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: As a note on chronology, the first scene of this chapter actually takes place before the last scene of Chapter 6. The two were switched around so that each would fit better with the rest of the chapter in which they were found. It's really not that big a thing, but it's noticeable if (like me) you're one of those picky people who spot lots of little details.

Thanks to Brynn McK for her help as a beta.

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VII – Adjusting Plans

"Starbuck, have a seat," the Admiral said, gesturing to a chair as sat down, himself.

"Not that I suspect an ulterior motive, but why did you call me in, Sir?" she asked with a smile, reenacting the meeting they'd had the last time she visited the Old Man's quarters. He looked tired, even old, and she wanted to do something to help lift his mood before he assigned her another important mission.

"I… I have some news," Adama said awkwardly. "I'm not entirely sure how…" He leaned forward, his face in his hands, and remained silent for several minutes.

"Admiral?" Starbuck finally asked. She had never seen him like this, and truth be told, she was getting concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Lee's dead," Adama replied without ever looking up.

"Ahhh…" The sound came from Starbuck's mouth, but she hadn't realized she was trying to speak. She didn't even know what to say. No. It was the only thought that she seemed able to form in her mind. No. This isn't happening. I won't let it. "Ahhh…"

"Are you okay?" Adama asked. Starbuck couldn't help but notice that the Old Man still wasn't looking at her, that he was clearly making an attempt to avoid eye contact.

"What?" she asked, looking away, herself, hoping to avoid the mutual embarrassment of catching the admiral with tears in his eyes. Am I okay? Me? Lee's your son, and you're asking if I'm okay? The words raced through her head, but she was unable to speak them.

"Are you okay, Kara?" the Admiral asked again.

In the process of deciding whether or not she was, in fact, all right, she realized she could hardly breathe. Tears were rapidly soaking her face, and she felt like several pairs of socks were firmly lodged in her throat. Not that that's necessarily a bad thing – after all, if my throat is so cramped up that I can't swallow, then I probably won't be able to hurl my lunch all over the Old Man's lap, either.

"I… Admiral…" she stammered.

"It's all right," he said, crossing to kneel in front of her, grasping her in his arms and holding her close. "It's okay, Kara. It'll all be okay. I promise."

"But…"

"Shhh…"

Kara had just about regained her composure when some cruel, sadistic voice in the back of her head pointed out that this was probably the same exact way Bill Adama had comforted Lee when he was a kid and got hurt. And Zak, too, she realized miserably.

"Admiral," Kara said, mumbling her words against Adama's shoulder. "What happened? I mean, how…"

"It was while he was of on the training flight," Adama answered. "Lee decided to take them into uncharted space to see how the nuggets would do, and somewhere out there they picked up a distress signal…"

"A cylon trap?" Kara guessed. "I can't believe Lee would fall for something like that."

"He didn't," Adama assured her. "He made sure it was genuine, and then they responded. It was an old freighter that had run after the cylon attack, the same as we did. The cylons finally tracked it down and hit it hard, but the crew managed to make one final jump before their FTL drive blew out. From what Racetrack told me, the ship was barely holding together. Lee and the rest of the team went aboard to try to get the engines up and running long enough to get them back here. Racetrack stayed with the Raptor, but it was unarmed. When the cylons found the freighter…"

Starbuck nodded; she didn't need to hear the rest. Lee and the team were probably cut off from the hangar bay, or the docking point, or wherever it was that Racetrack was waiting. And Lee being Lee, he told her to make a run for it. She would have objected, and then he would have said something like they needed her to go get help, or at least let everyone know that there were cylons in the area. And she would have wanted to stay, but she would have left. Because Lee has a knack for getting his way.

"I know how you must feel, Starbuck," Adama said. "But I need you to hold it together for a while longer. We still have a mission coming up."

Oh, gods, Kara thought, struggling again to hold down her lunch when the realization hit her. "It should have been me," she said, drawing back and staring into the admiral's eyes. He did not seem the least bit surprised at her guilt, but there was no accusation in his eyes. "I was supposed to be the instructor on that training flight – the nuggets are my responsibility. I left it to Lee--"

"Because I ordered you to," the admiral interrupted. "That was my decision. I needed you here to work with Tigh and Ares, and that left Lee to do the training flight. Don't you dare blame yourself."

"It's my fault."

"Stow it, Lieutenant," Adama growled. "When this mission is over and done with, we can both sit here and try to one-up each other in claiming blame, but only when it's over. Until then, I need your head screwed on straight. And I need a CAG."

"Kat's probably the best pilot down there right now," Kara said. "She has an attitude problem, but maybe some extra work will take the edge off that."

"I'm not interested in Kat as my CAG. It's got to be you, Starbuck." Adama gestured to his desk, where Starbuck noticed her new rank insignia waiting to be claimed. Was that there the whole time? she wondered.

"I can't." Lee's body is hardly cold… how could I step into his shoes as the CAG already? She almost giggled when she realized it was concern over propriety, rather than fear of the job, that had her hesitating. It wouldn't have been that way only a few months ago.

"You can. And you will," he ordered. "Captain."

Starbuck looked into Adama's eyes and saw a shocking lack of emotion. No grief, no anger, no guilt. Only determination. And if he can put off dealing with it, so can I, she told herself.

"Yes, sir," Starbuck mumbled, ignoring the taste of fresh tears on her lips. "You can count on me."

"I know I can, Kara," Adama assured her. "But we have to change the timetable for our mission."

"We can't be ready any sooner," Starbuck told him. "There's no way."

"No, we're pushing it back," Adama said. "We need more time."

"If this is because of me, don't worry," Starbuck said. "I can handle it, really. I--"

"No, this isn't about you," Adama replied. "I'm adding another wrinkle, and I need more time to get my pieces in place."

"What is it?"

"That's need to know, only," the admiral said, "and for this one part of the mission, you don't need to know. Don't worry about it, Kara."

"Yes, sir," she said, suddenly unable to think about anything but the one thing she wasn't supposed to worry about.

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Ellen Tigh was barely out the door of the café when Tom Zarek caught sight of one of Galactica's marines walk in through a different entrance, stopping just inside as he looked over the patrons. Tom knew better than to pass up such an opportunity. He walked straight over, making eye contact as soon as possible.

"Hello, marine," he said, extending his hand amiably. "Tom Zarek."

"I know who you are, Mr. Zarek," the marine replied with a firm handshake. "You're on the Quorum of Twelve."

"That's right. I couldn't help but notice that you seem to be looking for someone."

"Yes, sir."

"You don't have to 'sir' me," Zarek said with a well-rehearsed chuckle. He had watched countless men rot in prison while others went mad dreaming of vengeance or simply wasted time until their release, at which time they inevitably re-offended and started the cycle all over again. Tom had always thought himself one of the special few – the inmates who decided to make some kind of constructive use of their time. It wasn't necessarily about rehabilitation; Tom knew full well that many criminals were not at all interested in ever working a nine to five job that paid a pittance compared to what they could earn as a competent criminal working a fraction of the time. Instead, what had always interested him were the men and women who spent time learning something, whether it was a better way to steal a car, a new way to beat the authorities' forensic procedures, or some nuggets of legal wisdom that could help them squirm out of an otherwise certain conviction. Tom had spent most of his time in prison watching film of politicians, noting how the successful men and women spoke, how they smiled, how they carried themselves, even the hand gestures they used when trying to make a point. Tom Zarek had been blessed with years upon years of time to hone his skills, and he knew damn well that his smile, his chuckle, and his ingratiating manner were as well practiced and convincing as the greatest politicians'. And so he also knew that after only a few mere moments, he already had this marine enthralled.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Zarek," the marine said.

"Please, call me Tom. Can I get you a drink?" he asked, having already led the marine to the bar.

"I really shouldn't," the marine apologized. "I'm here on business."

"On Cloud Nine? What brings you over here, Major… Rutger?" he said, reading the marine's name from his uniform.

"It's not something I should talk about," Rutger said. Tom could see the respect in the man's eyes, but even if Ellen hadn't told him about this marine, he would be able to see the ingrained discipline there, too. This one isn't going to speak too freely, Zarek knew. I'll have to tread carefully.

"No, I know how official business is," Zarek agreed. "As you can imagine, I hear plenty of information I have to keep strictly confidential."

"Yes, sir," Rutger replied.

"So if you need to keep your message private, I won't pry. But if I can help you find who you're looking for," Tom prompted, noting with satisfaction that the bartender had just served them each a Sagitarron Sling.

"I'm looking for Mrs. Tigh. Captain Kelly asked me to bring her a message," Rutger explained.

"So you're looking for Ellen? That's too bad," Zarek said with a shrug. "You just missed her."

"Damn," Rutger muttered. "Do you know where she went, sir?"

"Pretty important, huh?"

"The Captain met with Colonel Tigh this morning, and I think that Tigh had the captain arrange to send me over here," Rutger responded. "He was probably too busy to track down Mrs. Tigh himself, but he'd definitely want… I mean, umm… I just have to find Mrs. Tigh, sir."

"Well, to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure where she is right now," Tom apologized. A message from Kelly after he met with Tigh. I can't sit around waiting for the message to get to Ellen and then waste more time twiddling my thumbs until she finally delivers it to me. If she delivers it to me. "She mentioned she was going to the Prometheus at some point, but I know she was also going to stop by a couple of other ships, first. If you want to wait around, she'll probably be back for dinner. I was going to meet her again then."

"I can't wait around that long," Rutger commented, taking a quick glance at his watch.

"If you give me the message, I can pass it on," Zarek offered.

"Like I said--"

"Major, I'm a member of the Quorum of Twelve," Tom interrupted. "I think you can count on my discretion. And certainly you're not implying you don't trust me."

"Of course not, sir."

"Then how about you leave the message with me," Tom suggested again. "I'll make sure I mention it to Ellen tonight at dinner. Consider it a small favor to help out the troops."

"Well… okay, sir," Rutger relented.

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"That's not helping," Baltar griped as Six's hands stopped massaging his shoulders and began moving down his arms, all while she began to lightly kiss his earlobe.

"I'm helping you relax," she purred, her warm breath, smelling of strongly of lemon and ginger, sending chills down his spine.

"This is hardly the time!" Baltar objected, practically jumping out of his chair as he leveled an accusatory stare. "In case you hadn't noticed, I increasingly appear to be on the wrong end of a slow but inexorable popular coup."

"You're overreacting."

"You were in the Quorum meeting," he reminded her. "I thought I was going to get booted out of office right then and there."

"We bought time for people to cool down, Gaius."

"Cool down?" he shot back. "Is that what you think people are doing? That damned Donner woman just released her book. There aren't enough datapads to go around, so people are gathering in groups, reading it together a chapter at a time. They discuss it over meals, they write out their favorite chapters by hand to share with other friends. Our inability to provide enough copies for every man, woman, and child is causing people to meet and give her work cult-like treatment."

"I think you need a nap," Six commented casually, sitting down in the chair Baltar had vacated. "It's not as bad as you make it out to be."

"It may actually be worse," Baltar retorted, trying to ignore the fact that Six appeared to be paying more attention to a chipped fingernail than she was to his crisis. How the hell does a hallucination chip a nail, anyway? "Donner makes no secret of her opinion that she thinks Roslin was the leader prophesied by Pythia," Baltar added.

"Yes."

"And among other things, she discusses Pythia's other prophecies, including the one about the Condemned Man."

"True. But she never names Zarek as the Condemned Man."

"She doesn't have to," Baltar argued. "Zarek's doing that himself."

"A man cannot name himself the object of prophecy," Six reasoned. "That can only be done by the people or by God."

"Well God has been strangely silent, and the people are all speaking Zarek's name."

"Today, perhaps," Six replied with a knowing smile.

"What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?" Baltar asked, fear rising in his gut.

"I recently heard about a conversation the admiral had with his cylon prisoner."

"Sharon," Baltar said. "Is she in danger?"

"If she – and our child – were in danger, I would have told you," Six assured him. "No, it seems the admiral is concerned about other cylons living unnoticed amongst the people."

"How many are there?" Baltar asked immediately.

"That's exactly what Adama asked. And Sharon actually told him."

"How many?" Baltar asked again.

"Eight," Six answered.

"That's what she told me, too," Baltar commented. "Of course, I have a hard time imagining that the admiral was quite as… forceful with his question."

"Of course not."

"And why are you telling me about this, anyway?" Baltar asked, trying to return the topic from its tangent.

"Because those eight cylons are out there commenting on how they remember you being thrown in the brig after those false accusations about being in league with the vile cylons," Six said. "You were condemned by everyone until the truth came out."

"Yes, the truth," Baltar muttered. Of course, the truth is that I was involved, and exactly the way they said I was. It was the evidence, and not the accusation, that was false.

"So in time, people will start thinking about how the prophecies may already have come to pass," Six said. "So once again, you worry needlessly. You only need to have faith."

"The familiar refrain," Baltar responded with a frustrated sigh. "I don't suppose there's any way…" His voice trailed off as he looked around and saw that Six had disappeared once again. "I hate it when she does that."

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The light was painfully bright, whiter than any light she had ever seen in her life. It warmed her, and terrified her, and blinded her to the voice that spoke so soothingly. "You're awake," he said. Something about his voice reminded the woman of her grandfather, despite the fact that he had died over thirty years earlier.

"Where am I?"

"You're safe," he assured her.

"Where am I?" she asked again.

"What does the location matter if you know you're safe?" he asked.

The woman thought about that for a long time. Minutes, hours, days… she could not say how long she contemplated the question. She knew that the answer should matter, that it was something that would have mattered not long ago, but for the time being she found it difficult to explain why it had mattered then, to say nothing of why it should matter now. The old man seemed to sense her confusion.

"Your home was destroyed," the man reminded her. The woman felt a flash of fear, of panic, but it passed. That was all she could muster in response to his statement. She could not remember her home or its destruction, but she could feel that what he said was true. She knew she was feeling the memory of the loss of her home, even if she could not specifically remember the loss – or the home – itself.

"So where am I now?"

"Do you still think it matters?"

"No."

"You're lying to me," he said, his voice holding no hint of malice. Once more he reminded the woman of her grandfather. She was struck by a memory of her fifth birthday, when she had woken up early and opened her gifts before her parents were awake. Her grandfather had walked into the room first, and he had asked her how she thought her parents would feel when they woke up to find that she had opened her gifts without them. The old man sounded like that now, his voice a soft rebuke rather than a cold, hard condemnation. "Why do you think it matters where you are?"

"I don't know," the woman answered. She was sure of little else, but she knew that was true. It struck her as odd that the only thing she knew was that she did not know why it mattered where she was.

"Would you like to know where you are?" the man asked

"Yes," the woman answered without hesitation.

"If I tell you, do you promise that you will stay here with me?"

Again the woman was forced to ponder the question. She did not know how to answer; there could be any number of reasons to leave, to flee, and any number of other reasons to stay. His answer would determine what she would want, and she did not feel she should make a promise without knowing her circumstances. "I can't promise that," she finally answered.

"So you no longer wish to know where you are?"

"I don't wish to lie to gain that information." She found it very important that she not lie to this man who reminded her of her grandfather. She had never lied to her grandfather, though she had certainly lied countless times to others.

"You have principles?"

"I don't know." Again, that was the only truthful answer she could give. She tried to think of some hint as to what her principles were. It was then that she realized she not only could not remember her own principles, she could also not remember her own name. Or the names of any of the countless people she had lied to after having been so truthful with her grandfather.

"There seems to be a great deal you don't know."

"Yes."

"So I will give you an answer," the old man said. "I will tell you where you are."

"Thank you."

"Do not thank me," he said, his voice still warm but holding a hint of pain, of sorrow. "It does not bring me pleasure to tell you this."

"Tell me what?"

"You are riding upon the back of the serpent," the old man told her. She was so touched by the misery in his voice she thought she was about to cry, herself.

"I don't understand."

"You have unwittingly mounted the tail of the great ouroboros, and you have not long to live."

"Please," she answered, trying to see the man through the blinding light. "I don't know what that means."

"You need a sword," he told her. "A blade of the finest gold, worthy of Atropos herself."

"Please, what do you--" her voice broke off abruptly as the light blinked out of existence, blinding her with darkness as she had been blinded with light.

To be continued……………………………