to record every word from every person, all at once. Tom Zarek sat alone in the eye of this storm of noise and action, appearing as unperturbed as he would had everything gone to plan.
To Zarek's surprise, Baltar seemed uninterested in the things that were happening around him. The president was leaning forward against the table, his head in his hands, nodding slightly from time to time, almost as if he was listening to someone who was speaking directly into his ear. The president's simultaneous composure and distraction threw Zarek slightly off-guard.
But I can't pass up this unexpected opportunity just because I can' get a read on Baltar, he decided, resolving to consider the sudden possibilities. Though we can't have chaos. This has to get done as orderly as possible, so no one can legitimately question the result. "Ladies and gentlemen," Zarek said evenly, knowing that only those sitting right next to him would hear him. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said a little more loudly, gaining the attention of a few others. Those who started to pay attention to him were now getting the attention of others, and the room was finally coming under Zarek's sway. Enough so that complete silence descended upon the room when he said a third time, "Ladies and gentlemen," hardly any louder than he had the second time. "I don't think this is something we want to rush into," he said smoothly.
President Baltar was launching mental daggers from his eyes, but his attempts at intimidating Tom Zarek were less than successful. I spent years in a maximum-security prison, dealing with gangs, shower-room rapists, abusive guards, and the occasional well thought out assassination attempt. No way is some pencil-pushing scientist ever going to bully me.
"While I appreciate the sentiment, I think that maybe your motion is premature," Zarek told Sarah Porter. "I know that President Baltar has floated the idea of some restructuring of the government, hoping to create something that more efficiently serves our decreased population. While I may not agree with everything he's said, I do agree that unless we make changes to the very fabric of our government, it is wholly inappropriate to make a motion to remove a sitting president without cause."
"I didn't make the motion without cause," Prter objected. "The Sacred Scrolls tell us that--"
"I know what the Scrolls say," Zarek interrupted, surprised that Baltar had not yet tried to intervene in the situation. Maybe he expects me to be careless, Zarek considered. Maybe he noticed that this isn't how we planned things, and he knows I'm in damage control mode, and he expects me to say enough to hang myself. And he's going to give me all the rope I need. "I fully appreciate the wisdom of the Scrolls, and I know how tempting it is to cling to your faith in a crisis. I'll admit I've spent a good bit of my own time reading from the Scrolls; but that doesn't mean that our religious faith should lead us to carry out what many would consider a coup."
"I never said that I was--"
"I know," Zarek said, cutting off Porter again. "You would never do anything like that. But our government does not provide for the action you seek to take. The power of the president must be respected at all times, whether you agree with him or not, whether you think someone else should be in the office or not. We need order. Without it, we're simply lambs being led to slaughter on the altars of our enemies."
"Well said," Baltar agreed.
"So I would move that we table all pending motions and adjourn for some time to reflect on what's been said here," Zarek said.
"Seconded," Baltar agreed.
A quick vote later, everyone left the Quorum Hall, and Tom Zarek was absolutely giddy with the possibilities that had appeared before him.
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"Ellen," Captain Kelly stammered as soon as he saw his guest standing at the entrance to his quarters, leaning casually against the doorframe. "I wasn't expecting you."
Ellen Tigh was satisfied that she'd accomplished her goal of taking the young commanding officer completely off-guard. Captain Kelly was intelligent and hard working, but he was what Ellen and many of her friends commonly referred to as "book smart." He knew what he needed to know to excel in his chosen field, but he lacked common sense and the social skills that one could gain only by putting the books away and going out to see the real world. Denied time to think though the reason for her visit, without a chance to come up with a way to get her off his ship as quickly as possible, Ellen was certain she would be more than a match for poor Captain Kelly.
"I was hoping to surprise you," Ellen purred, closing the door and walking up to Kelly, wrapping him in a loose embrace. "Don't you like having me around?"
"You're Colonel Tigh's wife," the captain pointed out. "People are going to talk."
"No they won't," she assured him. "By the time I leave, everyone will think I was here on my husband's orders, trying to spy on Lieutenant Turk."
"Why will they think that?"
"Because that's what I want them to think," Ellen said.
"So, why are you here?"
"Can't it just be because I wanted to see you?"
"Sure it could," Kelly answered. "As long as we're willing to lie to each other."
"Fine," Ellen said, thinking that maybe she had misjudged the man in front of her. Perhaps he isn't as malleable as I'd hoped. "I was hoping you could tell me what Bill is up to."
"What do you mean?" the captain asked far too quickly.
Ellen allowed herself a sigh of relief. "I mean exactly what I said," she cooed, amazed at how transparent the man in front of her suddenly was, his brief moment of uncharacteristic poise already a mere memory.
"The admiral isn't up to anything."
"Sure he is. I've been a military wife for years, captain. I'd like to know if Bill and my husband are planning something that could get them killed. Saul has always been a little too willing to rush in where Heracles himself would be afraid to tread, all at the request of his old friend, Bill. And what with Bill losing Lee… well, I don't know that I can trust his judgment right now, and I'm not going to stand aside and let them make me a widow."
"I have no idea what you mean," Kelly insisted, his eyes practically advertising in bright lights his desperation for a new way to deny any knowledge of the admiral's plans. "I haven't heard anything."
"I thought we were friends," Ellen pouted. "I was hoping you would do me this one favor."
"I can't tell you what I don't know," Kelly responded. "I mean, I can't tell you about something that doesn't exist. That is, I--"
"Look, let's stop the games," Ellen interrupted curtly. "I know Admiral Adama has filled you in on his plans, and like I said, I like knowing what's going on. My husband has been working 20-hour shifts and I haven't seen him. I hoped I could come to you for help."
"I can't discuss it," Kelly said, giving up on his denials and switching to the alternate strategy of refusing to say what he knew. It was the beginning of the end, as far as Ellen was concerned.
"Can't? Or won't?" she asked.
"Can't. It's classified and compartmentalized, ma'am. I doubt I even know everything that the admiral is planning."
"Then if you don't even know the whole story, what's the harm in talking?"
"It's a matter of fleet security. It's that simple."
"Oh, so you think that maybe I'm a cylon?" Ellen asked. "Is that what you're implying?"
"No, ma'am," Kelly said, again thrown off-balance.
"You think Bill and Saul would let me anywhere near their dinner table if they ever thought for a second that I'm a cylon?" Ellen snapped, starting her final push.
"That's not what I meant."
"Or is it maybe that you think I'm going to go all over the fleet, talking about whatever it is you're not supposed to tell?"
"It's really not like that at all, it's just--"
"That you either don't trust me or that you aren't really my friend."
"That's not what I'm saying," Kelly protested.
"That's good to hear," Ellen said. "Because I'd hate to think that we did… what we did… if we're not friends." Kelly went several shades of white, and Ellen decided that this was the perfect time to turn the knife. "Because if we're not friends, then that must mean that you used me."
"I never--"
"I know," Ellen interrupted immediately. "Because no one in his right mind is going to brazenly take advantage of Colonel Tigh's wife. I mean, if something like that got out, it could mean your career." She gazed at Kelly with innocent eyes, indifferent to the fact that all he saw was the manipulative snake behind the mask. Because along with a healthy dose of disgust and hatred, there was also a liberal helping of fear in Kelly's expression. Ellen Tigh knew that she had once again managed to get what she wanted.
To be continued……………………………