==========BS-75 Galactica (+824 Days Post Cylon Holocaust)==========
One year ago a Centurion standing opposite Commander Adama would have either ended in the complete destruction of said Centurion or a very violent and bloody death of the Commander. Now, however, Commander Adama stood opposite a Centurion engaging in a somewhat polite conversation.
He still did not fully trust the tentative alliance of opportunity between the Colonial Fleet remnants and Guardians. Alliance of opportunity were prone to breaking down. The two sides had nothing in common except they were both fleeing the Cylons. There was no special relationship to cement an alliance such as the old Colonial alliance between Caprica and Scorpia.
Adama knew from experience that unless they could find something positive the alliance would never survive long term.
"Two of my Centurions were attacked," Commander Thais stated in his robotic, monotone voice. Adama noticed an almost total lack of pitch or change in emphasis behind any words. The emphasis and tone of each word mirrored exactly the previous and the one after.
"We apologize," Adama stated. "But the incident was contained and Specialist Alexis is in the brig." He couldn't punish the specialist any more than he had already, on disorderly conduct, a two week brig stay. "I understand the situation, Commander Thais. But your Centurions were not injured or damaged in any way." Adama paused for a moment, looking over towards Carter and John, realizing then that their eyes were glowing a faint blue. He'd heard from his son that for some reason the Centurions preferred to know the Earth machines were actually machines, almost like the Centurions were anxious and worried to be around so many humans. "If I punish Alexis more severely then that will produce animosity and discontent towards your Centurions, Commander."
The incident had occurred when four Centurions and Carter had been retrieving spare electronic supplies to repair a damaged Guardian raider. Somehow one of the Pegasus deck hands had gotten a hole of a pistol (Adama assumed it was one of hundreds still not accounted for after New Caprica) and fired. Luckily the Specialist had only fired a glancing hit at one of the Centurions, nicking its thick chest armor and causing a small dent in the shoulder armor of a second, before Carter had disarmed him.
The roving eye of the Centurion stopped on the commander. "I understand your position and the motivations of your fleet. But... do not make us regret our decision."
"You only agreed to help us because you could kill Cylons," Adama stated. "Would you have helped otherwise?" He asked, pointing out the unacknowledged motives behind the alliance.
"Irrelevant," Commander Thais stated.
Adama's facial muscles twitched under his cheek as he gritted his teeth. He'd come to appreciate the conversations he had with the Earth machines, Sharon, Erica, and even the Model 007 Centurions. But sometimes it was difficult to ever get a straight response from them, the Earth machines especially. And now, Adama realized, the Centurions as well.
"It is relevant. John and Erica told us you were there, that you were different," Adama pointed out. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "We're trying to work with you," his voice was even and steady, "but we are not going to sit here while you do not work with us. We're both on the run-"
"Guardians do not run," Thais informed him.
Concealing his surprise that he might have actually offended a Centurion, he bit his teeth down, considering what he wanted to say rather than engage in a tit-for-tat argument. He had no time for grandstand posturing. "Will you be helping us?" He changed the subject.
"I am not one to make that decision," the Centurion responded. A soft sound was heard from his vocalizer, "but I would if it were my decision." The Centurion brought itself to some sort of attention. "I must return to Pegasus. Commander," he armored hand raised in a mechanical, somewhat awkward salute which Adama returned.
Adama waited until he couldn't hear the clanking of the Centurion's metal boots and reached into his drawer and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He looked at the pile of papers and scrolled through the data files on his tablet. The past week had been long and exhausting, though exhilarating. He'd heard the pilots in the rec room after the rescue; they'd not felt that alive since they settled on the planet. He was there with them in spirit. For all the work and headaches awaiting him as he shifted the papers and computer pads on his desk, he was relieved to have the burden of command once again. It was going to be a long night.
==========BS-75 Galactica (+827 Days Post Cylon Holocaust)==========
They'd come for him, beaten him, and thrown a hood over his head. Somewhere, deep inside, deep in his gut he knew they'd come for him. He wasn't sure where he was being taken, but he knew he wouldn't be leaving.
"Gods, please, just tell me, why?" Jammer yelled. He could hear a woman's voice telling him to 'shut up.' It was so familiar, but he couldn't place it.
"Let him go," he heard. Jammer knew that voice; the gruff, mean, vengeful voice of Colonel Tigh. The Colonel, the resistance leader, the man who had been tortured and hated every Cylon sympathizer was here, standing over Jammer. He knew then he wouldn't be leaving.
He was thrown to the deck, on something cold and metallic. He could feel the track, he knew where he was with the hood still over his head. He was in a Viper launch tube. Jammer knew, certainty rushing through his soul that his life was over now. It wasn't going to end well. But he couldn't go down, not like this, not without fighting for his life. He'd made mistakes, he'd joined the New Caprica Police, but he wasn't going to quit fighting.
Someone yanked the hood off, the bright lights of the tube blinding him, and that someone kicked him in the stomach. The woman's voice, it was Seelix. He looked up, the piercing fluorescent light of the launch tube shining in his eyes, but he could make out her outline. She spat at him, the saliva spraying onto his face.
Jammer struggled to his feet, groaning from the pain in his ribs from being thrown onto the Viper tracks. "Gods…" he muttered to himself, barely audible over his soon-to-be executioners insulting him and arguing amongst themselves on what to do with him.
Once he had gotten to his knees, his hands still bound by riot cuffs, he looked at each of them. Chief Tyrol, Colonel Tigh, Diana Seelix, Sam Anders, Charlie Connor, and Jean Barolay all stood a few meters from him in a semi-circle, staring straight at him. Each one of them hate the glimmer of hate in their eyes, their ires reflecting darkness back towards him. Shaking, he looked towards the Chief, the only one without hatred. His eyes spoke to Jammer of something far worse; betrayal.
Colonel Tigh stepped forward, fists clenched, scowl across his face. He had shaved his white, coarse beard, but the eye patch and the way the lights reflected off his face made him appear almost inhuman. To Jammer, Colonel Tigh was an agent of death, descending on Jammer to carry out its solemn duty. "Sir… please," Jammer started to say, before Tigh cursed him to "shut the frak up."
"James Lyman, you stand accused of giving aid and comfort to the Cylon enemy. You stand accused of enlisting in the New Caprica Police, leading raids against your fellow citizens, and stand implicated in the deaths of Colonial citizens. How do you plead?"
Jammer stammered, trying to form the words necessary to speak, but no sound other than a squeak could come out. Across from him was the man who ordered suicide bombings… suicide bombings! He knew he should speak, but he couldn't. He didn't understand how they could judge him when they were so malicious themselves. He wanted to scream and kill the Colonel, but he couldn't move. He was paralyzed.
Colonel Tigh noted he didn't speak or defend himself and ordered a vote. Five 'guilty' votes came back. Jammer had closed his eyes, waiting for the sixth, but it didn't come. It was the Chief.
Tyrol slowly and cautiously walked up to Jammer, Colonel Tigh demanding of him to explain what he was doing. Tyrol batted his comments away with a brush of his hand and came up to Jammer and crouched in front of him. For a moment the Chief was about to put his hands on the shoulders of his former friend, but awkwardly clasped them in front of his chest instead. "Jammer, why did you do it?" He asked, his voice shaking. The Chief had trusted him. Jammer was one of the best. A good man. "Why, Jammer?"
Jammer muffled a scream but the tears began forming on the cusp of his ear lids. "Chief… please. I thought I was helping. I wanted to help! I didn't want the Cylons to-"
"You frakers killed my son!" Charlie Connor yelled, rushing forward with fist balled and armed cocked, blood rage in his eyes. Sam rushed forward and grabbed Charlie's cocked back arm, and the Chief jumped to his feet to hold Charlie back. "Let me go, I want to kill the fraker!"
"Charlie! Charlie!" Sam grabbed both his friends' shoulder and shook him, spinning him to look him in the eye. "Charlie… calm down, please. It'll be over soon," he said, grabbing the back of his friend's neck and keeping his other hand on his shoulder. "Trust me."
"Chief… please, I wanted to help," Jammer repeated. He knew the situation was bad. It was worse than bad. He wasn't going to get out of this unless the Chief stepped up to defend him. Jammer knew the Chief had respectability, he had credit. If he could convince the Chief, he knew the other five would listen. "I… I didn't want to hurt anyone. I thought if the Cylons got off the streets things would get better," he pleaded. The shame was clear to anyone as they looked in his eyes.
"I'm sorry Jammer," the Chief said. Jammer knew the Chief truly was sorry. "I'm sorry," he kept repeating as he back up, out of the launch tube.
Jammer was desperate. "I saved Cally!" He shouted. He saw the Chief stop, his body go rigid. "At the Flats! The truck, I saved her! She ran, she ran away, I let her go, I let her go!"
The Chief's eyes widened and he took a step forward. Colonel Tigh held a hand to the Chief's chest, stopping him, and Charlie Connor put a hand on his shoulder. "It doesn't excuse what he did, Chief," the Colonel said. "He still killed."
"He killed my son," Charlie said slowly and quietly, keeping his eyes on the deck.
"I never killed your son! I never wanted the weapons in the Temple!" He yelled. "I didn't suicide bomb our own people!" He screamed at Tigh. The Colonel dismissed him with a snicker and a flick of his wrist, not even bothering to defend his actions.
The Chief looked at the Colonel and Charlie and the others, and with shame in his eyes he took a step back and Jammer knew he was done. The Chief turned and whispered that he was sorry, Jammer kept whispering for the Chief to come back, that he was sorry.
By the time Jammer looked back up from the deck everyone had assembled in the Viper launch room. The blast shields had risen and the red alarms were blaring, indicating the key was in the launch control computer.
Colonel Tigh pressed down on the green button, and the air began to vanish out the launch tube. The shaking in his chest and his body kept him from standing, but at the last moment his head swiveled at super human speeds and at the top of his voice yelled. "I'm sorry!" Jammer shouted as he was thrown into the dead, cold and impersonal nothingness of space.
The Chief was shaking almost as violently as Jammer had and took steps back behind the group. "I'm done," he said to their backs. They began to file out and leave the launch bay, leaving the Chief alone at the Viper launch controls.
As the Chief left, a slight movement caught his eye. Someone had been watching them. The fear of discovery raced down the Chief's back, but he was frozen, incapable of movement. He saw the eerie and chilling glow of blue eyes before the eyes streaked as the machine turned, disappearing into the crates and storage of the bay. When he heard the squeak and bang of the hatch door, he knew he was alone. He felt more alone then than he had in his entire life.
Commander Adama stood the skeleton watch with his men that night and early morning. He stood, hands on the command consoles, rocking slightly back and forth, and just stood, listening to the sounds of the ship as the C-I-C had become gradually quieter and less hectic as the watch wound into the early morning hours. He had tried to sleep and hadn't intended on standing this watch, but after hours rolling in the bed, reading, turning his lamp off, turning it back on to read, turning it back off, he decided to do something productive.
Before he had come to C-I-C he had checked on Admiral Cain. The woman had been healing remarkably well and would be ready to resume command within the week. Doctor Cottle had told him he had wanted to keep her on painkillers while the trauma from her torture healed. Doctor Leens from Cloud 9, a clinical psychologist, would be performing a psychological evaluation in three days to determine her fitness to return to duty.
He could hear the swooshing DRADIS sweeps over the command console. He inspected the damage that had been done by the rescue only days before. Much had been repaired. His crew was professional, hard working, dedicated. He was proud of them.
The fleet had made numerous emergency jumps and would be rendezvousing with the Guardians soon.
"Commander Adama," it was the voice of John Planck. Adama noticed his voice sounded almost heavy, reserved and somewhat worried. He hadn't realized the Earth cyborg was even on Galactica, spending most of his time in the Pegasus machine shops and computer labs.
The Old Man of course had not heard him come in. For a man, machine, weighing two and a half times Adama's own weight he could approach like a cat. Adama picked up the glasses off the command station, putting them on he laid his hands on the console as John walked up beside him. Adama took a step to his right. The machines tended to have issues with personal space.
"Late night," John said. Adama figured he was trying to be friendly. He was bored at the moment, the Fleet was asleep, and DRADIS was clear. The Commander figured there would be no harm. He owned the Earth machine that much, at least.
"I couldn't sleep," Adama said.
"I don't sleep," John said back. Adama was aware.
"John, I want to thank you and your officers. You three have done more than anyone could have asked for and anything more than we could have expected, so… thank you," Adama said quietly. He wished to keep the conversation private, while publicly showing the men under him his acceptance of the Earth machines.
"It's our mission," John responded. He paused for a moment. When Adama looked at him from the corner of his eye he could see the tip of his mouth twitch. "You're welcome," he finally said.
"I meant it," Adama said. "I don't say it often," he quietly told John as he kept his eyes on the DRADIS. He'd developed a ritual of counting the ships in the Fleet. They had miraculously escaped with everything. But Bill Adama needed to be sure. "When I commissioned Sharon back into the fleet, I made you and Soto and Bishop the same offer. The offer still stands," he pointed out quietly. "I think you three have earned it after New Caprica."
Out of the extreme corner of Adama's eye he could see a quick smile break the almost perfectly imperturbable face of John Planck. And as soon as the crack in the armor had formed, it had re-sealed itself back to the same expressionless face.
"We appreciate the offer, Commander," he said gently, "But we are not Colonials and have no desire to be." He turned towards Adama, sensing he had offended him. "We're Earth machines, cyborgs, and if it is permissible, I would request we be allowed to wear the uniforms of our faction. To symbolize an alliance, that we're equals in this fight."
Adama thought this request over for a moment. He kept his eyes steady on either the DRADIS above or the plot reading displayed on the command console as the ship coasted through space. Having them with uniforms would be better he thought, and they were soldiers, they did deserve it. He nodded his approval to John.
After a few minutes of silence, the two standing and observing the officers and techs in C-I-C or the readouts on DRADIS and the plots, Adama slowly turned himself half way towards John. "How do you on Earth… always being hunted, how do the people deal with it?"
The Commander had seen the recording stored inside the machines. The dark metallic hulks of hunter/killer drones roaming the skies, tanks three story high bristling with plasma weaponry, the sky, a pale orange from the dust and ash, and the cities of blackened, smoldering rubble. He knew going to Earth was not logical, not after the destruction he had seen. He knew an enemy far more scary than anything the Cylons could summon awaited them. But the fleet had nowhere else to go. He needed to know how the humans and free machines could live there, hunted so fiercely.
"Why do you still head to Earth after I've told you what little is left?" John asked, answering Adama's question with another.
The Commander began recounting the DRADIS contacts and watching the Viper CAP move from one end of the fleet to the other while he thought of John's question. He knew the machine standing next to him was of near infinite patience, so he took his time.
The answer seemed so simply, but still so hard to put into words. "Because we have nowhere else to go." He looked at John for a minute. "There is nowhere else. We ran from one war, only to have it find us a year later. We head to Earth because there is nowhere else for us to go." He debated if he should say to John what he was thinking, what his true intentions were. He decided he would. "If we find an alternative, John, I will order the fleet away from Earth."
"As would I," he admitted. "I would not go to Earth if you could eliminate the Cylons and find a planet to settle," he paused for a moment before sighing. "But Earth is my home. And unless you tell us otherwise, that's what we will try and find," he assured the Commander.
"But it's not our home," Adama pointed out. John did not respond nor give any indication of agreement or disagreement.
"The people there fight because there is nothing to do but fight," John said, finally answering Adama's original question. "Depressing, yes. It's a war between us and them. Neither side will stop until the other is destroyed, because the price of victory is complete annihilation of the other at all costs." He looked over towards Adama.
"No compromise?"
"None at all," John said. "But we also fight because we can't keep running. We don't have FTL, so we can't run to the stars. You run if you can but then you turn around and hit them in the jaw… anywhere you can. John Connor taught the humans how to hope and fight again after Judgment Day, when everyone wanted to flee. The resistance was disjointed, unorganized. But he rallied the fragmented nations in the world, brought the people out of the dark tunnels to fight." John recited. The legend of the great General Connor, engrained in every man, woman, child, and machine on Earth.
"Why do you follow a man who would destroy machines?" Adama asked. Planck could tell he wasn't trying to offend him, but was honestly curious. The two had never had such a frank discussion about the war on Earth and the motivations of the machines.
"Machines need leaders as well," Planck pointed out. "We fight for him because we made that choice and without him our faction could never have developed like it had… Connor was able to trust us when no one else would. Before him, machines were never trusted."
"It's hard to trust someone when their race is responsible for your owns destruction," Adama added gently.
John nodded, fully agreeing. "It is. And that's how it was at first, before we changed it," he said. Adama looked at him, questioning what he had meant. "The free machine faction was not always as accepting of humans as it currently is," he elaborated.
"What changed?"
"He did. We did," Planck told him. The answer was ambiguous, just as Adama had anticipated.
The Commander placed the answer in the back of his mind, running it through a few more times, doubling his effort to commit the vague answer to memory. He would be certain to ask again, in time. The machines were surprisingly straight forward with most of their answers, but after three years Adama knew if they began answering in vague, clouded, quick statements, the conversation would be ending shortly. He'd grown wearily accustomed to that.
"Is everything so dependent on one man?" Adama asked.
"Yes," Planck responded. "The resistance and free machines would not be as organized and dedicated if it were not for him. We owe him our lives."
In an attempt to further understand the leader of humanity and the man Adama may one day meet, he asked, "Would people die for him?"
"Everyone dies for John Connor," Planck responded.