“This seems familiar,” said Captain Lee Adama, gripping the bars and looking in on her.
Kara got to her feet, allowing a guarded smile. She felt a rush of complicated emotions at the sight of the man. She didn’t know what to feel. Here was the handsome, chiseled-featured, cocksure, all-star pilot who would have been her brother-in-law, if it were not for … Let’s not go there now, shall we? There was something about him that always got her going. It was probably a good thing they didn’t see each other often.
Sighing, resting her hands on her hips, she approached the bars. “Captain Adama, sir,” she said finally. “Sorry I wasn’t there to greet you with the rest of the squadron.” A mischievous grin tried to find its way to her face, but she held it off. “Did they kiss your ass to your satisfaction?” Her poker face finally broke, and she felt as if they were picking up a conversation right where they had left it yesterday, instead of—who knew how long it had been.
Lee rewarded her gibe with a pained half-smile. He looked up at the ceiling. “So … what’s the charge this time?”
She laughed to herself and shook her head. “Striking a superior asshole,” she said, grinning openly now.
“Ah!” He rocked back with a chuckle. “I’ll bet you’ve been waiting all day to say that one.”
She thought a moment, nodding. “Most of the afternoon.” She laughed and drew closer, leaning on the bars. “So, how long has it been?”
“Two years.”
“Two years!” She shook her head. “We must be getting old. It seems like the funeral was just a couple of months ago.” Her voice started to crack, and she could feel herself starting to tear up.
Lee nodded, longer than necessary. He was obviously holding in his own emotions. “Yah,” he said at last.
Pull it together now. She drew a breath. “Your old man’s doing fine. We don’t talk about it much—maybe two, three times a year.” She peered at him, trying to gauge his reaction. Guarded, very guarded. Old Lee wasn’t letting anything out. “He still struggles with it, though.”
Lee looked away. “I haven’t seen him.”
Damn. I knew it. “Why not?”
Long pause. No answer. She let out a sigh of exasperation.
“Kara. Don’t even start.”
“How long are you going to do this?” Exasperation giving way to annoyance.
He pulled back uncomfortably. “I’m not doing anything.”
Oh frak. How long is this going to go on? “He lost his son, Lee.”
“And who’s responsible for that?”
Kara winced in pain at the memories that brought up. Let’s not go there, either. She shook her head in disbelief. “Same old Lee.” She tried to find words. “You haven’t changed, either.”
He flared with anger. “Zak was my brother.”
“And what was he to me? Nothing?” Only the man I was going to marry.
“That’s not what I meant, and you know what—”
“You know what, you should go,” she interrupted. She thought a moment longer. “I’m getting an urge to hit another superior asshole.”
Lee looked startled, but only momentarily. He nodded, and almost smiled. She’d gotten under his skin, at least temporarily. He looked as if he was trying to think of something to say. But then he simply turned and did as she’d asked. She watched in silence, alone behind the bars, as he left the compartment. And she sat on the bunk, in silence, and thought about all the things that had gone before. Things she could never forget—but didn’t really want to remember.
The funeral. And before that, the smoke, the wreckage of the Viper …
The death. Of the man … and of her hopes for the future.
CHAPTER 10
THE HOUSE OF GAIUS BALTAR, SOUTH OF CAPRICA CITY
In the still of the early morning, the one known as Natasi sat in a chair by the window, with the sun and the water at her back. She noticed neither the water nor the sun. She saw only the bed on the other side of the room. “Gaius,” she said softly.
Across the bedroom, there was no response.
“Gaius.”
This time she got a reaction. Gaius Baltar’s head appeared from under the comforter. A moment later, the head of a very beautiful, and very naked, brunette appeared. The brunette, seeing Natasi in the shadows, hastily yanked the covers up to her neck. Gaius simply looked flustered and embarrassed. “Wh-what are you doing here?” he asked.
The brunette was more direct. “Who the hell are you?”
Natasi allowed no emotion to show. “Get out,” she said.
“Gaius, who is this woman?”
Stammering, he managed, “She’s just a friend.” And immediately realized that that was the wrong thing to say. “Well—more than a friend—when I say friend, what I—”
“Get—out.” Natasi raised her voice only a little, but it was enough to cause the other woman to rethink whatever might have been on the tip of her tongue. She turned to Gaius for support. Spineless. He gestured helplessly.
With a sigh of disgust, the woman rolled out of bed. “This is just … great.” She gathered up her clothes and stalked from the room.
“Bye,” Gaius called after, in a little boy’s voice. A moment later, there was the sound of the front door shutting.
Gaius turned slowly and looked at Natasi guiltily, shamefacedly. He made another helpless gesture. He’d been caught red-handed, and he clearly felt—for the moment—bad about it. Natasi could see the wheels turning in his head. He was obviously trying to decide on a strategy, and his decision was to plead for mercy. “Look, it’s me. It’s me, all right?” He rolled out of bed on the other side. “It’s totally me. I—I screwed up.” He pulled on a pair of loose-fitting sweatpants and stood up. “I am screwed up. Always have been.” He shrugged on a robe. His gaze became very thoughtful, as though he were peering deep into his own soul. “It’s a flaw in my character that I have—I’ve always hated, and I’ve tried to overcome—”
“Spare me your feigned self-awareness and remorse,” she said sharply. You’re such a child, Gaius. Is that why I love you? “I came here because I have something to tell you.”
For a moment, he looked startled, then relieved. Then scared. “Oh.” He sat back on the edge of the bed, his voice very small. “Okay.”
Natasi gazed at him pensively for a few long moments. Then she stood and turned to the window, staring out at the daylight creeping over the sound, illuminating the tops of the trees. “Gaius,” she said without looking at him. “I’d like you to consider something.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“I’d like you to consider the relationship of a child to its parent.” She turned back to him.
Gaius rolled his eyes with a sarcastic laugh. “Philosophy—at five in the morning?”
She said nothing. She simply looked at him.
“Which is fine,” he said hastily. “Great. Fine. Absolutely.”
She continued, very quietly and seriously. “Children are born to replace their parents. That is God’s plan.” She waited a moment to see if he would react, or make some crack about God and his plans. No? Good. “God plans the death of a child’s parents, the very act of death itself, to be a critical part of a child’s development into adulthood.”
Gaius was looking very nervous now. He reacted, as always, with a bad attempt at humor. “Nothing worse than parents who hang around too long,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Mine certainly did.”
Again, she said nothing. But her gaze was withering.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
She would keep trying. “God wants children to grow and develop on their own. He wants them to reach their fullest potential. And so … it is … that all parents must die.” She paused to let that sink in. “But parents who stand in the way of God’s plan, parents who defy his will …” She paused again and gave him half a smile. “They don’t just die. They must be struck down.”
That hit a nerve, and he jumped up, twitch
ing. “Where the hell are you going with this? Natasi, what are you talking about?”
Her smile was full now. “The world is changing, Gaius. The world is changing … .”
CHAPTER 11
GALACTICA, OFFICERS’ WARDROOM
The wardroom was crowded with photographers and people with microphones, and the PR flack Aaron Doral, who was in charge of keeping order. Commander William Adama, stiff and uncomfortable in his full-dress uniform, waited in the shadows in the back of the room, glancing around, trying not to think about a lot of things. This room was usually used for briefings and planning sessions—not photo ops. The walls of the wardroom were lined with pictures, plaques, flags, and other mementoes of Galactica’s long service to the Twelve Colonies. Several of the photos included Adama himself.
Usually the commander derived a feeling of family from looking at those pictures—the family of his brothers and sisters in uniform, those he had served under and over and with, those who had moved on to other lives, those who had stayed, those who had died. Right now, he didn’t get much of that feeling. Because right now, a member of his real family was approaching, and he didn’t get much of a feeling of family out of that, either.
At the other end of the room, Doral suddenly called out to the photographers to spread apart, and make room for the approaching officer, also in full-dress uniform. “Captain—thank you. Aaron Doral.” There was some awkward shaking of hands, before Doral turned and pointed in the direction of Commander Adama. “If you’d like to stand up there, we’ll get a few shots of you and the commander. Thanks.”
Lee Adama stoically stepped past the photographers and into the center of the room, and Commander Adama stepped forward to join him. “Captain,” he said, without making eye contact. Lee said nothing.
Doral came forward, effusive. “Great! Okay, gentlemen, could you maybe stand a little closer?” Disguising his emotions with full military bearing, Adama edged sideways toward Lee. “Fantastic. Commander, could you put your arm around your son?” Without a word, Adama encircled Lee with his arm, barely resting his hand on Lee’s far shoulder. The photographers jockeyed for position. The camera lights flashed. The happy family reunion was captured for broadcast to the public. “Great! Perfect. Thank you very much,” said Doral, cutting it short as quickly as he could. “See you both at the ceremony.”
With that, Adama’s arm came down, the tableau dissolved, and the photographers crowded through the door on their way out. Commander Adama turned away from his son and walked over to the refreshment counter.
He was aware of Lee reacting with a cynical, near-silent laugh at his abrupt move away, and of Lee then starting out the door after the photographers. Before his son could make it past the threshold, Adama turned to him and said, “Do you want some … coffee? We make a really awful cup of coffee here.”
Lee stopped. “No, sir,” he answered. “Thank you, sir.” He had stopped, but clearly had not committed to staying for conversation.
Adama’s gut was knotted like a waterlogged rope. He fiddled with the glasses and water pitcher as he said, “Why don’t you … sit down.”
Lee repeated his half-laugh, the bitter expression still on his face. He turned back into the room, gazing around at the long tables with empty chairs. It was a place for military talk, business, planning, he seemed to be thinking—not this. He remained standing, only half facing his father.
“Congratulations on making captain,” Adama said, pouring himself a glass of water. “Sorry I wasn’t there.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lee said stiffly.
“How’s your mother?”
“Getting married.”
Adama absorbed that for a moment, let the inevitable pain wash over him and fade away. Finally he nodded, raising his glass of water and turning it in his hand—his back still turned to his son. “Good for her,” he said, sincerely. “We spoke about a year ago, had a real heart to heart. It was good.” He drank half the glass of water, a little too quickly.
Lee’s words came even more quickly. “I’m glad to hear that, sir, will that be all?”
His defenses finally broke, for a moment—but he still couldn’t turn toward his son. “Why don’t you talk to me, Lee?”
“Wh—” Lee began to laugh openly. “Well, what do you want to talk about?”
“About anything. You’ve been here for an hour.”
“Well, I don’t have anything to say.” He began walking toward Adama, but his posture was anything but conciliatory. “My orders said to report here for the ceremony. So, I’m here.” He produced a pained smile that was bursting with anger. “And I’m going to participate in the ceremony. But there wasn’t anything in my orders about having heart-to-heart chats with the old man.”
Adama tried to conceal his wince of anguish. “Accidents happen … in the service,” he said quietly, looking up at the wall. And there it was, the inescapable memory: the ruin of the Viper, the flag-draped coffin, the utterly distraught Kara grieving for her lost fiancé. Adama and the boys’ mother—already divorced—grieving separately for their dead son. And Lee, not grieving so much as bitterly angry. And he’d been angry ever since.
“Dad. Listen, I—”
“You know, all the things that you talked about, the last time we were together—” The things that practically killed me, then and now …
“I really don’t want to—”
“—at the funeral—” Words that still echo like gunshots .
“I really don’t want to do this.”
“—they still ring in my ears, after two years.”
“Good!” Lee barked, fire flashing in his eyes. He hesitated, gathered himself a little. His face was still drawn taut as he said, “Good, because … because you know what? They were meant to.”
Adama allowed no reaction to surface. He couldn’t; the pain ran way too deep. “Zak had a choice, you both did.” He raised his chin and scowled at the wall.
Lee snorted, gesturing angrily. “A man isn’t a man … until he wears the wings of a Viper pilot. Doesn’t that sound at all familiar to you?”
Stung to the quick, but unwilling to show it, Adama raised his glass and answered stoically, “That’s not fair, son.” He took another sip of water.
“No, it’s not fair.” Lee stood close now, making his points like rapier stabs. “Because one of us wasn’t cut out to wear the uniform.”
“He earned his wings just like we all did.”
“One of us wasn’t cut out to be a pilot. One of us wouldn’t have even gotten into flight school if his old man, his daddy, hadn’t pulled the strings!”
“That’s an exaggeration,” Adama replied. “I did nothing for him that I wouldn’t have done for anyone else.” Did I? Lords of Kobol, did I?
Lee appeared dumbstruck. He struggled to find words. “You’re not even listening to me! Why can’t you get this through your head? Zak did not belong in that plane!” Gesturing futilely, Lee paused for breath. “He shouldn’t have been there. He was only doing it for you.” Lee collected himself and delivered his words coolly, with a tiny, deadly smile. “Face it. You killed him.”
The words hit Adama with the force of a physical blow. He grimaced very slightly, but refused to allow the pain to show on his face. Did I? No, damn it, I didn’t. But if that’s how you really feel, there’s nothing more to be said, is there? Without turning to face Lee, the commander dismissed him in his gravelly voice: “That’ll be all, Captain.”
Lee stood for about ten seconds, stunned by the dismissal, struggling with his own pain, perhaps trying to think of something more to say. Perhaps wishing he could take it back. Adama remained unmoved. Lee finally turned and strode from the room. Adama stood silent for a long time after that, head bowed in grief and pain, and in regret for all the words. He had never felt quite so … old … as he did now. Old, and used, and wondering how his life had gone so terribly wrong.
CHAPTER 12
MASTER BEDROOM OF GAIUS BALTAR
Baltar sat rigidly in his upholstered reading chair and tried to keep his thoughts on a rational, safe, analytical level. Which was very hard to do, given what he had just been told. “So … now you’re telling me … now you’re telling me you’re a machine.”
Natasi sat in his recliner, a few arm-lengths away, her bare legs outstretched on the raised foot of the chair. She crossed her legs, and he could not help but follow the movement with his eyes. “I’m a woman,” she said.
“You’re a machine.” He let out a frustrated breath. “You’re a synthetic woman. A robot.” He let out another breath, which sounded like a laugh but was a cry of pain. I’ve been sleeping with a robot. A Cylon. No, that is not possible.
She calmly answered, “I’ve said it three times now.”
His answer was anything but calm. “Well, forgive me, I’m having the tiniest bit of trouble believing that, especially since the last time anyone saw the Cylons they looked like walking chrome toasters.”
“Those models are still around,” she said dismissively. “They have their uses.”
He looked away, looked back. “Prove it,” he said. “If you’re a Cylon, prove it to me right now.”
“I don’t have to. You know I’m telling the truth.”
Do I know that? I know nothing of the kind! Flustered, Baltar struggled to bring himself back to the analytical state of mind that he prided himself on being able to achieve. He failed. But he argued nonetheless. “You see—stating something as the truth does not make it so, because the truth is, I don’t believe anything you’re saying—”
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