.Laura Roslin's quarters
Present day (well, night)
"So that's why," Adama finished. "Commander Citona credited my early warning with saving the Fleet; her actions and following Masters' plan so perfectly resulted in her promotion, and I think she totally deserved it. When I took command of Galactica, I specifically ordered, no networks, no wireless gear. That was all that saved her when the Cylons attacked. But after Pacifica, Fleet checked their computers, particularly the ones concerned with HR and repple-depple.
"Turned out those spurious transfer orders were the early efforts of a subversive virus learning our system, placed there by a Cylon sympathiser, rambling on about the One True Way, or something like that." He snorted. "Frakkin' toaster-lover was shot as soon as ID'd. Citona had just been promoted, so she was in no mood to frak about."
"Placed there to create confusion, I imagine," Laura correctly reasoned, "moving officers about to render them less effective, whilst also staying under the DRADIS - no-one would think anything of it. It'd look like the usual bureaucracy at work. They only slipped up by using the same auth code."
"Exactly right," he complimented her. He looked sideways at her. "You sure you're not a Cylon?"
But Laura was only amused at this. "As I recall you saying, if I'm a Cylon, you're really screwed."
"Good point," he chuckled. He didn't voice the uneasy thought: Cylons probably don't get cancer.
"You only knew Bellringer for a few minutes?" Laura recalled.
He nodded. "But in those few minutes, I got a vivid picture of her. Starbuck reminds me of her - hotshot, totally unconventional, but a maestro in a Viper. I kinda liked her. I wish I'd had a chance to get to know her, fight alongside her."
She held up a glass of Libran whisky, courtesy of Billy. "To Belinda Bellringer, one of the best - and randiest - pilots the Colonial Fleet ever had."
Adama frowned slightly. "You shouldn't be drinking."
"RHIP," she shrugged, "as true in civilian life as it is in military. Unless you're a Cylon, you only live once."
"True," he conceded, and poured himself a glass of Caprican rum, holding it to hers. "To Belinda. Death To Toasters."
They clinked glasses.
THE END
"You cannot play God then wash your hands of the things that you've created. Sooner or later,
the day comes when you can't hide from the things that you've done anymore."
- Commander William Adama, 'Husker'
Battlestar Galactica
One wonders if that might apply to us with AI…