Chapter 136 Pre-Fall Recollections

The guard opened the hatch and, with a wave of his gun, motioned the Colonel to enter. Stepping again into the room where, the night before, he'd been questioned by Lee Adama, Saul was only slightly surprised to find the older Adama this time. And seated at the Admiral's side, Laura Roslin. The sight of the service pistol that lay flat on the table in front of the two did cause him to raise a derisory eyebrow.

"Wait outside, Corporal."

At the Admiral's command, the Marine gave Saul a wary look before responding with a brisk, "Yes, Sir." And it was with obvious reluctance at leaving the two leaders of the fleet alone with a traitor and skinjob that the younger man stepped out. Or, at least, that's what Saul figured at first, then wondered if his guard had wanted to stay in hopes of finally seeing the XO get his comeuppance.

Damned kids didn't get it.

He'd always found the younger troops frustrating. In his opinion, the years of peace they'd grown up in had made them undisciplined, and unprepared for the harsh reality of the day to day struggle for survival that had come with the fall of the Twelve Colonies.

His memories might be false, implanted images cobbled together from who knows where, but they were the foundation on which Saul had formed his behavior. And he understood that it was the second-in-command's job to push. Push and keep pushing. Any XO worth his salt forced his people do better, become better. It was the 2IC that kept the crew on their toes, maintained discipline, and prepared for the worst. It might not be written in the official Fleet Regs, but it was still part of the job description: be an asshole so the commander of the ship wouldn't have to.

Not that Saul gave a wit for how the exiting Marine viewed him. It was the two people at the far end of the conference room whose opinion mattered. Well, one of them. As for the President…it was only what influence she had with his commander that concerned Tigh now.

"Sit."

The Admiral's omission of Saul's rank wasn't lost on him as he moved the few steps to the chair positioned at a significant distance from the waiting pair. He took the indicated seat, back straight, hands splayed on his thighs as he waited for their judgment.

As the silence stretched, he began to wonder why they didn't just get this charade done and over with. Wasn't like he didn't already know the outcome. Only question was if he'd be getting a bullet to the head like a traitor or tossed out an airlock like a Cylon, and, with a wry grimace, he supposed either would do the job. It was what he deserved. He'd held back information from his CO. Hidden the truth of what he, and the others, were and put the ship at risk in doing so. Ellen insisted that they weren't sleeper agents, weren't programmed to betray Galactica at a key moment, but he couldn't be certain.

Oh, he'd said otherwise to Tyrol and Foster. Vowed that he'd be the man he wanted. But really, what control did he have over what he did? Ellen swore Cavil had been more interested in punishing the five of them that had disagreed with the Ones' vision, than in using them as secret pawns against Humanity. Yet, if it had been Saul, he figured the most suitable punishment would be to set them up to destroy what they'd thought they were protecting. Could the shifty bastard really not have seen the same opportunity?

He supposed it didn't make a lot of difference. The fact was that one Saul Tigh was a skinjob, and it didn't matter that he'd never chosen to be one. The Admiral shouldn't—couldn't—trust him. Saul lifted his chin then, determined to take whatever punishment his commander thought appropriate. He forced himself to meet Bill's opaque gaze.

At the Admiral's continued silence, the corner of Saul's mouth twitched.

"Guessing you're not about to suggest that I pick that," a nod towards the sidearm, "up and shoot you."

"Not this time," Adama flatly answered. Then he laid a hand over the weapon, pausing a moment before purposefully sliding the pistol to the side so the barrel no longer was aimed directly at Tigh. Saul let out a silent breath, unsure if he was relieved or disappointed that this apparently wasn't to be a quick verdict of his guilt with a swift execution to follow. His gaze moved then to the President as she began to speak.

Making it clear that her words were shared by the man at her side, "We need answers," Roslin said. "Your explanation… Let's just say that there are parts that concern us."

Saul's gaze shifted back to the Admiral, interpreting his friend's willingness to let Roslin take the lead as evidence that Bill didn't trust his own judgment—not, at least, where it concerned Tigh. Made sense. Saul knew that his friend had come to doubt his ability to be unbiased when it came to decisions about those closest to him. He also knew Lee's choice to abandon his duties as CAG had hit his father hard. And now, what with Thrace's return from the dead and Saul's revelation as a Cylon, it didn't take years of friendship to know that Bill was reeling from too many blows at once.

Rubbing his palms along his thighs, Saul became impatient.

"So ask. I'll tell ya whatever," he said, then added, "though, there's not much you don't already know."

"Start a—"

Adama abruptly interrupted the President to snap, "Why?" as he leaned forward on the table, elbows braced and hands clasped before him.

The accusation in Bill's voice crossed the distance to strike at his former XO, and Saul flinched at the harsh bite behind his commander—his friend's—demand. Why was he a Cylon? Frak if he knew! But was that what he meant? Saul's eyes narrowed. Not likely, he realized. Bill was looking for a reason for Tigh's not coming to him when he'd first discovered the truth. Though, with a mental snort, that should be pretty frakking obvious, he thought.

Giving a vague gesture at the space between them, "This, of course," he gruffed out in reply, then held himself steady beneath the weight of the other man's scrutiny, refusing to let his gaze waver.

Bill Adama broke first, his eyes shifting to the woman at his side. Roslin picked up his cue.

"Colonel Tigh, if you would start from the beginning," she formally said, resuming her original line of questioning as if the interaction of the two men had never occurred.

"I'm thinking you want to skip my childhood, seeing as how it never happened?" he smugly asked. At her laconic nod, Saul resisted a smirk. But where to start? Honestly, what could he add not already covered in his debrief with Apollo?

"You gotta understand," he slowly began, "I don't know what's real or not." As Roslin's brows rose, he added, "Ellen says she remembers, Anders, too, but I'm guessing that's 'cause they downloaded...resurrected, or whatever the frak."

After considering him for a moment, "I believe we can assume that anything prior to the First Cylon War is suspect," stated Laura. "So tell us what you did after leaving the Colonial Service."

With a small nod, he gave them a sparse account of the years between when he'd believed he'd mustered out of the Fleet until the time when he was reinstated as a Major under Adama's command. Roslin listened attentively, letting him tell about those intervening years as he saw fit. She did eventually ask that he elaborated further on his adjustment to civilian life. Refusing to shirk the responsibility for his past actions, Saul's neck grew warm as he recounted his growing dependence on drink to get by. He occasionally faltered, recalling his increasing inability to find—and hold—jobs as a pilot, and then eventually even as ground crew. Bill remained silent throughout.

When he reached the point in his narrative where he first met up with Adama, he ground to a stop, unsure whether to go on. Searching the Admiral's stoic expression for any hint of his thoughts, he found his friend unreadable.

"Proceed, Colonel."

At the President's neutral command, Saul continued. He spoke of their time together on the freighter, of the familiar camaraderie he'd missed so since leaving the Service, and he watched for any corresponding emotions in his friend's eyes. Again he was met with a blank wall. A flicker finally disturbed the surface of Adama's craggy features when Saul mentioned that, after having been kicked off the cargo vessel, he'd taken up again with a Marine he'd known from years earlier.

"This Marine, she have a name?" asked Roslin.

The very mildness of her tone drew Saul's gaze sharply to her. What was this? Did they think he'd had contact with the other models during the armistice? Had the President thought she'd spotted what was evidence that he'd known all along of his Cylon nature? Well, he wasn't sure how to prove otherwise, but he saw no reason to cover up this relationship.

"Socrata Hanston," he said. "She was a decorated Sergeant in the Colonial Marines."

As Saul saw both react, he straightened further in the chair. What the frak was going on here? The name meant something to them and he couldn't think what it might be. Searching his memory for any indication of what could interest them in a woman long since dead, he came up blank. Over the two periods of time he'd spent with Socrata, nothing in particular had happened to hint of her involvement in anything furtive. No terrorist attacks on Caprica. No mysterious connections to rebel organizations that could have been a cover for early Cylon infiltration. Just time spent with a volatile woman that had made his life alternately better and worse.

"This woman, how did you meet?"

Roslin's question was neutrally spoken, but he could still see the tension in the tightening around her eyes.

He frowned, but answered, "Probably thinkin' I met her in a bar?" his mouth quirked up, "Not so." His gaze wander to the side as he recalled first laying eyes on the Gunnery Sergeant. The blonde spitfire had been standing, hands on hips, outside the Caprica Base commissary laying bare all the deficiencies in a Lance Corporal's family tree. Amused, Saul had stopped to listen, leaning against a nearby post to enjoy the show. By the time the Gunny was done, the subject of her tirade had paled beneath his suntan and gone glassy eyed.

Recalling that moment, Saul realized that he should have known what he was getting into. But, godsdamn, it'd been a long time since he'd been with a real woman. And there was something about this one that attracted him. The fact that she'd turned out to be more than he could handle was as much his fault as hers he had to admit. Maybe if he hadn't turned to liquor to drown his frustration at the scut jobs he'd had to accept, things might have gone differently.

He shook his head. No. Not likely.

Pulling back from distant memories of fiery nights and even more fierce fights, Saul admitted that there had always been something lacking in their relationship. It wasn't until many years later when he'd met Ellen, and felt the instant connection, that the missing piece had finally snapped into place. Still, other than Ellen—and Bill—his time with Socrata had been the only other significant relationship he'd ever had…well, that he could be certain had actually ever happened, he conceded.

Returning to the President's question, "We met on base," he replied, then elaborated, "She was still in the Service. I was on Caprica Base finalizing some paperwork—just picked up a job, a subcontract of sorts—and encountered her reprimanding one of her troops. She was…," he paused, searching to define his first impression, finally settling on, "…a formidable woman. Reminded me of my DI, only a hell of a lot better lookin'." A smirk had lifted Saul's mouth, but his expression soured as he realized that any memory before the war was likely a fabrication. Including any of those set during basic training. He glanced at the pair and knew they were thinking the same. He pushed all that away and resumed his explanation. "Afterwards, I asked her out for a drink and…," He waved in a you get the picture kind of way, figuring they could deduce for themselves what came next.

"So, you approached this person first?" asked Roslin. Saul jerked a nod in response. "And you'd never seen her before," a brief pause, "or a copy of her since?"

At her inference, Saul scowled. "She wasn't one of them. Might not have known back then, but certainly would've recognized her now…if she was a...," he faltered, then leaned forward slightly. "She wasn't a frakkin' Cylon," he growled. Switching his glower to the silently observing Admiral, "What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "You really thinkin' I was part of some Toaster cell? Had something to do with the attack on the Colonies?!"

Adama's gaze shifted away, and for just a moment Saul read the conflict in his friend's face. But as the Admiral brought his eyes forward again, the mask had returned.

Speaking only to his friend now, "Whatever the frak I am, I never betrayed you. Never did less than my duty as a Colonial Officer," said Saul fervently.

A strained silence followed. Roslin cleared her throat.

"As you say, Colonel," she said, then made a placating gesture as Saul sent an irate glare her way. "We're willing to believe, based on your statement here, that this woman wasn't one of the twelve models." Another wave to forestall an interruption. "But we do need a detailed account of your time prior to joining Galactica. So, tell us, how long did your relationship with the Sergeant last."

"Don't know how's this got anything to do with now, but if discussing my love-life's what floats your boat, Madam President…," Saul took some satisfaction in the thinning of Roslin's lips before he continued. "Like I said, I'd lined up a steady gig, making runs between the Colonies. Legit stuff. General parts and supplies. Nothing special, but it paid the bills and got me back in space." His attention drifted briefly as he scrutinized the memories for any indication that Cavil had been watching him. Shaking that thought aside as a distraction, he went on. "Job was going good. And the Gunny and I had an arrangement; when I was on-planet, I'd stay at her place. It was base housing, almost like being back in the Service."

He muttered an oath then, recalling how everything had started to come apart.

"There was this kid, a know-it-all that couldn't take orders worth a damned," he said, tone reflecting disgust at the recalled insubordination. "Trouble was, he was a nephew…or cousin, or some such pup of the shipping line's CEO." Saul nodded as understanding crossed Roslin's face. And he couldn't help letting his gaze slide to Adama's as he added, "Kid complained that I wasn't treating him fair. Caused a stink and I lost the contract."

Yup, Bill recognized nepotism at work, Saul could see it in the way his friend's clasped hands tightened. One of the things he'd always respected about the Admiral was that he'd always tried not to let Lee's relationship to himself play a part in his decisions. Tried, even if often not succeeded.

Returning to his account of what came next. "I was blacklisted. Service wouldn't send anything my way. Private sector not much better." He rubbed his hands along his thighs, recalling the frustration that had built with each closed door. "Had to take scut runs. Mostly in-atmo, a few ones now and then intra-system, but…," he trailed off.

"You were living with Sergeant Hanston during this time?" asked Roslin.

"Had to. Wasn't making much and we'd settled into a regular thing."

They were waiting for him to go on, but he didn't see what more to add that he hadn't already covered in his initial response. The fact that Socrata' always lively temper had gotten worse as his own had frayed wasn't anyone's business but his own. What, between his coming home after fruitless days looking for prospects—and too many hours warming a bar stool nursing grudges at the powers that be—his relationship with the woman had soured. Eventually he'd left. Things for him had only gotten worse from there.

He wasn't aware that he was glaring down at his fisted hands until Roslin's voice abruptly jerked his gaze up.

"What happened?"

A shrug. "Went our separate ways." His gaze sought Adama's. "Had to take what jobs I could get then. Eventually signed on as a deckhand on a cargo ship." Bill shifted then, and Roslin glanced between the two men.

"That's when the two of you met?"

"Yes," Bill's curt reply answered for the both of them.

Again thick silence descended on the room.

Clearing her throat again, "You said you were asked to leave the ship," she prompted.

"Asked?" his muttered response. "Guess you could call it that." His thoughts turned dark as Saul recalled his duffel being chucked after him as he'd been unceremoniously escorted from the tramp freighter. His latest brush-up with his crewmates had left him limping, and he supposed he was lucky the Captain had at least waited until they were planetside before throwing his ass off. Not that he'd felt particularly grateful at the time.

"Colonel?"

The President's prompt pulled him back from his bitter recollections.

"When the basta—," catching Adama's scowl, Saul corrected himself, "when the Captain refused to issue my last paychit, found myself on Caprica with little money and fewer prospects." He scrubbed at his jaw, the beginnings of a stubble reminding Saul that he'd not had a chance to shave this morning. Of course, it was nowhere near the ragged beard he'd sported when he'd departed the freighter. Personal hygiene hadn't been on the top of his concerns at the time. With his duffel bumping against a painful back that had taken a few punches, he had shuffled off base and into the nearest bar.

She'd found him there; a pitifully small pile of cubits scattered before him beside a growing stack of shot glasses. As he'd tossed back his current drink and ordered another, he'd felt the disapproval rolling off her in waves, alerting him to someone at his side. He'd nearly slammed the now empty glass down on her hand as Socrata had reached for his remaining funds, but recognition had held him back at the last instant. He'd twisted on the stool then to give her a blurry once over. Dressed in casual BDUs, she'd obviously just come off-duty and had probably stopped in for a few before heading back to her small flat. What were the chances, huh? He vaguely remembered waving at the vacant spot beside him and offering to buy her a round, figuring that, what the hell, he hadn't planned on leaving the premises until he'd spent the little he'd had left to his name.

Hanston had had other ideas. She'd stuffed the bits of coin in his pocket and helped him to his feet. With an arm slung over her shoulders, Saul fuzzily recalled stumbling the few blocks, and past smirking guards at the base checkpoint, back to her place before finally collapsing on her couch. The following hours were a blank, but he'd woken, it was to a pounding head and a note from Socrata saying that he could stay, at least until he'd had a chance to get his shit together.

Saul grimaced. Her offer had been genuine, and for a time he had pulled himself out of the depressive hole he'd sunk into, but it had only been a temporary reprieve.

As if able to read his thoughts, "You stayed with an old friend." Roslin said. "Perhaps Sergeant Hanston?"

"For a few months," he confirmed. "Still couldn't get work. The Mastiff's captain hadn't been shy about spreading stories of why he'd cancelled my contract. The basta… Well, he'd made damned sure to get his side out first." He shook his head, knowing that not all the fault lay with his shipmates. After Bill's departure, and after a year's waiting for his promised help to come, Saul knew that he'd grown more surly and difficult. For people stuck together in the cramped quarters of a cargoship like the Mastiff, clashes were a given. He'd just become the primary instigator of them.

"After a time, she got sick of my excuses and I got tired of her harping."

His gaze wandered the conference room, finding little to catch his attention as he recalled the months that followed. Piss-poor jobs working for piss-ant bosses. Drinking away most of what pittance of money he'd earned until he'd reached the point when he'd had enough. One last splurge. A cheap brunette to avoid memories of past encounters, a cheap room for one more night…and the most expensive bottle of ambrosia he could afford with the little he'd had left over. Only the Marine at his door, with the offer of reinstatement into the Colonial Fleet in hand, had stalled his planned end.

The eyes he lifted to finally meet opaque blue ones across the distance were cloaked in regret.

"From the day I re-upped," his voice hoarse, "I swear I've done nothing but what I thought you wanted."

"You've lied to me…for weeks now," the accusation came harsh and low from Bill's lips.

He gave a jerky nod. No use denying it. "Should've told you when I first realized. Didn't know how. And," pausing to run a hand across his mouth, "was a damned coward."

"Nonetheless, we know now," said Roslin. She glanced at the man at her side and Saul heard her sigh before she continued. "The question is, what do we do from here, Colonel?"

He didn't have an answer for her. If he was in their shoes, if it had been revealed that Bill Adama was a Cylon, had been one all along, what would he choose to do? Watching his old friend consider just that dilemma, Saul grimaced.

He was surprised then when the Admiral spoke, not to address what had been said—and the decision yet to be made—but to shift topics entirely. Or so it seemed.

"And this Alliance, you believe it's a legitimate offer?"

Saul's hands reached to tug at the hem of his dress jacket, only to touch the material of orange coveralls, ones issued to replace his uniform after his shower the prior day. His fingers fidgeted at the cloth's unfamiliar feel and it, more even than the space set between himself and his commander, reminded him of his new position. He wasn't sure why Adama was asking him, but Saul wasn't going to hold anything back now. He thought over the explanation Ellen had given him, the words and descriptions of what Anders had seen of the civil war that had torn the Cylon models into factions, and he tried to judge where the Fleet's best interest lay in the resulting mess.

"Hell if I know, Bill," he replied, then, "but Cavil, him I've seen enough of first-hand on New Caprica. Seen what that one's like. If these rebels, if they can help us take out the other frakkers, I'd put 'em on a short leash and let them chew each other up."

"But that's just it, Colonel," interjected Roslin. "An alliance would require our people to join in this 'dogfight'. What assurances would we have that these new allies wouldn't turn on us at their first opportunity?"

"Test 'em then." At Roslin's raised eyebrow, "Short leash, Madam President. We need a joint mission. An objective important enough to prove whose side they're on, but limited enough to reduce the exposure of the Fleet."

As Adama ran a hand through his hair and sat back, Saul's gaze sought his and he tried to guess what the other man had decided. For it was apparent that he'd come to some conclusion.

Before Saul could venture a question, a knock on the hatch heralded company.

"Admiral,…Madam President," the Marine gave them each a nod on entering, "Captain Thrace as you ordered," and Saul watched, perplexed, as the guard ushered Starbuck in before once again leaving. He saw his own confusion reflected in green eyes as they traveled from the pair at one side of the room to where Saul still sat at the other end. Obviously unsure of what she'd walked into, Thrace held her place by the entrance while snapping to attention.

Then Laura Roslin briskly said, "Thank you for joining us, Captain Thrace."

A/N: So, this chapter came together quicker than usual. Can't promise that the next will be as swift, though I'll try!

Reviews really DO encourage the creative process :)