Chapter Text
“Think they’re cylons?”
“Maybe Cally found out about Chief. Maybe that’s why she offed herself.”
“You think they’re from Earth?”
“Can’t believe we didn’t just shoot ‘em down.”
The rec room’s packed—every seat taken and more people standing than sitting. She keeps to herself, like always these days, but even Kara can’t ignore the snatches of conversations from the tables around the room. The officers are giving off waves of tension and spewing half-baked bullshit since no one really knows anything. Kara gets the impression that one hatch shut too strongly would set off the entire crew like a spark in a barrel of gunpowder.
She drags her thumb over the rim of the beer bottle she’s been nursing and runs through a mental list of the insanity that started this morning and has yet to stop.
Truce with the cylons? Check.
Finding out the XO, President’s aide, Chief of the Deck, and your husband are all cylons. Check.
Hailed a small ship—not Colonial, nor identified Cylon vessel—coming their way in the absolute middle of nowhere. Check.
It’s official. This day cannot get any more frakking surreal than it already is. And the day isn’t over yet.
The fleet was getting ready to make the jump to Earth when an unidentified ship showed up on DRADIS—that’s about all that anyone knows right now, won’t know more ‘til the President and the Admiral meets with the ship’s captain. All Kara knows is that it’s really frakking inconvenient—that, and the fact that she’s getting a throbbing headache listening to the cacophony.
She shoves herself out of her seat. Putting one foot in front of the other is all Kara can do to keep herself focused. She has enough of her own crap in her head right now; she doesn’t need anyone else’s trying to claim space.
Right. Left. Straight ahead. Right turn. She isn’t even sure where the hell she is going, but she ends up outside the hatch to the Agathon family’s quarters. She used to come visit him without a thought, but they haven’t really just talked since before the Demetrius—hell, since before she died. Kara hesitates a moment before she raises her hand and knocks against the metal.
“Hang on,” she hears Karl’s voice call out a few seconds before he opens the door. He has Hera balanced precariously on one hip and a prominent green streak of mashed algae across his cheek. Kara fleetingly realizes she must have interrupted mealtime.
Before she can say anything—excuse herself? She isn’t sure—Hera wriggles her way out of her dad’s grip and drops a few feet to the floor. The look of panic on Helo’s face fades away when she doesn’t cry—just scrambles up and ducks back into the room. His gaze follows his daughter as he steps aside to let Kara into the room. “Come on in,” he says, only half paying attention.
It isn’t until he sees Hera settling down at the table to color, that he really takes a look at her. One eyebrow arches as he takes in the sight of her and he’s silent for a moment. “Long day?”
Her brain comes up with about five different taunting retorts, but it doesn’t really feel like the place for that anymore. “Yeah.”
Kara crosses her arms over her chest and casts a glance around the quarters. Rack for two, crib for the kid, table and chairs, over on the desk there’s a photo of Karl and Sharon both in their dress grays—the whole place looks so domestic, just 1.5 kids and a picket fence off from the frakking Colonial Dream. Of course, she’s pretty sure that the dream isn’t supposed to have a cylon in the picture. Not like her marriage has been anything near picture perfect—hell, it’s barely a marriage at all; more like denial and lies, and apparently not just on her side.
She doesn’t even realize she is staring at the photo until Karl speaks. “Sharon’s not here right now.” Kara nearly jumps ten feet at the sound of his voice.
She spins around to see him standing just inches behind her, his hand frozen in mid-air; he’d been reaching for her shoulder. Does he know? Frak, half the ship has to know by now—if not the whole thing. She wonders if people had been placing bets.
Helo’s hand drops and he goes on. “She flew Roslin and the Old Man and some marines over to Colonial One for the meeting with… whoever it is on that ship. Seems like that’s all anyone is talking about right now.” There is a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She still can’t quite tell if he knows, but if he does, he isn’t pushing. Good to know that, after everything, when the universe turns itself upside-down, Karl is still Karl.
She sinks down onto a chair and lets out a deep sigh she didn’t know she had in her. “Right. That. How could I forget?” Kara runs a hand through her hair, getting caught in a knot along the way. She makes a mental note to cut it because it’s too much of a hassle like this. She stares up at the ceiling, not really talking to him, more talking at him. “I guess those signals in my Viper were coming from this ship, not Earth.”
Helo sits by the table, pulls Hera onto his lap. She drags her paper and crayons with her and continues to scribble away. He asks, “You think maybe they’re from Earth?”
Her eye roll ends in a glare.
Karl shrugs. “What? It makes the most sense. We’re on the path to Earth, and we meet an oncoming ship. Logically, that’s where they came from, and that means we did it.” His eyes light up, and there’s a grin on his face. She knows he’s just speculating like everyone else is but somehow it sounds better—more possible somehow-coming from him. “We found the thirteen tribe. Mission accomplished.”
Kara realizes that all she wants is for it to be true, but she can’t ignore the sinking feeling in her gut. She remembers the rumors about the others going silent at the mention of Earth. This isn’t right, this doesn’t add up. “I just have a bad feeling about this,” she says, shaking her head “I can’t explain it.”
Hera glances up from her drawing and, with a very earnest look on her face, puts a small hand on Kara’s knee. She looks like she’s trying as hard as her father is to get Kara to just look on the bright side. Must run in the family, she thinks as the corner of her mouth quirks upwards. Shame to let all their effort go to waste. “Got any cards?” she asks Karl.
“Yeah?” He quirks an eyebrow; she’s lost him on this train of thought.
“Wanna play a few hands? It’ll kill the wait,” Kara offers with a shrug, and looks at the little girl, “And I think it’s about time Hera, here, learned how to play triad.”
Helo looks at her with a look of horror on his face. “You want to teach my two-year-old to gamble?”
Kara smirks. “Get her started young enough and she’ll be a real shark when she’s older.”
He shakes his head, running a hand through his daughter’s hair. “Auntie Kara’s a bad influence.” But he laughs, sets Hera on the floor, and goes to grab his deck of cards. He glances over his shoulder as he digs through the desk drawer. “Think these new people know how to play cards?”
She shrugs. “Guess we’ll find out.”
====================
Lee’s standing in the hangar bay of Colonial One when the shuttle from the unfamiliar ship arrives. He pulls a bit at the knot of his tie as he watches the hatch open and a man and woman step out onto the deck. Both of them have a rather peculiar style of dress. He notes the woman’s red leather vest over a brown button-down shirt, a black bootlace tied around her neck; the man wears a red shirt and a long brown coat that sweeps down to his calves. Both sport boots that come up to their knees and a gunbelt around their waist, and neither of them looks too happy as a pair of marines step forward and ask them to hand over any firearms they’re carrying as a safety precaution.
The woman says something to the man in a language Lee cannot understand—sounds like a curse—as she hands over her sidearm. It looks slightly out of date, although maybe it’s top of the line for their world’s technology. As the weapon leaves her hands, she bows her head close to her companion’s. Lee’s just able to catch the words she mutters. “Feeling safer already, sir.” Her tone is dry, sarcastic, and indicates anything but.
“Yeah, me too.” The man casts an appraising look around the deck once the marines have relieved him of his weapons. “Definitely not Alliance, though.” Lee recognizes the man’s voice as the one that came over the wireless in CIC when they hailed the non-Colonial ship.
A marine gives Lee a nod and he steps forward, doesn’t extend a hand towards the newcomers, keeps both of them planted in his pockets. He opens his mouth to speak, but it’s the man who makes the first statement.
“Wasn’t expectin’ such a warm welcome.” He flicks his gaze to each of the marines in turn before turning his focus on Lee. “Thought this meetin’ was supposed to be all friendly-like.”
“You always bring weapons with you to a friendly meeting?” Lee queries, eyebrow raised.
“Safety precaution,” the man replies.
Lee gives a slow nod. “Well as long as things stay friendly, I don’t think you’ll be needing those safety precautions.” He’s pretty sure that at least one of them is still carrying a concealed weapon, probably both; trust is something he’s in very short supply of today—their guests don’t seem to have much of it either.
He steps forward, introduces himself as Lee Adama, Caprican Representative to the Quorum of Twelve. The blank looks he receives reminds him that a common language in this moment means nothing. The silence only lasts a few seconds before the man introduces himself as he had over the wireless. “Captain Malcolm Reynolds.” He gestures to the woman. “This here is my first mate Zoë Washburn.”
She nods.
Silence again.
Mal claps his hands once and fixes his gaze on Lee once more. “So,” he says. “Take us to your leader.” He grins a bit as he turns to his first mate. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
“Very clever, sir,” she replies in that same dry tone.
Lee raises an eyebrow. “Follow me.”
Mal and Zoë follow as Lee leads them up towards the President’s quarters—former quarters, really, she seems to be spending more nights in the Admiral’s quarters than her own, and there’s a mental image that goes with the fact that Lee really does not need to conjure. When they reach the press room, the usual mob of reporters are waiting for them and for the first time Mal and Zoë look grateful to have the marines escorting them. When they’re finally able to push their way through the swarm, fending off microphones as they go, the President and the Admiral are waiting for them.
Mal casts a look over his shoulder back towards the press room, eyes wide, almost shell-shocked. “Da xiang bao zha shi de la du zi! What the hell was that?”
“You’ll have to forgive them. Finding your ship is very big news to our people.” Roslin rises from her seat; he feels a pang of sadness in his gut at the way she needs to grip the edge of her desk for balance.
Lee introduces the newcomers by name, introduces his father and Laura as Admiral Adama and President Roslin, and Laura extends her hand to Mal—she still plays the part of president well—tells him it’s a pleasure to put a face to the name. He takes her hand without apprehension in his gesture. “President?” he asks. “As in, you were chosen in a free election by your people, all democratic-like?”
Lee watches the look that passes between Roslin and his dad. Their shift of power hadn’t been the most democratic but the people’s choice had turned into a living nightmare. When she turns back to Mal she shifts her stance, taking an offensive position. “I was forty-third in the line of succession when the President and the other forty-two were killed in the attack on our home worlds, along with casualties of approximately fifty billion people.”
Reynolds’s hand drops away, eyes wide, and expression sorrowful. “My condolences.”
Roslin gestures for their guests to take a seat, as she resumes her own next to the Admiral. Lee leans against the wall, watching as Zoë sits stiff and straight, while Mal adopts a more relaxed position, his knee crossed over his ankle. “Fifty billion people?” he drawls. “You know, I’ve been out to the edge of the black a few times. Someone told me there were another fifty billion people out there, I would’ve reckoned them ready for the bug house.”
“Now it’s just the few of us left, around forty thousand,” Adama says.
“That sounds like a fascinatin’ story.” Mal gives a tilt of his head, like he could see a lie coming off them if he looks hard enough. “Since we’re takin’ such a friendly approach to this little meetin’, ya’ll mind indulgin’ me with it?”
“Perhaps later,” Roslin says. “Right now we have a more important matter at hand. We’ve been looking for Earth for the past three years, and you seem to know something about it.”
Mal leans back in his seat, fully intending on using the only bargaining tool he has. “Indulge me.”
Lee catches Roslin’s irritated glance toward his father before she goes on to summarize the invention of the cylons, listens to his father discuss the First Cylon War and the forty years of peace that followed, and the day they took their revenge. The events they cover from that point forward are less detailed, too hard to go into. Reynolds listens intently to Roslin’s tale—delivered with such a professional detachment, Lee wonders how she manages because he’s fighting the slow burning of anger in his gut just listening. He might not be the CAG anymore, but he still remembers each turn of the story by the number of pilots lost.
Something about Mal’s posture changes, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “That’s a real tragedy,” is his only response.
The Admiral seems to have picked up on the shift as well. He sits forward a bit and studies the pair intently. “You two are former military yourselves, aren’t you?”
An appreciative grin forms on Mal’s face. “Keen observational skills you got there, Admiral.” Out of the corner of his eye, Lee notices Zoë’s hand drifting towards the bootlace tied around her neck.
The motion doesn’t seem to be lost on his father, either. “It seems you have quite the tale of your own.”
When neither Reynolds nor Washburn seem to be forthcoming with information, Lee remembers their first words upon boarding. “When you arrived on Colonial One, you mentioned the Alliance. More specifically that we are not Alliance. What exactly—”
“Get much closer to the central planets and you’ll find out,” Zoë warns. Lee feels an uncomfortable chill settle in the room.
Mal uncrossed his legs, all his previous air of nonchalance evaporating. “If we’re gonna talk about the Alliance, I guess it’s best we start with talkin’ about Earth-that-Was.”
Earth-that-Was. The way Mal tells it, Earth was gone hundreds of years before the attack on the Colonies—hundreds of years before the cylons were created. Planet was used up, resources gone, and its inhabitants left with no other choice but to go out, seek new planets, and terraform them to try to start life anew. A few core planets began to develop a centralized government that eventually sought to unite all the planets under one rule. There were those that believed that each planet ought to be free to rule themselves, in opposition to a single ruling body.
War broke out.
Freedom lost.
Rim planets got the short end of the stick—ruled over by corrupt governors with citizens having no say in the central government—while the core planets reaped the economic benefits and social comforts of the ruling class.
“Now,” Mal shoved himself to his feet, arms folded across his chest. “Bein’ on the losin’ side of this battle, you can assume I’m a little bit biased. Got an ambassador on my ship who can give you a whole ’nother side of the story. Either way, you can keep goin’, let the Alliance find you. Hell, you can seek them out your own selves, but I don’t reckon they’re going to take too kindly to 40,000 refuges just showin’ up out of the black.”
Three years spent searching and this is the world they find—this is what was left of humanity. Lee stared out into the middle of room, not addressing anyone in particular. “So, this is the end of the line…”
“Mr. Adama, you’re not seriously suggesting we settle here?” Roslin’s firm glare doesn’t shake him.
His voice doesn’t waver, even as his stomach churns at the thought. “You think we’re going to keep going after this? It could be another five, ten, maybe twenty years before we find another habitable planet, and the way things are going right now, Galactica isn’t going to make it another five months. Gods only know how the Fleet will keep going after that.”
His father glances up at him from his seat. “You can’t be serious, son.”
“What other choice do we have? Is it really that different from the Colonial Government? A group of planets united by one government? It’s not like every colony prospered before the attacks. Why do you think we had people like Zarek and groups like the Sagittaron Freedom Movement?”
Roslin rises from her seat, shoulders back. The dim light in the room glints dangerously off her glasses. “At least we have the Quorum. If we subject our people to this world they will lose their voice entirely.”
“All due respect, Madame President,” Lee watches her stiffen under his scrutiny. “But the people haven’t had a voice in the fleet for a long time.”
She recoils slightly, but when she speaks again her voice is pure ice. “And what exactly do you propose, Mr. Adama?”
Lee casts an uncomfortable glance towards Reynolds and Washburn, the pair having watched the entire exchange with an obvious scrutiny. He clears his throat softly, ignoring the harsh look his father gives him and turns his sole attention back to Roslin. “We give the people back their voice, and we let them vote.”
He hopes that she’ll remember a time when he held a gun to the XO’s head for her sake, for the sake of the people, for the sake of what’s right. Hopes she knows he has the Fleet’s survival at heart. Though her face doesn’t soften, Roslin calls for a meeting of the Quorum the next day to discuss dissemination of information and voting procedure. She turns to Mal and requests to meet with him and his ambassador in the morning, before gathering with the Quorum, and—somewhat to Lee’s surprise—he readily agrees.
Handshakes are exchanged and Mal excuses himself, leaves the room with Zoë at his heels, going back the way they came. As they disappear through the now-empty pressroom, Lee catches the last whispers of their conversation, before they fall out of earshot.
“Think it’s wise getting involved in their politics, sir?”
“Three days ago, I had a bounty hunter sneak on board my ship. I’m thinkin’ it’s best we lay low for a little while.”
“You know this ain’t our fight.”
=====================
“Three on a run,” Kara announces, laying her cards out on the table with a flourish.
Helo whispers something in Hera’s ear before she smacks her cards down on the table. “Full co-ors,” she says before turning up to glance at her father.
Kara leans forward to examine the toddler’s hand, before turning an incredulous raised eyebrow towards Karl’s beaming face. “Your kid cheats, Karl.”
“Nah, she’s just that good.”
Hera sweeps forward, gathering up her winnings—a small pile of crayons that they’ve been using to bet. Apparently bored, she wiggles off her father’s lap, takes her spoils, and sits down to start drawing again.
“Looks like it’s just you and me,” Kara says as she starts shuffling the cards again, she has to admit this is the most relaxed she’s felt since… well, longer than she cares to recall.
She’s in the middle of dealing out the next hand when the hatch swings open and Sharon steps through, letting her hair out of its ponytail. “What’s going on in here?” she asks.
“Oh, I’m just about to kick Starbuck’s butt in another round of triad,” Karl says, turning his face up to hers.
Sharon bends down and plants a quick kiss on his lips. “Is that so?”
“He wishes,” Kara says, grinning at her hand.
“No, really,” Karl insists. “I think she’s losing her edge. Hera beat her during the last round. I open with one red.” He puts a crayon down on the middle of the table.
“I’m telling you, that kid cheats.” It takes a second longer than it should to register, but Athena’s back and that means the meeting is over. “Hey, how did things go over there?”
“I don’t know; I didn’t get to listen in,” she says, her tone frosty as she turns away to pick up her daughter.
Kara suddenly feels as fidgety as the toddler. Her fingers itch to do anything, so she plays with a tear in the edge of one card, and sets a crayon down in the middle of the table. “I see your red and raise you one blue.”
Pass the word. Captain Thrace report to the C Deck Wardroom. Captain Thrace to the C Deck Wardroom.
Kara lays her cards face down on the table and gets to her feet. “Well, it’s been fun.” She’s barely out into the corridor before Helo catches up to her, a hand on her shoulder.
“I don’t know if it’s worth anything, but I don’t think he knew. Sam.”
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Frak. Of course Karl knew, known him so long he can probably read her like a book. She shifts her weight back to the first foot. “What?”
“I don’t think he knew what he was. He led two resistance movements against the cylons. Why would he have done that if he knew he was one of them?”
She doesn’t know why Sam did what he had—might’ve been a cylon trick, trying to get close to her or something; might’ve been any of a hundred different reasons—but she doesn’t really feel like playing that guessing game right now. “You’re right. I don’t know if it’s worth anything.” She turns on her heel, leaves Helo with his family, and continues on to the wardroom.
When she crosses the threshold, the room is empty save for Laura Roslin. “Madame President.” She’s not sure why the frak the President would want to see her right now, but she gets the feeling it’s nothing good. She stands several feet back, stance wide, hands clasped behind her back, watching as the older woman removes her glasses and sets them down on the table in front of her.
“I’m sure you’re aware that we’ve encountered a small transport ship of non-Colonial origins,” she begins. Kara nods. “The Admiral and I met with their crew to ascertain what they knew about Earth.”
The word makes Kara’s heart jump into her throat, makes it hard for her to talk. “And what did they say?”
Roslin folds her hands on the table. “We’re somewhere between several star systems, each containing several habitable planets and moons, but there is no Earth; not anymore.”
Kara’s heart sinks right back down into her stomach, and all she wants is to get off this frakking roller coaster. “If there’s no Earth, then what the hell did I see?”
“I couldn’t begin to tell you, Captain.” Her voice isn’t a reprimand, in fact she sounds about as confused as Kara feels. “I don’t know what any of us saw. Back in the Tomb of Athena, I was so sure that was what we were going to find.” She adds, with a hint of bitterness, “The promised land.”
Kara realizes for the first time that Roslin hasn’t asked her here for accusations, she’s asked her here to mourn with her. She pulls up a chair and sits down across from the President. She hears the hybrid’s words echoing in her head. Her laugh is hollow and humorless. “I guess this is the end, then.”
--To Be Continued--