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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XIV – Reunions & Schisms"So tell me, which part of the prophecy am I living right now?" Baltar asked Six, seething at the amused look on her face as he glared at her through the bars of his cell.
"The greatest prophecies always involve hardship, Gaius," Six replied. "You should know that by now."
"So I'm being purified by my suffering, is that it?" Baltar shot back sarcastically.
"Perhaps," Six answered with a shrug, appearing to delight at Baltar's predicament.
"I see," Baltar said, his fury suddenly snuffed out like a candle in the wind as he stood, nodding, pacing thoughtfully in his cell.
"What do you see?" Six asked.
"Oh, nothing," Baltar answered with a dismissive wave, knowing that would serve to irritate his would-be tormenter.
"Tell me, Gaius," Six snapped.
"Very well," Baltar sighed with an indulgent smile, absolutely overjoyed at her increasingly venomous stare. "You never saw this coming, did you?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
"You. Never. Saw. This. Coming," Baltar repeated slowly. "Zarek's coup wasn't supposed to happen – it wasn't something you counted on."
"You've been complaining for awhile now that you were afraid of the Condemned Man usurping your power," Six pointed out.
"Ah, but you expressed the opinion that Zarek might not be the Condemned Man, that I could also fit the prophecy," Baltar reminded her. "Of course, you also tried to hedge your bets by implying that even if Zarek were the Condemned Man, that the Sacred Scrolls never fully explained how long he would hold power."
"They don't, Gaius."
"Yes, but through it all, I was so panicked by Roslin's unexpectedly sudden death and my overwhelming new responsibilities that I never stopped to think things through. Well, not until I had an abundance of free time to do nothing but think," Baltar commented, glancing around at his surroundings.
"And what is it you've thought through?" Six asked, trying – but failing – to be as condescending as Baltar was being.
"For all your preaching, for all your devout ramblings, for all your assurances that all would work out in the end, you never had a clue what you were doing or how things would end up," Baltar said. Even he could hear the smarmy, contemptuous tone in his voice. And he liked it.
"You'd best watch your tone, Gaius," Six warned. "It sounds like you're challenging the will of God again. I thought we were past that."
"It occurs to me that everything humanity has done has been largely because of those damned prophecies Pythia wrote down," Baltar added. "The devout follow the ambiguously worded warnings of a woman who lived thousands of years ago because it gives them comfort to feel there's a benevolent force for good watching over them; those with less faith follow the devout because it appears that maybe they have a plan for dealing with the end of the world. And I listened to you because I looked around and saw these prophecies playing out before my very eyes, never realizing that there was a damned good reason it all happened the way it did."
"Do you forget your success at the cylon tylium mine?" Six asked. "It was God who guided your hand to the correct target on the tactical photos. And how about my revelation to you that our child would be born and raised in the very place where Sharon Valerii is being held? Do you chalk that up to coincidence?"
"I chalk that up to your being wrong," Baltar countered. "First of all – not our child. The baby is, in fact, Helo's and Sharon's. Second, the child was not born in Sharon's holding cell – she was born in sick bay because of last minute complications in Sharon's pregnancy."
"This is more of your blasphemy."
"This is me paying attention," Baltar countered. "What if, when we were back on Caprica, you revealed that you believed in a god that claimed the sun wouldn't rise the next morning? Would it be blasphemy for me to say the following day that your god was wrong because it was, in fact a bright, sunny day? Of course not," Baltar snapped, answering his own question. "And the reason is because it's not blasphemy when I point out that one of your hare-brained prophecies is demonstrably wrong."
"With all we've been through, with all I've shown you, I find it inconceivable that you still lack faith in God," Six replied venomously. "You've seen miracles, Gaius. I've explained your chosen place in God's plans. And you throw it in my face like it's something to be despised."
"Not despised," Baltar countered. "Simply disregarded. Your so-called god has done nothing except first take credit for me choosing the right blur on an out-of-focus tactical photo, and then magnanimously providing me with a reprieve after sending a copy of you in here with falsified evidence to frame me for facilitating the cylons' success in their attack. I've seen con-men on the streets of Delta City who can conceive of a more convincing racket."
Six's expression was absolutely murderous, and Baltar found himself thankful that, as far as he knew, she was not capable of launching fireballs from her eyes. "You'll regret everything you've said here," she assured him.
"Perhaps," Baltar said with a contented sigh. "But the more I think on this, the more it occurs to me that your cylon god is nothing more or less than the humans' gods. He's a figment of your imagination – just as you're likely a figment of my imagination – designed to bring comfort and security in a big, scary universe in which you find yourselves all alone."
"You'll regret this all," Six told him again. Then she walked from the brig without another word, finally giving Baltar something he'd wanted ever since Roslin's death – absolute silence.
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"All systems in the green," Checklist said from behind Racetrack.
"Okay," Racetrack answered with an amused smile. Checklist was just a kid – recruited from the Bright Horizon only a week before the assault on LV-426 – and his youth and inexperience earned him the callsign "Checklist," for his obsessive habit of going through the checklists at the back of the training manuals at all times during a flight. "You really don't have to tell me that all systems are green," Racetrack told him, not for the first time. "If there were any problems, we'd know right away."
"Are you sure?" Checklist asked.
"Someday you'll see," Racetrack assured him. "There are all kinds of alarms and flashing red lights to signal depressurization, power failure, jumping into something solid, jumping in too close to a star, some kind of explosion in the engines--"
"Okay, I get it," Checklist interrupted, looking paler than he had before the jump.
"Good," Racetrack laughed. "But none of that is very likely."
"So they say," Checklist grumbled. "Anyway, looks like we jumped to the right coordinates."
"Confirmed," Racetrack replied, looking over her own readouts. She strained to see through the dust and gases around the Raptor, hoping that maybe her eyes would show her something the electronic instruments couldn't see through the murk. "Though that's strange," she commented, certain that she was reading something large at the edge of their long-range sensors.
"What is it?"
"Looks like a planet," Racetrack said. "And it's smaller than it should be."
"What do you mean?"
"Usually all you'll find in a nebula are stars, brown dwarfs, gas giants, and asteroids" Racetrack explained, finding that she enjoyed being a teacher as well as a pilot. "Over the course of millions of years, the solid matter – asteroids and dust, mostly – will start to come together to form terrestrial planets that might become habitable a few hundred million years from now."
"And that planet?" Checklist asked.
"Not what I'd expect," Racetrack told him. As they got closer to the contact, Racetrack could see for certain that it was definitely a planet. "It's about the same size as Caprica," she added.
"I'm reading an atmosphere," Checklist said. "Spectrometer says it's mostly nitrogen, with about 25-percent oxygen and some other trace gases. And a lot of water vapor."
"Breathable," Racetrack said. She increased speed, and as they got closer she could make out clouds, large landmasses, and what might be vegetation. "Oh, gods…"
"Contact!" Checklist yelped. "Bearing 341-Mark-12."
"What is it?" Racetrack asked, using her maneuvering thrusters to turn the Raptor around before shutting down all active systems, hoping to elude the unidentified contact, just in case it was a cylon ship. A cylon base? In the middle of a nebula? she wondered. Well, that would explain why we've never been able to figure out where they ended up after the first war. "What is it?" she repeated.
"Gimme a sec," Checklist snapped, clearly flustered under pressure.
Racetrack struggled to hold her tongue, reminding herself that the boy behind her was likely little more than sixteen years old, though he'd claimed to be eighteen, and there were no records to prove otherwise. And when you're as good at computer work as he is, it's not like anyone's gonna go out of his way to prove the kid's lying about his age.
"It's one of our ships," Checklist finally said.
"Are you sure?"
"Definitely," Checklist answered. "I'm picking up chatter now – there're a bunch of our ships out there. I'm even reading shuttles going down to the planet's surface. It looks like it's habitable."
"Okay, figure jump coordinates," Racetrack ordered. "We're getting out of here."
"But they're our ships," Checklist protested.
"Our orders are clear," Racetrack reminded him. "If we find anything, we don't make contact or jump to any conclusions about the situation. We go back, report in, and help the Galactica find our ships so we can come back in force."
"Right," Checklist said.
"So let's just get back. The admiral will take care of the rest."
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"You've come to a decision," the old man said, as usual arriving unexpectedly, coming to stand at Laura Roslin's side.
"You're the doctor I met on the space station," she said, ignoring his own statement.
"Yes."
"Doctor Hobber."
"Yes."
"You're the one who brought me here?"
"I am."
Laura sighed heavily, trying to come to peace with the thoughts that had been plaguing her ever since her memory had begun returning. "How did we get here?"
"Does it matter?"
"I suppose not," she admitted, "but I'd like to know we can leave if we decide to." A rumbling groan echoed through the trees, and Roslin smiled, recognizing the satisfied grunt of one of the huge animals below having rounded up a wayward cub. She felt troubled every time she found herself feeling comfortable with the increasing familiarity of the planet, and every passing day made it more difficult to avoid that train of thought.
"Would you like to leave?"
"No," Roslin said, admitting the truth of the matter. The reason I'm so troubled by my happiness here is that it seems like it's all I've ever wanted, and I know it can't last. She sighed sadly. "But I suppose what I want isn't really important. I need to go back… I need to go back to my people."
"Why would you do that?"
"I'm going to fix our mistakes. I'm going to remind my people of what we are, what we stand for… why we deserve to survive."
"It would mean taking your people back home. You'd have to make war, to fight to the death. Yours or the cylons'."
"I know," she said. "The cylons won't let us go," she added, once more feeling the truth in her heart. A brief memory – almost an emotion, an impression, more than an actual, visual memory – flashed through her mind. The memory of the moment when I found out all was lost…
"No, they won't let you go," Hobber agreed.
"And they'll eventually find this place," she said. "The cylons will punish the innocent. All because of our mistakes."
"Yes."
"I need to go back," the woman said again. Another memory – a large ship, heavily armored, battle-scarred, an impression of a close friend who was waiting for her. The Galactica, she realized. And Bill.
"Are you certain this is what you want?"
"Yes. I have to save my people."
"And the parvulai?"
"Yes." The woman felt strong, stronger than she could remember ever feeling. "By helping my people, I'll also repay the parvulai."
"Perhaps… if you succeed in what you're planning," the old man said. "Do you actually think this will work?"
"Take me back," she said, her voice holding the hard edge of command that she had learned as her people's president. "Now."
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"They're not answering our hails," Dee reported, surprised that not a single one of the ships had responded to the Galactica's signal.
"Open a Priority Channel to Colonial One," Adama ordered. "Get me the President."
It was several moments before a young man named Deacon Connor came on the wireless and acknowledged Dualla's signal and transferred her to the President. "He's on," Dee said, putting the line straight through to the admiral's station.
"Mr. President," Adama said, cradling the phone in his hand.
"Yes Admiral?" Tom Zarek's voice asked from the other end of the line.
"What are you playing at?" Adama asked immediately, not missing a beat.
"I don't know what you mean?" Zarek asked in reply, smiling to Deaq and his other staff without giving away his disappointment that Admiral Adama had not even hinted at surprise.
"Where's President Baltar?" Adama demanded.
"Doctor Baltar has been removed from office," Zarek explained. He indulged in a moment to revel in the worshipful gazes his sycophants directed toward him before he continued. "The will of the people demanded a change in leadership."
"And what people were those?" Adama asked, gesturing toward Tigh to pick up another receiver and listen in. It only took a few seconds for Tigh's face to go several shades of white, and then immediately flush red with fury.
"The civilians of the fleet became tired of having their security compromised," Zarek explained. "It was bad enough when the doctor allowed his scientific research to suffer as he played at being president, but allowing you to abandon the fleet while you went gallivanting off into battle was completely unacceptable."
"You're making a mistake," Adama said evenly, making certain his tone was as non-threatening as possible. He counted on his reputation to convey all the menace he needed.
"Quite the opposite," Zarek countered. "Once Baltar had been removed, I ordered the fleet to jump farther into the nebula. We arrived here, orbiting a habitable planet. The gods obviously favor my ascension to power."
"The gods don't command the fleet's military resources," Adama responded, "and I'm not going to follow the orders of a man who just committed high treason by carrying out a coup."
"May I remind you, Admiral, that the military is subject to the commands of the civilian government," Zarek said happily. This is what it all comes down to, he knew. Adama can oppose me for a brief time if he wants, but he'll have to declare martial law and forcibly remove me from Colonial One to do it. The people will never stand for it – they stood up to the military once; they'll do it again.
"The military is subject to the commands of the legitimate civilian government," Adama countered. "The Articles of Colonization make my responsibilities quite clear; but by usurping President Baltar's power without any legal authority to do so, it's my opinion that you've acted in defiance of the Articles."
"On the contrary, the Quorum enacted Article 26," Zarek said, deciding to play his trump card. "A two-thirds majority of the Quorum deemed Baltar unfit to serve – in essence, he was declared incapacitated by his immense responsibilities – and a member of the Quorum was chosen to take his place until an election is held to install a permanent President. The emergency election has already been scheduled for two weeks from now, Admiral."
"I see," Adama said. Two weeks. Quick enough to satisfy any opposition that Zarek isn't planning this for the long haul, but too fast for anyone else to muster a formidable campaign to threaten him. He's been planning this for months. He looked at Tigh, gestured toward the tactical screens, issuing a series of orders that he knew his XO would understand without a single word being spoken.
"Good," Zarek said. "As you've probably already noticed, we've been shuttling personnel and supplies down to the surface of the planet below. It's our intention to establish a permanent colony."
"You're out of your mind," Adama said. "You'd halt our flight from the cylons and put our defenseless people on the surface of an unfortified planet?"
"The decision has been made, Admiral," Zarek said. "As I explained, everything that's transpired in your absence has been perfectly legal. You will prepare your Raptors and immediately send them to the civilian ships to support our efforts in establishing our colony."
"I will not," Adama said.
"Excuse me?" Zarek said. He looked at the men seated around him, immediately hoping that the same flicker of doubt he saw on their faces was not also on his own.
"If you insist on this folly, you can do so without one iota of assistance from my people," Adama said.
"You have your orders," Zarek reminded the admiral. "Unless you plan on declaring martial law and attempting some sort of military coup, you have no choice but to comply."
"I disagree," the admiral said. "If the civilian population wishes to follow you, they can do so without the comfort and security of military support. The last time there was a disagreement between the military and civilian leadership, the civilian population was able to exert its will by denying the military the resources it needed. Now it seems the tables have been turned; and if the civilian government expects military support, it's going to start reconsidering some of its decisions."
"That's not the way this is going to go," Zarek shot back, stifling his anxiety as he noticed Saffiya Sanne and Marshall Bagot trading whispers at the opposite end of the table. "Your ship still needs supplies and civilian support, Admiral. We have a planet to support us, and the civilian manpower to start harvesting the resources below. My opinion is unchanged – your only reasonable option is to comply. Otherwise, like I said, you're looking at attempting a military coup. You may have the Myrmidon and Aether now, but you're still far short of having the military resources to launch some sort of military takeover."
"Really?" Adama asked. "You really think so?" Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a new blip appear on the DRADIS screen. I wish I could be over there to see the look on his face.
"Mr. President," Colonial One's captain shouted out from the flight deck. "We have a new contact – a capital ship."
"What?" Zarek asked over the intercom. "Are we under attack?"
"No sir," the captain replied. "I mean… Oh gods…"
"What is it?" Deaq yelled.
"It's another battlestar," the captain explained, barely able to speak without stumbling over his words. "It's the Pegasus."
Fin
Author's Endnote: This was the final chapter of Adrift in the Acheron. The sequel (and final story in the trilogy) will be entitled Breaking the Cycle. I'll probably start posting in a few weeks, and will do my damnedest to keep posting maybe once per week. At the risk of offending anyone by inadvertently leaving them out, I'd like to thank everyone for their comments, but also specifically Evilclone, ozma914, darkfinder, Silwyna, JennySDrebel, and ammonite for frequent comments/criticisms. Such feedback is greatly valued.
