Upon uncharted seas

"So, you're really going to go through with this?"

2006-12-03T23:53:26Z

Who: William Adama

Where: Aphros District – Caprica City

When: Forty six years before the first Exodus

‘Last night saw a surprise victory for the Panthers. Picon’s coach Gary Blizz said that he had faith his side would triumph over the Caprica Buccaneers despite the odds given against them by pundits in the days leading up to the semi-final match. The Blizzer told fans to keep the faith and that he intends on taking Picon all the way to the Pantheon this year -’

He turned the knob to the off position, pushing the top drawer of the chest it rested on closed before dropping the last piece of clothing on top of an open duffle bag on his bed. Before doing the straps up he took the time to drink in his surroundings; a recently abandoned set of schoolbooks and his diploma for the lyceum were pushed to the side of his desk to make way for the carefully arranged pile that was his wallet, watch, travel documents and enlistment papers. On the wall behind, covering the faded floral pattern was pinned an assortment of team pennants and varsity boxing ribbons. All of which seemed so important only weeks before but now had become trappings of a life that he was about to leave behind.

Crossing the small room to the desk he slipped the wallet into his hip pocket but before putting on his wristwatch something made him pick up a framed picture that had stood there since the day his father, mother and he had gone to the Parliament building for the ratification. His father had taken him out of school that day and had somehow managed to get a pass for the public gallery. It wasn’t the throngs of people in the public gallery, nor the preceding weeks of newscast headlines that told Bill Adama that this event, this historic event, was important, fundamentally important on a personal level to him even then. His father had always maintained that the colonies would be a fairer, better place for mankind if “we”, as he’d say at least once a week when they all sat round the dinner table; it strewn with the papers from his latest case, could put aside petty differences and historical wrong-doings and form a new government, one for all the Colonies.

Bill remembered how his mother covered her head and knelt as the Gemonese Premier lead the delegates in prayer. He was too young to question, but the fact that his father never joined in nor went to temple with his wife and son always sparked his curiosity.

Bill stared at the picture, the smiles of his father and mother still bright and a younger image of himself stood between them, waving proudly a pennant with the seal of the newly formed Quorum of Twelve emblazoned on it. He looked up from the frame to where the same pennant hung from his bookshelf. As fondly as he remembered Colonial Day and as much as his father was right, the Articles were a sign that humanity was trying to better itself, no-one forgot why unification was necessitated. The war had raged for seven years and while Caprica remained relatively untouched he was now at an age to stand up for those same ideals he had witnessed come into effect the day the Articles were ratified.

Innocence

2006-08-25T21:08:27Z

Truth is nothing could have prepared me for the task and the responsibilities that have fallen to me. This isn't just the totality of war we’re dealing with anymore.

Lysander wrote in his chronicle that the first casualty of war was innocence. If that's the case then I guess mine died long ago.

I wish it were so simple.

If my innocence were truly dead then I wouldn’t feel regret, wouldn’t feel guilt. Command decisions are always a trade, putting projected losses against anticipated gain. Deciding on what, or who, we can afford to sacrifice in order to save others. Who lives? Who dies?

The only way I can try to describe it to Lee, to try and prepare him, is to say it’s all about commitment; to be prepared to do what has to be done at any given moment. Of course it’s not until you’re in that position that you realise that this ‘commitment’ sometimes means giving away more than you bargained for. Cylons claim they have a soul. They must’ve gotten that idea from us. If we do have one, then at times I wonder how much of mine I have left.

That said, I can’t hide behind the cylon attack and having to be prepared to do whatever it takes in order to protect the fleet and defend humanity as the sole reason for the eager surrender of my innocence. I’ve been making choices my whole life that I knew were wrong on some level, that I knew would hurt someone.

Innocence, virtue. Seems like it only makes itself known when you’ve lost another piece of it.

Last stand of the Pegasus

2006-08-18T22:51:15Z

Who: William Adama
Where: CIC Battlestar Galactica - New Caprica resuce mission.
What: Silently, unbelivingly, Adama stared overhead, the transponder marker from Pegasus missing from the Dradis display

“Sir we have recovered 45 percent of the lifeboats.” Captain Kelly decided to press his advantage though he’d received no recognition from the Old Man. “Sir, we’ve got a backlog of craft on both pods;” Kelly was forced to take immediate purchase on the surround of the table top as the CIC was rocked by the report of another missile impact on Galactica’s hull. When the lighting normalised again he saw Adama still gripping the clipboard listing all the crew from Pegasus so far recovered and not having found that one name in particular that same granite façade was starting to shpw cracks as the Admiral’s attention was locked on the Dradis column. “Admiral Sir,” Kelly tried again, drawing himself up to his full height. “We must withdraw, the settlement has been evacuated and we’ve sustained a lower rate of attrition that originally projected. I urge you Sir, order the jump.”

He would have preferred it if the Old Man exploded, turned on him bellowing words like cowardice, duty or dereliction. Instead, without letting his eyes descend from the overhead displays the CO simply rasped “Return to your post. Get every bird capable of flying CSAR in the sky immediately.” Kelly nodded stiffly and retreated to the LSO position.

Adama recalled the brief moment of relief that had showered him like cooling water babbling over stones in a clear pool. Cylon military doctrine had thus proven sound, inflict greater than fifty percent losses and they withdrew. Why? He didn’t know. If he had an inexhaustible supply of troops and weapons he was certain he would throw wave after wave at his enemy. But more specifically at this moment he didn’t care. For that brief moment it looked like they had been successful, granted he hadn’t been able to thus far ascertain who had come back and who had been left behind, how many of his crew had given their lives to get the civilians off that rock? Had Saul made it? Tyrol, Cally and her baby? Starbuck? He didn’t even know if She was safe but for that moment, that fleeting instant they had done it. Colonial One, and all surviving rescue craft had left the kill zone and the enemy was in retreat. The meagre pair battlestars he’d brought to the table had killed more than twice their number of cylon capital ships.

But then almost as fast as the colonials had gained the initiative the enemy had consolidated and counterattacked. Pegasus relayed the new contacts even as Galactica’s dradis suite painted each one in turn. Before Adama had time to issue new orders that same inexhaustible supply of troops and weapons had been brought to play against them again. Another unscarred baseship presented itself to the muzzles of his overwrought guns and as he steeled his crew to re-enter the fray his ears were assailed by his sons voice interspersed by static:

”This is Pegasus Actual…We have taken heavy fire…systems damaged…Cylon Basestar…Repeat…CBDR…Cylon Basestar…ship."

Initial signals to the Pegasus went unanswered Bill surmised that system damage was not helped by atmospheric conditions, what he didn’t understand until it was too late was why Pegasus was increasing speed as he was attempting to manoeuvre the Galactica into formation with her to augment the Battlestar’s offensive capability. When the realisation hit him it was like a lead lined boxing glove.

“Pegasus you are ordered to disengage!” The inverted ‘V’ and bar marked Pegasus continued to move on his screen toward the cylon marker. “Pegasus, disengage. Acknowledge! Pegas- Lee! Lee get out of there!”

“All batteries, suppression fire. Helm evasive manoeuvres.” Bill never let his gaze drift from the dradis column but he was only affording the cylons a cursory glance. His tactician’s mind was now secondary to that of a father’s concern as he searched the dradis horizon for another lifeboat distress beacon.

Another missile made its way through the Galactica’s point defence fire as the DC computer showed another bank of red lights.

The tactician might be secondary to the concern of the father but it was not silenced. Bill Adama knew that his time was limited, soon Galactica would be overrun and his responsibility was to get this crew who had followed him loyally into hades itself back to the Fleet. “Get someone from the Pegasus up here who can give me a report.”

”Aye Aye Sir.”

His lips twisted into a deep crescent as his eyes returned to the dradis screen. ‘Come on Lee. Come on.” He murmured.

adama_bsg_75 @ 2006-08-18T02:30:00

2006-08-18T01:29:30Z

Who: William Adama and Saul Tigh

When: During the Fleet’s water shortage.

What: Labourers from the Astral Queen had been working for two days and already tensions were running high throughout the Fleet.

The sound of air being sucked in over his teeth filled the relative quiet of the compact head. Bill looked down at the dull razor blade and then at the series of pin prick holes along his throat that were starting to enthuse red. Dipping the razor in the cup of water he was using to shave Bill stretched the skin over his Adam’s apple as tightly as he could and drew the blade along the grain of his beard scraping the previous night’s growth away. A knock at the hatch made him glance down to where his pocket watch lay open beside the empty sink. Breakfast was on time, these arrangements were just making him slower than usual. Dipping his head out of the doorframe he called out for the steward to come in and carried on scraping the last of his stubble away. Satisfied with the results he wiped away the remaining thin traces of soap foam and turned out the light before stepping out into the main return of his quarters. The man in the white tabard nodded in reply to Bill’s thanks before leaving and as the wheel of his hatch spun to lock the combing back into place he was crossing to the recessed locker by his rack. Passing the intricately carved antique wooden table that stood prominently on this side of the partition, where the Steward had, as usual set two places and a coffee pot between.

His movements, as he pulled a fresh undershirt over his head, may have been calm and measured as usual. But Bill Adama’s mind was racing, calculating the odds of their long term survival and then ruminating on some desperate way to beat those same slim odds. He wondered if indeed they would make it, before screwing his eyes tightly shut and asking himself ‘make it where?’ Saul, despite his rough hewn sensibilities, had summed it up perfectly; ‘the universe is a pretty barren place when you get right down to it.’ The fleet’s long term survival hinged on the nigh-on impossible task of finding an astral body with a planetary system that was habitable, which was unknown to the Cylons, easily defensible and capable of supporting life in the long term.

Not much if you said it fast.

He was snapped from his meditation by the customary wrap on the hatch followed by the sound of the wheel cracking the hatchcombing before the heavy door swung outwards and Tigh stepped over the threshold. "Morning.” he drawled before depositing a set of octagonal stock prints beside the coffee pot and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Bill finished doing up the buttons of his tunic and came to take the chair opposite.

“I want you to know,” Bill began while pouring a cup for each of them. “I appreciate you standing an extra watch, we’re seriously undermanned as you know-“

”Enough said.” Saul was obviously uncomfortable accepting the recognition and retreated behind the strong black brew. For his part Bill just smiled as he donned his glasses and lifted the pile of print outs Saul had brought with him. “What have we got?” he asked beginning to leaf through the transcripts.

”Comm chatter from Midwatch” Saul managed to reply as he chewed, having stirred the bowl of re-hydrated oats and unceremoniously stooping his head to meet the first spoonful. ”Civvies still on the warpath.” he quipped before taking another spoonful.

Bill let his eyes drift down the report in question. There was rising civil disobedience on a variety of ships. The announcement that Raptor surveys had found a new water supply had only staved off dissent for a while. The civilians were apparently dissatisfied with the time it was taking to extract the ice cores, and transport the water back to Galactica’s storage tanks. “We might have to be the policemen here after all.” Bill commented as he read yet another report detailing civil unrest in the fleet ranging from outspoken criticism of the President to full scale threats to take control of ships and stage an embargo of the Galactica until water supplies were replenished.

”What?” Tigh asked not being privy to the reference.

“Never mind, I’ll deal with this when I get to combat. Anything else?”

Bill reached for his coffee as Tigh finished the remnants of his breakfast and nodded.

” Well whatever their planning it might get worse before it gets better.”

He looked over the rims of his glasses in response, prompting the Colonel to continue.

”Surface team reported that they ripped another drill head during the night, we’re looking at an additional twelve hours.”

Bill sighed heavily as he put the pile of papers down and picked up his own spoon. “I’ve a feeling we used up our ration of luck just finding that rock.”

”Well if it were too easy,” Saul reclined in his seat. ”Anyone could do it.”

Bill allowed himself to breathe a quiet laugh at the brevity but the brief moment of light heartedness was cut short as the overhead speakers gave out their familiar hail.

”Attention on Galactica, oh-six-hundred revallie. Day watch personnel thirty minutes to duty stations.”

Saul rose from his seat and stretched, the additional hours spent in CIC were ingrained on his ashen face. Bill finished his coffee and took up the print outs again as he rose to head toward the hatch. “Get some rest Colonel, lets see what today brings.”

Memoirs

2006-06-15T15:14:10Z

Who: Lieutenant William Adama
Where: Battlestar Acropolis
When: Fifth Year of the Great War

He picked up “Murder on Picon” on the tail end of a forty-eight hour furlough on Scorpia. The woman with the used books spread out on the embroidered cloth wanted three cubits for it, he paid ten as the transport wouldn’t wait for her to produce the change.

Now it lay, face down, on the deck of the bunkroom. A month later and he still hadn’t made it out of chapter one. Most probably because whenever he got the chance to read it he was so tired that by the time he realised he was re-reading the same four pages for the fifth or sixth time fatigue usually had hold of him and he surrendered to the arms of Lethe-rich sleep.

Forty-eight hours. After pushing back the cylon incursion into the Cosmara Major sector the Old Man was forced to put back to Scorpia Fleetyards for a re-fit as soon as the relief force arrived. After six months in the thick everyone was looking forward to a well earned shore leave and a chance to see families and get reacquainted with lovers, or to take the chance of getting acquainted with someone that would lend some comfort to the long lonely nights ahead when they were separated again. But it would only take the ground crew and knuckle draggers forty-eight hours to transfer the serviceable vipers of blue squadron from the Galactica to Acropolis and that’s how long he got before reporting for a TDY; while most of the rest of the crew were stood down for three weeks or more. That’s what you get for flying with a squadron that came home largely intact.

Largely.

His close-cropped hair prickled against the palm of his hand as he lay on his rack wanting to sleep but unwilling to yield these scarce moments of relative quiet, unwilling to accept that his existence would be defined by and endless cycle of fighting, surviving and sleeping. Peace on a Battlestar in a forward area came dripping slow. Each time his chest rose the claustrophobic pungency of exertion assailed his nostrils. The silted, re-circulated air carried every one of the throaty gargles from where Badger lay across the bunkroom. The snoring had long since become little more than a minor annoyance, much like the other pilot’s inclination to miss the showers whenever they returned from a patrol. Bill shifted his weight from one hip to another. It seemed that he no sooner got comfortable on this well worn mattress before a dull niggling annoyance made him stir again. He missed his equally spartan rack on the Galactica but he longed more for the time when, like Badger, he would truly believe that one rack was as good as another.

The combination of rhythmic, ever-present vibrations through the panelling of the bulkhead and the close, stale heart of the bunk room wore away his resolve to stay awake. ‘Eat and sleep whenever you can.’ The advice of the old hands came back to mollify him as he tugged at the black-out curtain and dragged it across the aperture of the bunk frame as his eyelids became as heavy as the air in the cabin. Lying on his side Bill took note of the sound of his own breathing and the regular throb of his pulse.

Without the piercing artic blue eyes, his face was a cold mask. The unrelenting insistent klaxon jarred him back to life with a start, as he blinked the few seconds sleep away Colonel Macrae’s voice interspersed the next klaxon blare.

”Attention. Combat Jump Prep is underway. Pilots man your planes. Set condition one throughout the ship, this is no drill. Set condition one throughout the ship.”

As Bill swung his legs out of the bunk and into a waiting flightsuit Badger pulled his previously discarded undershirt over his thick black hair, as soon as the trademark tuft of white pushed through the neckline, he spoke in his heavy Virgoan accent. “C’mon lad. Time enough for sleeping when the battle’s won or lost.” As Bill followed him through the hatch, pulling the sleeves of the heavy suit to his shoulder he could already feel the adrenalin begin to counter his weariness. He wouldn’t let it trouble him anymore than the dull ache from his right knee.

Peace on a Battlestar came dripping slow but disappeared in a flood.

I ought to hate her for it

2006-06-14T23:53:43Z

Commander W Adama
FOTC + 61 days.
Adama re-examines some of his beliefs.

Hatred.

That's what drove me, when Leoben's hands closed tighter and I felt the life ebb from me. The same burning, untempered hatred drove me on when I felt it's blood on my hands and emblazoned on my face, the old good, honest hatred that could only be sated by the resolute and rhythmic blow after blow I savaged on it.

Hatred is what blinded me to the danger when I saw Doral on the causeway. Nothing as noble as being prepared to die to defend the ship. It knew it was dead, but what's trading one life for hundreds? Thousands? Especially when that life will be recreated: downloaded into a new body? I saw the explosives and It smiled as I charged, even as it pressed the detonator. It smiled. They have nothing to lose; they never tire, know no fear and live forever. And I hate them for it.

A cylon. A cylon on my ship.

I can remember as the cold numbing sensation stole my body, as I lay wheezing on my CIC, I can remember not being filled with vitriol, not even being shocked or confused. I can remember being filled with regret: Kara was gone and Lee, there was chasm between me and my son as the darkness took me I remember my last thought being that I wouldn't get the chance to make it right. I should have hated Boomer for that.

And yet I find myself standing over her body. I know now it's not the green pilot who came onboard my ship for her first tour, I know it's not the young woman who's affair with my deck chief I turned a blind eye toward. And yet, even as the pain of her betrayal seizes me only one thought with any clarity is formed.

"Why?"

Even as the warm blood dripped from the edge of the command table she acted as if she didn't know what she had done. She begged the Gods that I wouldn't die, I'm told. Why? Why would she care? Maybe it was just a further deception. What strikes me to the core is the fact that I care. It should be that familiar, categorical hatred that I have harboured for most of my life. But she's robbed me of that too.

And I ought to hate ~~her~~ it for that.