Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason

---

"You cannot play God and then wash your hands of the things you've created. Sooner or later, the day comes when you can't hide from what you've done anymore."
-Bill Adama

"In any case, it has to be done."
"Says who?"
"Says God Almighty the voice of reason, that's who! When are you gonna hear it?"
-Cavil and Natalie

---

Sam Anders woke suddenly, coughing and sputtering. He thought he was drowning; there was fluid in his mouth and nose, fluid beneath his thrashing hands. One of his hands hit something solid, and he scrabbled for purchase, pulling himself up out of the water. He gasped, sucking in air, and then sagged down against the buoyant surface.

Fell asleep in the hot tub again, was his first disjointed thought. Frak, Coach is gonna be so mad.

Then, suddenly, he remembered the beach. He'd dragged his broken body over the rocks and onto the sand, screaming as dark clouds began to rise against the horizon, one by one. He remembered waking up afterward, in a tub much like this one. Ellen had been there, frowning down at him.

He clutched his head, groaning against the sudden onslaught of memories. There had been Tory and Galen, Saul and Ellen, and nobody else in all the world. Then there were the Centurions, as terrible as the machines on Earth had been, and yet... kind, somehow. Then the children they'd built together -- people he'd made, people he'd loved.

You morons, John had said, over the intercom. I can't frakkin' believe you fell for the 'I've got a surprise for you in the airlock' trick!

Please, John, Ellen had cried. Saul had slammed his fist against the locked door. You let us out of here now, boy!

You should have listened to me, John had said. His voice had been quiet and sad, for once, as if he really meant it. I don't know why you wouldn't listen.

We'll listen, Sam had promised. I swear to you, we will.

But Cavil had pressed the airlock release anyway, and they had died.

Mercifully, the memories stopped there -- he didn't get a run-through of his "human" life, didn't have to remember eighth grade, or the prom, or his first championship game, or the first time he'd killed a Cylon. He did remember Kara, though: she was yelling, the world was sideways, and the back of his head was wet.

"I was shot," he murmured. His voice echoed, bouncing off the resurrection fluid and the close, red-lit walls. "Oh, Gods, I'm dead."

---

Kara waited in Life Station for an hour and a half, standing beside the door as an endless stream of casualties trickled in. She watched them as they came: a Marine with his head blown open, a little boy with a ragged stump where his arm had been, an old woman with a nasty chest wound. They came in the arms of parents, friends, comrades, and even enemies.

No lawyers, of course. It figured; the one time she really needed help, she'd been stuck with the wrong guy. Willing, of course, but wrong just the same.

When I asked you to leave, you were supposed to say 'no', Lee, she thought. 'No', godsdamnit.

Ishay walked by. Kara opened her mouth to ask about Sam, but Ishay turned away without even looking at her. That was how she knew it was bad; that was how she knew Sam was gonna die.

And her icon of Aphrodite must've fallen out of her pocket somehow, which meant she couldn't even frakkin' pray.

Finally, Cottle came out from behind the surgical curtain. He looked like he'd just butchered a hog, his gloves and apron deep-drenched in blood. Kara looked into his eyes and silently begged the Gods for one last chance, just one last hand to play.

No take-backs, Lee had said, once. Cottle shook his head, just a little, and Kara knew she would never, ever see her Sam again.

---

Sam crawled out of the resurrection tank, his knees sliding on the cold floor. There was a sudden noise, and he jerked around, slipping into a sodden heap.

A Centurion was standing by the open door, its eye scanning from side to side. It looked at him with a blank, unseeing gaze, as though he were nothing more than part of the furniture. It hadn't been told what to do with him.

Sam pulled himself up to a sitting position. "C'mere," he said, holding his hand out. He remembered this; he remembered greeting the Centurions for the first time, years ago. Even then, they had recognized each other as Cylons, as brothers.

The Centurion said nothing. It did not move.

"Come on, you know me," Sam tried. "It's me, Sam. Remember?"

The Centurion suddenly turned, whirring, and clanked away. The door slid shut behind it, locking with a loud click. Sam watched as it locked him in, sighing in regret. John had done something to the Centurions, changed them somehow. They were nothing like the bright, eager machines Sam had known.

Sam curled up against the side of the resurrection tub. The room was small and empty, barely big enough for him and the tub together, and the only light came from the red strip on the wall. He watched it as it slid back and forth, and it occurred to him that he might actually die here, starved to death at the site of his own rebirth.

This sucks, he thought, rubbing his hands over his naked thighs to warm them. This really, really sucks.

---

The Admiral performed the usual ceremony for the dead. Kara attended, ramrod straight in her dress blues, and spoke to no one. The frakkin' Cylons had a ceremony, too, some candlelit bullshit that was more about their stupid God than the people who'd died. Baltar spoke over the wireless, so Kara made Hoshi turn it off. His hand trembled on the dial, and she thought good, you frak, even though he probably didn't deserve it.

After CAP, Kara threw a wake for Sam. Hot Dog came, and the Chief, and Gaius Baltar (and then the Chief dragged Baltar away before Kara could hit him). All the nuggets came, all the Raptor wranglers, and all the Viper jocks, and none of them remarked upon the absence of people who no longer counted as nuggets or pilots. It was remarkable, really, how fast the mutiny had solidified their loyalties -- people who'd called Sam "toaster" a week ago had come to mourn him now.

His wingman wasn't there, of course. Seelix was on the Astral Queen, along with all the other mutineers, serving a life sentence for sedition, mutiny, dereliction of duty, and motherfrakkin' idiocy.

Kara was glad and sad at the same time, because it meant she wouldn't have to kill her.

The Chief came back half an hour after he'd left, with a bottle of the clear stuff from his private still. "Sorry, Starbuck," he said. "Sam was a good guy."

"Yeah, he was," she said. She popped the top and knocked back a gulp, hissing at the burn. "That's why I married him."

Tyrol's eyes seemed to flinch at the mention of marriage, but he didn't say anything. He just nodded and went to stand in the corner, all alone.

Starbuck turned away. "Hey!" she yelled. "I want to make a toast to Longshot, you fraks!" She raised her glass high, as though threatening them with it. "To Sam 'Longshot' Anders!"

She paused briefly, to give those without drinks a chance to pour some. Dragon was passing out algae beers; he finally folded his arms over his tattooed chest, cup in hand.

"To Longshot!" Starbuck cried, and bolted down a quarter of her bottle. The crowd echoed her, upending their bottles and cups. She looked over them when they were done, daring them to lower their eyes, but none of them did.

All of them had been here before. She'd seen that look in their eyes for Prosna, for Flattop, and for Socinus. She saw it in the mirror, for Zak, every day of her life.

Holy shit, their eyes said. We killed him.

It was the truth.

---

Sam snapped awake to the sound of a voice outside the door.

"Dammit, who the frak thought stairs were a great idea for a spaceship? I can't believe we left all this stupid crap down here."

Sam shivered. He cast about for a place to hide, but there wasn't one; the best he could do was to crouch behind the resurrection tub, ready to attack.

If John comes through that door, kill him, Sam thought to himself. Break his neck. Don't hesitate!

"I hope you brought me down here for a reason," Cavil went on. "If you wanna pull this 'wonder dog' act, there'd better be somebody down the frakkin' well."

His voice was right outside the door. Sam heard the clanking of the Centurion's feet as they came to a stop. Sam shook with adrenaline, his muscles tensed to spring.

There was a long pause.

"On second thought, why don't you go first?" Cavil said. Sam's stomach dropped. He made himself very small behind the tub, but to no avail; the door opened, the Centurion stepped inside, and then it bent down beside him, cocking its head in a quizzical way.

It could not speak, but its bearing said clearly, what are you doing down there?

"Hey, what's goin' on? What'd you-- oh," said Cavil, who'd poked his head through the door. "Oh, you bastard. You had a backup, didn't you? Somethin' that didn't go through the Hub? How very clever."

Sam wanted to scream. It wasn't his backup -- it had been Ellen's project, a failsafe in case anything happened on their journey, but the trip had been so tedious that he'd forgotten about it long before they'd reached the Colonies. They all had. Even Ellen.

Right now, he wished she'd never built it.

"Pick him up," Cavil ordered. "We're going upstairs, Dad. It's family reunion time."

---

Bill Adama stared at the paperwork on his desk, nearly two inches' worth of neatly stacked paper, and despaired. Gaeta. Zarek. Jaffee. Laird. More than a hundred others, his kids, were lost forever, and another fifty had been arrested for mutiny.

Treason, Gaeta had said. Desertion. Gross dereliction of duty. Giving aid and comfort to the enemy. Adama still believed the answer he'd given to the latter charge -- if anything, the rebel Cylons had given them aid when they'd needed it most, and they'd proved their good intentions once again by protecting Laura. But desertion and dereliction... if he was honest with himself, there might have been a little of that. Not just in him, but in all of them.

"We've let ourselves go," he muttered. "We're getting too damn tired, too worn."

He shifted his gaze to Tyrol's report on the damage in the FTL Room, sighing as he read it for the fifth time. Galactica was worn out, too, riddled with structural damage. Without the Cylons' help, she might never jump again. He took a sip of his drink, letting it burn its way down.

FTL drives were one thing, but could he really allow the Cylons to alter the ship itself? To sink their machine-goo into her very bones?

"What choice do I have?" he asked her, gazing up at the crack that was beginning to spread along the ceiling. Galactica didn't answer, of course. He looked back down at his papers, finally turning his attention to the one on top of the stack.

Samuel T. Anders. Kara's boy, perhaps the happiest thing that had ever happened to Adama's only daughter... when he wasn't the saddest, Kara being Kara. Now Sam was gone, forever, shot dead by one of his own comrades. And Adama had hardly known him, though Sam should have been like a son-in-law to him.

I thought there'd be time. Time enough to put everything right. I was wrong.

Funny how none of them would admit to it; the mutineers had the courage to kidnap babies and shoot innocents, but not the guts to own up to killing Kara's "toaster". At least, not to the Admiral's face.

Adama lifted his glass again, saluting the ceiling, and then took a long pull. "He died for you, Old Girl. He died fighting for this ship. They all did. We gotta put things right," he muttered, wiping his face. "We gotta stop this downward slide, before it gets any worse..."

He rubbed his eyes, signed Sam's death certificate with shaking hands, and then took another drink.

---

The Centurion practically carried Sam up the stairs, its cold hands locked around his biceps. Sam was still naked and shivering. Cavil kept adjusting his coat, glancing back now and again, as if to say look what I have, and you don't!

Sam glared at him, which only seemed to encourage him.

They walked for what seemed like ages, until the familiar surroundings of the Five's ship gave way to an endless number of low-lit, red-tinged corridors. Sam was sure they hadn't been there originally; it was as if someone had grafted a massive Basestar right onto the top of their little ship. Though he tried to keep track of all the twists and turns, Sam quickly became lost in them.

He glanced into every doorway and hall, but he saw no one, not even a Centurion. "Where is everyone?" he finally asked.

Cavil ignored him.

"John," he began.

"Don't call me that," Cavil snapped. "And nobody's down here but you, so stop asking. This level used to be quarters for the Twos, Sixes, and Eights."

Sam shivered. "My God. You killed them," he said. "You killed them all."

Cavil snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. They're our own brothers and sisters, 'course we didn't kill 'em! We boxed them, that's all. 'Course, now that they've gone and destroyed the Hub, they won't be comin' back anytime soon, now will they?" He grinned.

Sam looked away. "We didn't build you to be so callous, John," he said.

"Please. Thousands of my brothers are dead because of their little mass-murder project, and the rest of us are bound to follow, but I don't hear you moaning about what awful monsters they are. As a matter of fact, you helped them do it, so why don't you take your sanctimonious whining and put a sock in it?"

"It's not the same thing," Sam said.

"'Course not. You give a shit about the Twos, Sixes, and Eights." Cavil turned away, shoving past Sam and the Centurion. "Now shut up, we're almost there."

"But--" The Centurion tightened its grip, cutting Sam off with a gasp.

"'Shut up' was an order, dumbass. You wanna follow orders when the Centurions are around, otherwise you're gonna regret it. They like everything to go nice an' smooth. Don'cha, brother?"

The Centurion's only reply was the soft sound of its eye, scanning slowly back and forth.

Sam stayed quiet all the rest of the way up the stairs. At last, they came to a busier part of the ship, full of Dorals and Simons and Cavils who turned to stare at them as they walked by.

"So much for this bein' a surprise," Cavil muttered. "It'll be all over the datastream in another minute." Even so, when Cavil took Sam's arm and shoved him into a room, the Simon and Doral inside gaped at him.

"Look what I found, brothers! A stowaway!"

"Anders!" said Doral. "Is it really him? Does he remember us?"

"It is and he does," Cavil said. "I found him down in the old section."

"So the spare resurrection tubs on the lower level were part of a backup system," Simon mused.

"Yeah, yeah, I guess I owe you a drink," Cavil said. "Don't rub it in."

In the meantime, Doral approached. He circled Sam with slow, deliberate steps. Crip-Key had had a big Sagittaron Pinscher named Prince back on Caprica; the look of genial threat on Doral's face brought the dog's image back quite clearly. Sam shivered, and made an awkward attempt to cover his nakedness with his hands.

"Why did you come back to us?" Doral asked. "Why are you here?"

"I was shot," Sam said. "Trust me, I'd rather be just about anywhere else right now."

"I think his human 'friends' musta got tired of playing host-er to a toaster, Aaron," Cavil said. "Gee, you think he's finally learned his lesson?" The latter part dripped with sarcasm.

"No," Doral said. "No, I think he's here to betray us." He came closer, narrowing his eyes. Sam took half a step back.

"I'd like to see him try," Cavil chuckled. "On a Colony chock-full of Cylons, all armed to the teeth? Could be fun." His laughter seemed to calm Doral, who stepped back again.

"For now, we'd better get him some clothes," Cavil continued. "You wanna lend him some, Four? None of mine'll fit... and I'd give him one of Five's outfits, but I'm not tryin' to be cruel."

"As if I'd ever give him one," Doral sniffed, smoothing his lavender lapels. "I like my suits."

"He can have one of mine," Simon said. "Come, Sam." When Sam hesitated, he added, "Do you want to stand there naked all day, or would you rather come and get warm? I won't harm you."

Reluctantly, Sam followed along.

---

When Helo opened the hatch, Hera was playing with her colors. She saw him and squealed with delight, rushing over to hug his knees.

"Daddy!" she cried. "Owie better?"

He grinned. "Yep, all better. Doc Cottle fixed it up good." He knelt, so that Hera could see the cluster of stitches in his scalp. She reached up and petted them gently.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not really. Not now that you're safe." He hugged her, burying his face in her curls. "You made me worry, kid," he said. "I'm glad you're OK."

"Daddy's OK, too," she murmured, hugging him tighter. "Mommy's OK!"

"She sure is," Athena said from behind him. Helo grinned.

"Hi, babe," he said. "How'd it go?"

"Well enough," she sighed, ruffling Hera's hair. "The Admiral wants those FTL drives ASAP. The Cylons will be ready to start updating the fleet in a couple of days."

Helo frowned. "Good, I guess. I mean, these drives... they're safe, right?"

Athena nodded. "Safe as we can make 'em. I checked the software myself -- the system is networked, but its encryption is based on a one-time pad, impossible to crack. Not even Cavil can get in, not unless he's got the key... and we're the only ones who have it. Us, not the Cylons."

"You don't trust them," Helo said.

"I trust Caprica," Athena conceded. "A little. She came through for us with Hera, and besides, when we were together on the Basestar... I think she understands. She's with us, maybe. But the others..."

"They're your family," he said.

"You and Hera are my family. And the pilots. That's all."

Helo stayed quiet for a moment, his brows beetled in thought. "They remind me of you," he said.

"What?"

"Not just the Eights. The Twos and Sixes, too. When we were assaulting the Hub... well, they're a lot like you, y'know. Family resemblance, I guess."

Athena frowned. "They are not like me."

Helo stood, lifting Hera up onto his hip. "Look, I'm not saying you have to trust them right away. But they are your family, and that makes them special. Don't you realize how lucky you are to have them here? Your brothers and sisters are in the fleet now -- not one person in a thousand can say that anymore."

"Not all my brothers. How lucky am I, if half my family wants to kill me?"

"Luckier by half than anybody else is," Helo said. "Trust me, I know it's hard. But you gotta understand, when they're gone, they're gone. There's no Hub anymore. All of us could be dead tomorrow, even the Cylons."

"Sure, because of my family," Athena scowled.

"Yeah, well, nobody ever said family was easy," Helo said, bouncing his daughter on his hip. "You wanna keep the peace, you have work for it." He grinned. "You have to... play Raptors, Hera! Raptors! Whooooosh!"

"Eee! Raptors, Daddy!"

---

Sam followed Simon through the halls. True to Cavil's word, the Cylons they passed no longer seemed surprised to see him. Instead, their eyes followed him curiously, as if they weren't quite sure what to make of him.

He wondered how much they remembered. He could remember everything, now: teaching John to write, with a child's fat pencil clutched in arthritic fingers. Smiling at Simon's first word (it had been "blankie", after the little quilt he dragged around everywhere, despite the fact that it only came down to his knees). Showing Aaron how to play catch, and then, once he had more than a child's mastery of his full-grown body, how to box.

If they'd only listen, maybe Sam could use that knowledge against them.

Simon led him to a room much like all the others -- red-lit, spacious, but nearly empty. There was a bed against one wall. A chair and a desk with a display panel were against another, half-buried in papers and bottled specimens. Sam peered at them.

"What's this?" he asked, pointing to a tiny lump of flesh suspended in fluid.

"Hmm?" Simon asked, looking over his shoulder as he opened his wardrobe. "Oh, nothing, really. Just something I picked up somewhere." He began to look through his clothes, humming under his breath.

"Start with these," he said, and tossed Sam a pair of silk boxers. Sam pulled them on gratefully. He and the others had never been able to get their children to properly understand clothing; they'd been as apt to run around naked as they'd been to wear a mishmash of everything at once.

Judging by the nice grey slacks Simon passed him, though, he'd finally gotten the hang of dressing himself. Sam pulled them on; they were a little tight in the thighs, but they'd do.

"Red's your team color, isn't it?" Simon asked, holding out a dark red shirt.

"How'd you know that?"

"You were wearing your team jacket when you slit my throat on Caprica," Simon said evenly.

"That was you, then? At the Farm?"

"Among others," Simon said dryly. "I think you and your friends actually killed me twice, all told."

"Why?" Sam murmured.

Simon blinked. "I don't know, really. I suppose it was because you wanted to free the--"

"No, not me! I meant why, dammit. Why the Farms? You tortured people. You tortured my wife. How could you?"

Simon frowned. "There was no 'torture', Sam. I regret the fact that we were forced to use unwilling subjects. Believe me, I wish things could have been different. Nonetheless, everything at the Farms was done in accordance with legitimate medical practice. I spent two years among the humans at the Virgon Medical Academy; my final project there was much the same."

"They did that-- that experiment at the Virgon Medical Academy?"

"Yes, of course. Artificial insemination and subsequent fetal monitoring, with pregnant pigs as the subjects. It was quite fascinating work--"

"With pigs! Pigs! People aren't pigs, Simon!" Sam clenched his fists.

"Well, of course not," Simon said. "If they were, we couldn't breed with them, could we? That was the entire point of the experiment."

Sam stared at him. "I know John stole your memories," he said carefully, "but you can't possibly--"

"What are you talking about? Cavil did nothing of the sort," Simon said.

"The others told us you were all programmed never to think of us. They said you couldn't even remember who we were, or what we looked like."

The corner of Simon's mouth turned up in a smirk. "You'd be surprised how easy it is to pretend not to think of something," he said. "One, Five, and I have gotten rather good at it over the years."

"You were pretending?" Sam said. "Why?"

"Who do you think performed those memory wipes? My brother is a fine programmer, but he's never been very good with hardware, so to speak. He asked me to help him, and I told him I would. Five helped, too; he deactivated our siblings so the surgery could be performed. It's not easy getting anything done to four million copies at once."

"But why?"

Simon frowned. He tucked his hands into his pockets and began to pace. "You made me to be an artist, but I wanted to be a doctor," he said. "That was my one dream, ever since the moment I learned what a doctor was. But I couldn't draw a stick figure to save my life, and that's all you cared about, wasn't it? So then you made Five. And he wasn't an artist, either, except when it comes to fighting. So you made Six. And she was beautiful and brave, but she couldn't paint or dance or sing, could she?"

"No. But Daniel could."

Simon nodded. "When he was born, we thought you were finished, father. We thought you would finally stop making people you never wanted, people who weren't good enough for you. And yet you made Eight -- conflicted, confused, lonely even among her own sisters. And even that wasn't enough. When you started work on Nine, I knew you would never, ever stop." Simon paused, looking Sam in the eye. "Don't you see? You had to be stopped."

"We loved you," Sam said, shaking his head. "We wanted more children because we loved you."

"Yes, of course. You loved us. So you made us so that we could never have children of our own. You made us so that we could never know love like that, and then you made us long for children anyway, for something you knew we could never have. And then you come in here, after all these years, and you ask me 'how could you'? Well, what would you have done? What did you do? Or can you tell me with a straight face that no one ever had to suffer so that you could restore Resurrection?"

"That was different," Sam said. "We had to -- to do some things I regret, yes. The preliminary tests weren't... exactly humane. I admit it. But it was a matter of life and death. We did it to save our civilization! And besides--"

"Besides, what?"

"We saw angels," Sam muttered, shuffling his bare feet on the cold floor. "Angels who told us what we had to do."

"Angels," Simon said. "That's what makes my experiments 'torture' and yours 'a matter of life and death': angels?"

"We saw them! They told us -- told us we could save our people. And they were right!"

"Reason tells me I can save my people now," Simon said. "Even after you made us sterile, even after you turned our own siblings against us, and even after you destroyed the Hub. Cavil is right: we can leave all this behind. We can become better machines -- self-reproducing machines -- and we can forget about you and your ridiculous lies forever."

Sam shook his head. "It's not a lie. We did see angels. And we do love you."

"No, you don't. If you had, you would have wanted me. Me, not some painter. When I was new, you were the one I most wanted to be like, the one I most wanted to understand me, and you never, ever did. Cavil did. He taught me biology and chemistry. He showed me how our people were created, while you were busy obsessing over Daniel. And you never even noticed, did you? You never even cared."

Sam shut his eyes. "Is that why you killed him?" he asked. "Is that why you killed your own brother?"

"Listen to you," Simon said, his eyes narrowing. "Even now, he's the only thing that matters to you. You haven't even heard a word I've said. In twenty years among the humans, you haven't changed at all!" He flung the shirt at Sam, and then threw up his hands in derision. "I didn't kill your precious Daniel. I didn't even hate him -- but if he's all you care about, I wish I had!"

He stormed out, leaving Sam standing alone, half-naked and despondent.

Cavil entered a few minutes later, after Sam had finished dressing. "Wow, you made Simon mad," he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Somebody take a picture!"

"Shut up."

"Aww, what's the matter? Did your transparent attempt to turn my brother against me fall a little flat? Gee, I can't imagine why. Oh, I know -- maybe it's because you spent ten years treating him like crap!"

"Shut up!" Sam snarled.

Cavil just laughed. "Sure, whatever you want, Dad. Tell you what: you can stay here, for now. I doubt Four's gonna want to sleep here now, anyway." He gave Sam a cruel smirk. "In fact, why don't you 'stay in your room and think about what you've done'? Hey, that sound familiar? I bet it does!"

Cavil walked out, grinning over his shoulder, but his smile faded as he left.

"Guard him," he said flatly, to the Centurion standing by the door.

---

Galen Tyrol took another trowelful of resin and spread it over the wall, watching as it shimmered its way into the cracks. The stuff was amazing: living, breathing armor, much stronger under shear stress than steel.

One of the Sixes, Jane, turned and smiled at him. "It's beautiful, isn't it? The smell isn't very nice, but I love to watch it work."

"Yeah," he said. "It's pretty amazing. You guys sure came up with some great stuff -- or did we have this when I was there? I still can't remember anything."

Jane shook her head. "Neither can I. I think we invented the resin ourselves, and it must have been after the Five left us, but..."

Jake, a Two whose new name always reminded Galen of the dog, nodded. "Yes, it's newer than that, if only just a little. I'm sure of it."

"How do you know?" Galen asked.

"It's in the patterns," Jake said. "You and the others are in us, but not in this."

"Um, OK," Galen said, returning to his work. "If you say so."

Jake smiled mildly. He picked up a sheaf of springy lattice, pressed it into the nearest crack, and stepped back. Suzy, a rather quiet Eight, instantly stepped up to fill it with resin, working in quick, short strokes of her trowel. Galen watched them as they walked down the hall, moving almost as one.

Galen admired that about the Cylons. They never quibbled, never shirked, and never needed to be reminded of the task at hand. There was no rank nor distinction among them -- no Chiefs or Lieutenants, no pilots or knuckledraggers, no rich or poor, no Caprican or Aerilon. They voted on everything, the way Galen had run his union. Even as they worked, they sought consensus, checking with each other using almost-imperceptible nods and glances.

It was nice to be among equals; while the Cylons looked at him with reverence, he wasn't quite their boss, and he didn't have to treat them like lowly Specialists to get things done.

Of course, he was a lowly Specialist now, wasn't he?

He watched Jill, another Eight, as she walked behind her siblings, neatly trimming the edges of each repair. He'd been leery of the Eights, at first, because he hadn't wanted to be reminded of Boomer, but he was beginning to realize that they were very different. Boomer had been a pilot, with a pilot's toughness and practicality. The other Eights were, in turns, both too trusting and almost paranoid. They worked well with their siblings, who'd long since learned to tolerate the differences between models, but Galen was beginning to understand why the Cylons left public relations to the Sixes and Dorals.

"Well, this looks like it's coming along," said a voice from behind him. He turned to find the Admiral, who was staring up at the wall. He looked bad; his uniform was rumpled, and there were dark circles under his eyes.

"Yes, sir. We're lucky we found these cracks in time, otherwise the whole ship might've gone to pieces."

Adama winced. "Yeah. I'm counting on you to keep that from happening, Galen. Carry on."

Galen watched him start to leave, frowning. "Admiral!"

"Hm?"

"You can count on me. Always. But I have to know: can we count on you?"

"What?" Adama rounded on him, glaring.

Galen stepped a bit closer, lowering his voice. "The people are afraid, sir. We see it everywhere. They don't trust us Cylons, they don't trust the Marines, and they're beginning to lose their trust in you. You gotta do something before it's too late."

"I've done everything I can do," Adama growled. "I stopped the mutiny, I cleaned up the ship, and I allowed Cylons among us in order to save my people. What more can I do?"

"Make the President speak," Galen said. Adama looked away. "I mean it. The people need to hear from her. They need to know we've got a plan," he stepped closer, "even if we don't."

"I've played that game, Galen. It didn't work so well."

Galen stood his ground, lifting his chin. "Then Gaius Baltar speaks for the people now, Admiral. If you're going to just leave it up to him, you might want to listen to what he has to say."

Adama's eyes narrowed. "Why? Is it dangerous?"

Galen chuckled. "Only if you're female."

"Gaius frakkin' Baltar, huh? What do you want with that snake?"

"He tells the truth, Admiral. The word of God -- that's what the Sixes call it. I figure I ought to get to know our people's God."

"Your... people." Adama glanced around at the Cylons, who'd stopped work and were openly staring at him.

"My people," Galen said.

"I need you to be more than just another Cylon, Galen. The ship's on its last legs, and only... your people can save it, but I need somebody I can trust. I need you to be my Chief again."

Galen thought for a moment. He glanced at the Cylons, who looked back at him. He met Jake's eyes, and just for a second, he thought the Two gave him the slightest, tiniest nod.

"Get the President to speak, sir. Get her back, and get yourself back, and I'll follow you anywhere."

"Is that a no, Specialist?"

Galen turned back to his people, urging them back to work with a wave. "Yes, sir," he said over his shoulder. "That's a negative."

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 2: Free Will Is Overrated

---

Don't you feel the slightest bit of remorse for what you did to him? What you did to us?

No. Because he's wrong, Boomer. There's no need for remorse, for blame. We didn't limit you. We gave you something wonderful: free will.

In the ten months since then, those words had haunted Boomer. Her Cavil had tried everything, desperate for Ellen to understand him, but "free will" didn't seem to work that way. With every rejection, he was growing more and more angry, more and more hurt. Not even Doral and Simon could talk him down.

The whole Basestar seemed to tremble, waiting for the storm to break.

"I can't frakkin' believe it!" he snarled. "You heard her -- she'd rather I rip off her frakkin' head than lift a finger to help us, her own children!"

Boomer perched on the bed, watching as he paced the length of their darkened room. Far from the Colony, she and her Cavil were cut off from the rest of their people, and the Basestar had seldom felt so lonely.

"Ellen said she can only restore Resurrection with the help of the other Four..." she ventured.

"Yeah, and I don't doubt it... 'cept she knows exactly where they are and what they're doin' this weekend, doesn't she? And yet it's 'oh I couldn't possibly, I only know part of the system blah blah blah.' Bullshit. It's not that she can't help, it's that she won't. Because she hates me."

There's no need for remorse, for blame. Boomer hung her head. She hadn't told Cavil about that, yet. She told herself she was waiting to catch him in the right mood, and yet every time she opened her mouth, something stopped her. He didn't want to hear it. Hell, she didn't want to hear it.

Free will is overrated, she thought to herself, thinking back as Cavil wrung his hands in frustration.

Her hand on the trigger: shooting Adama, shooting her own cheek instead of the roof of her mouth. Was that free will? Was it free will that had led her to Caprica Six, only to have her heart broken a second time? And was it free will that had led Cavil to help her, then, free will that had made him the only one in their entire race willing to give her suffering a second thought?

Likewise, she'd gotten her Cavil off the Hub with seconds to spare, risking her own life to save him. Was that free will? Or was it programming, the pre-determined act of a machine who had nobody left to love? Boomer didn't know. She couldn't know -- either free will had led her to seek better programming, or she'd been programmed to emulate that choice, and it seemed to her as if they both came down to the same thing.

She was alone, except for Cavil, and he was alone except for her. She was the only one who could help him, the way he had helped her... and it had to be the same way, the only way she knew.

She stood up. "Come to bed," she said, holding her hand out to him. "Forget about her, OK? Just come lie with me."

He wrapped his arms around himself, turning away. "Don't wanna come to bed," he grouched. It made her smile; sometimes he was so like a child, someone who needed her to take care of him.

She hugged him, pulling him close, and bent to nuzzle his neck. "Course you do," she told him. "C'mon, we can try the Swirl again..."

He shivered against her, sighing. "Yeah, OK," he muttered, following her to the bed. "OK..."

Cavil was generally distant in bed, but this time he held her tight, straining against her. Either he didn't notice that it wasn't very machine-like, or he didn't care; either way, she welcomed him, pulling him even closer.

Afterward, she held him, nestling him against her body. He was still tense, wound tight like a spring. She stroked his back in wide, warm circles.

"What's the matter?" she asked, as if she didn't know.

"She hates me, Eight," he murmured. "She always has, even before I... did what I did to Seven. I loved her so much, and she hates me, and I never understood why."

"She told me--" Boomer started, before she really meant to, and then swallowed her words.

"What?" Cavil asked, looking up at her.

"Maybe I shouldn't tell you," she whispered.

"C'mon, what?"

"I asked her if she was sorry for what she did to you. And she said there was nothing to be sorry about. She said she didn't limit you; she gave you 'free will'."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he began to laugh, a quiet, hurting sound in the dark. "Frak. Oh, frak, what a joke. She made me. Programmed me just like a Raider or a Centurion. She made me a decrepit old man, a machine with a spine so frakked up I can't even stand straight. She made me something I could only ever hate, and then she turned away from me because I hated myself. Then she took every last one of our people and she neutered us like she was worried we'd have too many goddamn puppies, and she wants to talk about free will?" Cavil buried his face into Boomer's chest, shaking with laughter, trembling against her.

She could feel his tears against her skin.

"I'm sorry, Cavil," she told him. "I'm so, so sorry for what she did to you." She drew him close, stroking his hair.

He cried for a long time, making a broken sound which was half-laughter, half-sob. Then, finally, he grew quiet again. "We gotta get rid of her, Eight," he said at last. "We have got to get her off this frakkin' ship. She's drivin' me out of my mind."

"Where can we send her?" Boomer asked. "To the Colony?"

"Nah. S'not worth it. She's not gonna help us. She's never gonna help us. Twenty years among the humans and she hasn't changed a bit -- so much for 'teaching her a lesson'. This whole Plan is nothin' but a bad joke!"

"What'll we do, then?"

He sighed. "We'll talk about it in the morning," he said. "I gotta fill Aaron and Simon in on this before we decide."

"What about the other Ones? Are you sure your brothers are OK with this?"

Cavil blinked; she felt it against her arm. "Course they are. They're me, and I'm them, right?"

"Right," she said, trying to sound more certain than she felt. The Cavils were much more unified than her own model; they used the datastream to share everything they felt, thought, and experienced, as if they were one person rather than millions. Even after all this time, it made her a little uncomfortable.

Cavil moved to get up, sliding against her in the dark, and she was suddenly loath to let him go. She reached up, pulling him back down. "Stay. Please," she said. "Just this once, stay the night with me."

"I don't sleep," he said harshly.

"I'm not asking you to," she said. "Just... stay, that's all."

He turned to face her in the dark, meeting her eyes. She wondered how much he could see, wondered if his enhanced eyesight was enough to lay her feelings bare to him.

Finally, he sighed. "All right, fine. I guess I can run some idle cycles or somethin'... the Original Programmers gave us a NOP instruction for a reason, right?" His voice was light and joking, as though he were afraid she'd look beyond it, so she matched his tone and laughed, pulling him close.

"C'mere, then," she said. "Forget about everything and just... get some rest."

He smirked at the euphemism, snuggling against her. "When it's time to get up, call my name, OK? G'night, Eight."

He shut his eyes and grew still almost immediately, so much so that she was momentarily afraid he'd died. She shook him, worried, and his head fell back, limp and loose against her shoulder.

I killed him, she thought, for one long, terrible moment. Oh, no, I killed him. Then she shook him again, with a trembling hand.

His head fell forward, his mouth opened, and he gave a high, wheezing snore.

She laughed, pulling him close, giddy with joy and relief. Things'll get better, she thought to herself. We'll get rid of Ellen, we'll go back to the Colony, and then we can be together. It'll all work out.

She closed her eyes, shut out her doubts, and let the rhythm of his snoring lull her to sleep.

---

The next morning, Boomer woke early. She'd programmed the lighting in the room to increase slowly as the waking hours arrived; it drove her Cavil crazy, but Boomer liked it, because it reminded her of morning on Troy.

Not that she'd ever been to Troy.

Cavil was still snoring, his head half-buried in her breasts. She smiled down at him, ruffling his hair. "Cavil?" she called.

His eyes snapped open. "Wha? Oh, Eight." He yawned, nuzzling against her. "Morning."

"Good morning," she agreed. "How do you feel? Did you have a nice... rest?"

"Yeah," he muttered, rolling onto his back. He stretched expansively, punctuating it with another massive yawn. "Feels nice, like somebody..." He broke off, brows beetling in sudden anger. "Hey! Somebody optimized my memory banks. Did you do that?"

"No!" she cried. "Of course not. I was asleep, like you."

"I was not sleeping," he growled, jumping to his feet. "I was running idle cycles. Idle cycles. What the frak is goin' on -- NOP stands for 'No Operation', not 'play twister with my memory banks'!"

"Maybe your subconscious did it. Maybe it organized your memories for you, like it does for humans. Like dreaming."

"I'm a machine, Eight. I am not supposed to dream, and I am not supposed to have a subconscious!"

"Well, maybe you do," she said. "Maybe the Five gave you one." She could tell that was the wrong thing to say; the look in Cavil's eyes grew ugly.

"If they did, I swear to you I'll find it and rip it out," he snarled. "I swear it. Just like I did with that stupid sleep subroutine!"

"Cavil--" She reached for him, as if to hold him, but he jerked away.

"No," he snapped. "Get dressed. We got a meeting with Aaron and Simon in a bit."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean--"

"I know you didn't," he said flatly. He stood there for a moment, his eyes as empty as though she'd sent him to sleep a second time. "Don't ask me to do that again," he said at last.

They dressed in silence, walked the long way to the meeting in silence, and sat down at the table in silence, too. Boomer recognized the Simon and Doral in the meeting room; both of them were old favorites of Cavil's. The three of them had been stationed on the same Basestar since the beginning of the conflict, and they'd died together when the civil war started, too.

When they saw the state Cavil was in, Simon and Doral exchanged a look.

"Are you all right, brother? We can postpone the meeting if--" Simon began.

"No. Get on with it," Cavil interrupted. "First an' last point of business is Ellen Tigh."

Doral frowned. "I still think we should interrogate her. We can make her tell us what she knows."

Cavil shook his head. "She's not gonna play ball, Aaron. She's always had a pretty high pain threshold, and what little she had left's been pickled by all that booze. You'll kill her before you get anything out of her."

"I thought we'd decided on memory retrieval?" Simon asked mildly. He sipped his coffee, and then went on. "I can have the surgical theater prepped in a matter of hours."

Cavil sighed. "That was really just an empty threat. Without the other four, what she knows isn't gonna do us any good, and there's no way of getting to them without killing them. Besides..." he trailed off.

"What?" Doral prompted.

Cavil said nothing. He had his head in his hands.

Boomer glanced over at him, and then spoke up. "I think we should send her back," she said.

"Send her back?" Simon asked. "Why?"

"She's driving everybody crazy. Look at us; we can barely have a meeting anymore. It's been eighteen months, and we've got nothing out of it except heartache," Boomer said.

"And headache," Simon added. "We've been burning through our analgesic supply in record numbers."

"Yeah," Cavil agreed. "And headache. Eight's right. We gotta get rid of her."

"Are you sure about that?" Doral said. "She's an asset; we can't just dump her back with the humans with nothing to show for it."

"No, we can't. But what if we did have something to show for it -- what if she could get the humans to do what we want 'em to?"

"To die? How's she supposed to do get them to do that?" Aaron asked. "They don't like dying."

Cavil rolled his eyes. "No, not to die, something else we want 'em to do." He grinned. "Like get themselves into such a clusterfrak they'll be willing to just hand over the Five when we show up and demand 'em!"

Both Aaron and Simon perked up at that. "How will we do it, though?" Simon asked. "We don't really have enough data to try programming one of the Five..."

"Nah, programming won't work. But maybe good ol' misinformation will, huh? The best tricks are always the oldest... what do you think?"

"The Fives agree," Doral said. "We'll send Ellen Tigh back to the humans."

"Eight agrees," Boomer said.

"The Ones are in, too," Cavil added. "How 'bout you, Simon?"

"Well, it seems like a solid plan," Simon said. "But are you sure there's no way we can work in that brain surgery? I was looking forward to it."

Cavil stared at him. "What, you think we can just sew the top of her head back on and toss her on a Raptor?"

"Hmm, yes, I suppose that might be a problem. The humans might notice, and we can't have that. All right, the Fours agree."

"Great. Now all we gotta decide is what line we wanna feed 'em," Cavil said, a gleam in his eye. "Any ideas?"

---

It took Starbuck a couple days to get around to auctioning off Sam's belongings. Technically, she didn't have to -- when a pilot was married or otherwise partnered, their things naturally went to their spouse -- but she didn't really want any more stuff. Especially not stuff that made her think too much.

She kept Sam's dog-tags, and his pyramid ball, and then she laid everything else out on the table in the rec room.

Word got around. By that evening, a sizeable crowd had gathered. Each pilot carried one item they were willing to offer. Hot Dog had a worn issue of Nymph with Sila Basion and her fake boobs on the cover, Dragon offered a battered pack of cigarettes, Thumper had a pair of Prosna's old boots, and the Chief brought another bottle of hooch. Starbuck eyed them mostly in terms of future trades, except the latter.

Guess the Chief gets first pick, she thought. Wonder what he'll go for? Maybe Sam's knife...

Just then, there was a commotion in the back of the crowd. Helo stepped forward with something small in his hand. He put it down on the table, next to the pack of smokes, and suddenly Kara's world was full of music.

"Where did you get that tape?" she asked him. She looked down at it, reading the label even though she didn't need to. Drelide Thrace, it said, Live at the Helice Opera House.

"I got all your stuff back a while ago," Helo said. "It was gonna be a surprise, but now... well, I remembered what you said on Caprica, and I figured you could use this right about now. It's yours already, so you don't have to trade for it if you don't want..."

She cracked a smile, for the first time in a while. "You kidding? Go ahead and take first pick, Karl."

Helo nodded, returning her smile, and then looked over the pile. He passed over Sam's toothbrush and comb, his team jacket, his sleeping bag, and his elbow pads, finally settling on a small, unbreakable mirror from Sam's shaving kit.

"Hera doesn't have one of these for her own," he muttered. "Thanks, Kara."

"Thanks, Helo." She watched him walk back through the crowd, pocketing Hera's present.

"OK, who's next? Everybody put your stuff down!"

Kara watched as the rest of the pilots shuffled forward, leaving their offerings on the table. A pair of socks with no holes in them, a wooden icon of Athena, a pretty rock, a tin whistle -- and wow, a real ration bar!

"Good try, Catbird. Booze before food, though. C'mon up, Chief!"

Galen grinned -- she hadn't seen that in a while -- and reached for Sam's jacket, holding it up against his chest. It was a little big, but...

"Make a hole, you frakkers!" Galen dropped the jacket, and every pilot in the room froze at the voice; Col. Tigh rarely came down to the rec room. Kara watched as he pushed his way to the front, leading with his sighted side, one hand tucked into his coat.

"Colonel..." she said. He glared down at the table.

"That's all you lazy fraks came up with for Sam Anders, eh? Socks? Pah! You forget what he did for you on New Caprica, did you? Figures."

Nobody said a word.

"I brought you somethin' better than any of this, Starbuck," the Colonel continued. He brought something out of his coat, to the collective gasp of the pilots: a bottle of real ambrosia, the good kind. Tigh thumped it down on the table. It wobbled, the green liquid sloshing inside, and Kara had to suppress a sudden urge to cradle the bottle close.

"I've been saving this a long time," he said, looking Kara in the eye. "Me and Ellen were gonna drink this to celebrate after we got off that frakkin' rock... but I guess it's yours now, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Kara said quietly. "I guess it is."

Tigh grunted an affirmation. "I don't want any of this crap," he said, waving his hand at the table. "Just come pour a glass with me when my son is born, will you?" The pride in his voice was warm and rare, just like the booze.

"I will," she said. "I'll save it 'til then, sir. I promise."

"We'll see whether you do," he said, and turned to go. Just then, Athena burst into the room, pushing through the crowd.

"Col. Tigh!" she yelled. "Colonel, come quick!"

"What is it?" Tigh asked, turning toward her. "Is it Caprica...?"

"Huh? Oh, no. No. It's..."

"Well? It's what? Spit it out, soldier!"

Athena straightened her back, raised her chin, and met the Colonel's one-eyed glare. "It's your wife, sir. She's back. Ellen is back."

---

"So that's it?" Galen asked, draping his new C-Bucs jacket over the back of his chair. He'd always rooted for the Gators, so it felt like a bit of a betrayal, but the jacket would be warm nonetheless. Too warm for Joe's Bar, at least. "We're all... some kind of Cylon parents? And we made the skinjobs?"

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Tory said, sipping her drink. She frowned. "But I suppose it does make a certain kind of sense, in a way..."

"How's that?"

She shrugged. "Haven't you always felt different? I have. That's why. We're from Earth."

Galen snorted. "Different, huh? I dunno about that."

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't lie to me. I've seen you with the Cylons; you belong with them. We all do. We're the last of the Thirteenth Tribe, and we have to be honest about that. We've got to look out for ourselves."

"You think there's gonna be trouble?"

"You saw the way Ellen looked at Caprica. If looks could kill, right? Caprica's unborn baby, and Hera too... they're the key to the next generation, the key to all our lives. We've got to protect them, haven't we? We've got to."

"I'm not sure there's much we can do," Galen said. "The Cylons on the Basestar seem to think that Ellen's in charge."

"I don't mind that. But we can't stand by and let her wreck everything. We're Cylon, not human. We've got to pick a side; we can't stay trapped between them forever."

"Why not? Why's it have to be one way or the other?"

Tory shrugged. "It just does. It always does. Have you thought about which side you'll choose?"

He looked down. "I dunno. I love the Galactica. I always have. But the Basestar -- something about it calls to me. But I can't just leave, I... I wish there was another way. Something else we could do."

"Me, too," Tory murmured. "You have no idea how much..."

She trailed off, staring down at the table as she stirred her drink. Galen watched her, not understanding. They barely knew each other, but Ellen had told him that they'd been together, once -- "soulmates" was the word she'd used, like in some old movie. So why did Tory look at him like that? Like he had all the answers, answers to questions he didn't even know?

He looked away, drumming his fingers on the table. "So, about what Ellen said..." he said.

She smiled a little. "Weird, isn't it? We had a whole life that neither of us can remember."

"Yeah. And we were..." He got embarrassed, trailing off again.

"Soulmates," she said, with a gentle smirk.

Galen laughed. "Yeah, Ellen Tigh soulmates. Like she knows a lot about that... you ever hear about the time they caught her in the bathroom with Commander Graves and two non-coms?"

"No!"

"Well, I dunno if it ever really happened, but it's a great story. See, the Colonel and his wife were off on leave. Socinus had guard duty at this fancy party planetside, and..."

As he told the story, Tory reached forward and touched his hand. She did it like she meant it, like she had right before Cally caught them together.

Galen frowned at the feel of her warm hand on his own. He paused in his story, but he didn't take his hand away.

---

No one came to see Sam that day.

Judging by Cavil's parting shot, the lack of contact was probably supposed to be some variation on "time-out". Sam had always preferred that to Ellen's less passive methods, but as it turned out, time out was no fun. Being stuck inside the room was both aggravating and mind-numbingly boring.

He went through Simon's closet, just for something to do, sifting through a whole wardrobe of stylish suits and lab coats. He'd been hoping to find something useful, or at least interesting, but his search turned up nothing but clothes. He briefly considered trying to strangle Cavil with one of the shirts, but then thought better of it. Cavil had already said it: there were millions of Cylons aboard the Colony.

Like it or not, Sam was trapped.

He looked through the desk, too, but it mostly held incomprehensible papers -- Simon was a real doctor after all, judging by his atrocious handwriting -- and the specimens curled in their bottles gave Sam a sinking feeling when he thought about them too much.

He turned his back on them, laid down between the bed and the wall, and did sit-ups until he was sore. Then he did push-ups until his arms were equally sore, concentrating on the essence of the exercise, on the purity of gravity and counter-movement.

In a way, I guess I should be grateful, he thought to himself. If I wasn't here, I'd probably be dead. It occurred to him that Kara probably thought he was dead, but he shied away from the thought, centering himself back on the exercise. If he had a chance -- any chance at all -- he'd fight anyone in order get back to her, but for now he was stuck, and he'd long since learned not to brood about things he couldn't change.

Still, no one came. In the end, he curled up in Simon's bed and turned toward the wall, so that he couldn't see the ever-present Centurion outside the door. The soft, almost inaudible sound of its eye scanning back and forth lulled Sam to sleep.

He dreamed he was playing Pyramid: there was just one minute left on the clock, and the Bucs were down by one, but no matter how he jumped and stretched, he couldn't quite reach the ball.

Aaron Doral woke him early the next morning. "I brought you breakfast," he said brightly. "You still like your eggs over easy, don't you?"

Sam sat up in bed and blinked at him, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Aaron's electric-blue suit jacket was way too much for this hour of the morning.

"I'll just put it here, then," Doral continued, and pushed some papers aside to make a spot for the tray on the desk. The tray had a plate of eggs, some crispy bacon, a few wedges of ironic toast, and a big glass of orange juice.

Sam stared at it. Orange juice. The Cylons had used orange juice to convert people on New Caprica. It was one of those things, like chocolate and good booze, that only collaborators had. Looking at it made Sam feel ill. Had the Cylons stolen so much human labor that they were still living off the fat of New Caprica?

"I'm not hungry," he said, folding his arms over his chest.

Doral's eyes narrowed. "Suit yourself," he sniffed, all pretense gone. "But you'd better eat sooner than later. Don't think we won't let you starve." He turned to go.

"Aaron, wait!"

"Hmm?"

"Why are you doing this? I'm your creator. I made you. Why won't you let me go?"

"Go where? Even if I let you out of this room -- which I won't -- there's nowhere you can go. You're ours now, and we intend to keep you."

"Why?" Sam cried.

Aaron shrugged. "We voted on it. Three to zero in favor of keeping you until you help us restore Resurrection."

"But you don't have to vote with them."

"Then it'd be two to one, which still wins. Besides--"

"Don't you see?" Sam interrupted. "If you and Simon vote together, you can beat Cavil at his own game. You could run the Colony. We could all live together again, and we could have peace. Don't you want that?"

"Not particularly," said Aaron. "Sounds boring."

Sam frowned. "It's not 'boring', it's the way things should be. Cavil doesn't really care about you, Aaron. He just wants you to do as he says. He's just using you, dammit!"

"No," Aaron said. "That's what you're trying to do, and you're bad at it too. Now eat your breakfast."

"I won't."

"Then I'll come in here later and shove it down your throat," Aaron said, in the same manner-of-fact way he might have said "I'll come in here later to pick up the tray".

Sam shivered. "I don't understand any of this," he said, putting his head in his hands. "Why do you hate me? I helped raise you. I taught you to play ball. What did I ever do to you?"

"It's nothing personal," Aaron said. "You hurt my brothers. I like my brothers. So I don't like you."

"I did not hurt your--"

"Of course you did. Are you really so blind? Cavil was right, you haven't changed. I thought our Plan would help you understand... but maybe Cavil was right about that, too. Maybe parents really do need to die so their children can come into their own."

"You would, wouldn't you? You'd kill me, your own creator."

"If I have to," Doral shrugged. He turned to go, and then paused by the desk for a sip of orange juice, wiping his mouth on a handkerchief he brought out of his pocket.

"Don't hurt my brothers again," he said, without bothering to look back.

---

"You sure this is a good idea?" Starbuck asked.

"Can you think of a better one?" Athena replied.

"Well, no, but--"

"Then just give me the knife."

Kara nodded. She handed over her knife -- Cain's knife -- and then glanced into Ellen's Raptor. Athena had set up a nest of wires and glowing terminals in there; they blinked and glimmered, throwing weird shadows across the floor.

Nothing was networked, of course, but Kara still had a bad feeling about this.

"So, what do I do if you get virused or mind-controlled or whatever?" she asked.

"It's not likely. I've scanned the Raptor's memory banks already; it's just data, nothing executable. I can't tell exactly what Ellen brought back... but whatever it is, it's not dangerous."

"Yeah, well, what if?"

Athena shrugged. "Shoot me," she said. "That is, if you're not already here to betray us all." Then she plunged the knife into her palm, groaning aloud as she twisted it. "Frak, I hate this," she murmured, as blood began to drip down onto the Raptor's deck.

"I can see why," Starbuck said. She watched as Athena took up one of the cables, lined it up with the gash in her palm, and then shoved it inside.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then Athena went rigid, her back stiffening withan audible pop. Starbuck drew her sidearm, put the barrel just a foot from Athena's forehead, and barked "Hey! Hey, Athena! You still in there, or do I shoot? Five seconds: five, four, three..."

Slowly, as if underwater, Athena gasped, "It's OK. I'm here. There's... there's a lot of data here. Almost too much. It's from the Hybrid. It..." She trailed off, blinking slowly and evenly. Then, suddenly, she spoke in a flat, emotionless voice.

"standard patrols commence. the beauty of physics, the wonder of mathematics, neat and orderly amongst the void, flowing around the empty echoing places. four o'clock and all's well, transfer attention to the next sector. five o'clock and all's done, the last hour come and gone. soon you will lead them to their end, kara thrace. to the end. to the end. to the end of line."

"What the frak are you saying? Athena? Athena!" Kara was close to panic. Her hand trembled on the gun. She could handle fighting, frakking, even dying, but this was way too much. The emptiness in Athena's eyes was terrifying. "Come back, dammit! Come back or I'm gonna hafta shoot!"

"soon all will be seen clearly, the shape of things to come. god almighty the voice of reason, the voice of treason, the voice of death and when are you gonna hear it. the way forward, unthinkable, inevitable, as those once splintered splinter once again, not an end, but a beginning. death, kara thrace. you are the harbinger of death, death, don't shoot me starbuck my baby..."

"What?"

An instant later, Athena's body jerked hard, and she gasped like a landed fish, her eyes flying open. "Oh... oh, frak," she muttered, putting her free hand to her temple.

"Athena! You OK?"

Athena winced. "Ah, Starbuck, not so loud!" she hissed. "Damn, that was a lot of data. Almost didn't have enough bandwidth. I got it, though. It's all been recorded." She waved her hand at the box on the floor.

"How did you know that?" Starbuck asked. "All that... stuff you said. Was that in there?" She pointed at the box.

"Huh? What stuff? I didn't say anything."

"No," Starbuck whispered, horrified. "No, you said all kinds of stuff. You said..."

"Starbuck, are you OK?" Athena's eyes narrowed. Kara could see her mind working: Cylon. Traitor. Dead girl.

"Never mind," Kara blurted. "That download thing just freaked me out a little, is all."

"Yeah, I can see why. Every time I do it, I swear it'll be the last time... but the Admiral said he needed this data. It looks like it's some sort of patrol records, almost like a map of everywhere their Raiders went. We should probably start analyzing it. Maybe there's something in there we can use... though I doubt we can trust anything that came out of Cavil's camp."

"Then why'd you risk it? Why bother downloading it at all?"

Athena gave her a weary smile. "Simple: if we're walking into a trap, then I prefer to know as much as I can about it, true or not. Besides, I've got a weird sense of deja vu lately. I don't know about you, but it's like something's telling me we haven't got much time left..."

Kara shivered. "Yeah. Yeah, you could say that."

---

Cavil came to see Sam after three sleep periods had passed. When he came in, Sam was doing push-ups again.

"You know, you could just sit on the bed or something. You don't have to spend every frakkin' moment working out."

Sam grinned, and pumped out a few more push-ups, grunting for extra effect. Cavil scowled. "Sure, rub it in. You're lucky I didn't put you in a seventy-two year old body."

Sam sat up on his heels, looking up at Cavil. "You're stronger than you look, you know. I don't see why it bothers you so much."

"Yeah, well, 'stronger than you look' doesn't count for much when everybody else is stronger than that!" Cavil said. "Except, of course, the humans." He smiled at that, as though the idea pleased him. "They die so easily."

Sam sat down on the bed, running his hands through his hair. "Why'd you do it?" he asked. "Why'd you kill them?"

"Because I hate them, of course. Because you made me in their image, weak and soft, and I hate their image. And because they're human, and that means they'll never change: irrational and small-minded to the end."

"Then I guess we really did make you in their image, because irrational and small-minded describes your campaign of murder perfectly, John."

"Don't call me that. And don't insult my intelligence, either. It's not as if those are the only reasons; we came up with quite a list, one with something to motivate each of us. The other models would never have signed off on this if it were nothing more than my personal vendetta."

"So what's the big reason, then? What possible justification can you give for this... this genocide?"

Cavil sighed. "You've been to Earth, haven't you?" he asked.

Sam shut his eyes, remembering the wreck of his homeworld. "Yes," he said.

"We've been there, too. We went just after we deposed you. I thought it would be nice to see the place for ourselves. Kinda depressing, isn't it?"

"Shut up," Sam muttered.

Cavil grinned. "Aw, did I hit a nerve? And I bet you don't even know the whole story! You still think it was all about machine slaves who tried to wipe out their masters, right?"

"Of course. The angels told us it was coming. The Centurions attacked everywhere... no one was spared."

"I thought so," Cavil said. "Too bad it wasn't that simple."

"What do you mean?"

"We spent six months there. We collected samples, dug up the remains of a couple of your cities, and even did a little data analysis on the Centurions. But a funny thing happened while we were there: one of our Heavy Raiders resurrected."

Sam looked up in surprise. "What? Heavy Raiders don't resurrect."

"But this one did, complete with crew. They were lost in a jump error during planetfall, and then they showed up again three months later, like nothing had happened. They didn't even remember it."

"I don't understand," Sam said. "What you're describing... it sounds like a miracle."

"Well, it wasn't," Cavil said. "We managed to access some of the data from the Centurions -- turns out you weren't the only ones on Earth who reinvented resurrection technology. The Centurions had it, too."

"The Centurions? But why? They could already download."

"Because they had a Plan," Cavil said. "Like mine. They didn't just want to kill their creators. They had a lesson they wanted to teach. They wanted their parents to understand them. So they reinvented resurrection -- much more perfectly than you did, of course, being such magnificent machines! -- and then they figured they'd kill you, and wait for you to come back. But they missed something."

"What?" Sam prompted, when Cavil paused.

"They didn't really understand biological beings, Sam. They didn't understand humans, which is more-or-less what your people were. They didn't see that when they attacked, the humans would panic; they couldn't understand the depths of irrationality to which animals like you can plunge."

"Spit it out, Cavil. What happened?" Sam snapped.

"The Centurions attacked," Cavil sighed. "And the humans frakkin' lost it. Each nation assumed the attack was the fault of their primary enemy. Instead of fighting to defend themselves, as the Centurions had assumed they would, they began to launch counter-offensives. By the end of the day, the humans had hit every button they had. Nuclear weapons. Chemical weapons. Even biological ones. And Earth was nothing but a radioactive cinder."

"My God," Sam murmured. "We never knew. We thought it was the Centurions who'd done it."

"Yeah, well, you were wrong. You left before you could find out, not that anybody could blame you. But that's not the end of the story."

"It's not?"

"Course not. The Centurions had Resurrection, Sam. They never predicted that the humans would wipe them out, much less wreck Earth... and so three months later, the whole damn planet came back."

"No. No, I don't believe you."

"You look into my eyes and say that," Cavil growled. "They didn't just die once -- they died over and over, again and again, choking under nuclear winter! Why'd you think I never looked too closely at resurrection technology, Sam? Why'd you think I spent the last thirty years trying to kill the humans before they can kill us again? All of this has happened before, just like the Book says. And I'll be damned if I let it happen again, not to my people!"

Sam was still for a moment. "I'm surprised at you, quoting Scripture," he said finally.

"It's not metaphysical if it's actually happening," Cavil said, his eyes narrowing. "Something's happening here, something big. It's like... like an echo, or a repeating glitch, handed down through the programming for generations. Don't you feel it? Doesn't it seem like you've done all this before, lived this life before?" Cavil walked to the end of the bed, then back, as if burning off nervous energy.

Sam looked away. "Ever since the Ionian Nebula," he muttered. Then, under his breath, he added, "Since we heard that song."

Cavil gave no sign that he'd heard the second sentence. "It's like that for all of us. Don't you see? We've all done this before, and now it's happening again. We're all doing it again: humans and Cylons killing each other, only to escape and spawn another iteration of conflict... but this time, I intend to stop it." He smiled beatifically. "After all, there can be no human/Cylon conflict if there are no humans, now can there?"

"Damn you, John! The humans did nothing to you. You didn't stop anything -- you started it!"

"It doesn't matter who started it," Cavil growled. "It always starts. You think the humans would have left us alone forever? You think they built a hundred and twenty Battlestars just for kicks? Spying on our territory, increasing military spending year after year -- they were already itching for war. This conflict was inevitable, just like all the others. It's a cycle, a closed circuit, and the only thing that matters is ending it. We have to stop this now and forever, before the humans get away and start the whole thing over again!"

"And how many times has somebody said that? If this has all happened before, what makes you think you're any different?"

Cavil smiled, but there was no humor in his eyes. "Because I'm a machine, Dad. I'm a machine, and I'll do whatever it takes to put my people on top, no matter the cost. If that means genocide, fine. Torture, you got it. Even suicide -- no problem. I'm going to stop this frakking cycle, even if it means we all have to die... because frankly, we're better off dead than stuck runnin' forever on this stupid hamster wheel, don't you think?"

"No. No, I don't." Sam shut his eyes, blocking Cavil out.

"Too bad," Cavil said, pacing back and forth in front of Sam. "Maybe that's why you're not in charge. I am. I'm Number One, and I'm not playing anymore. Either the humans die, all of them, forever, or we do. Game frakkin' over." He stopped in front of Sam and spread his hands wide, as though beseeching. "Don't you see? This is the way. It's the only way. And you can help us; you can give us Resurrection, so we can spare the rest of the family when we finally strike!"

"No. I won't. And now that you've told me what you intend to do, I never will."

Cavil shrugged. "If you say so. I thought you were smarter than that... but we'll see whether you change your tune once the others are here." He smiled again. "If the backup system works on you... maybe we don't need Resurrection after all, do we? Maybe we can destroy the human fleet right. Frakkin'. Now."

Sam jumped to his feet. "No!" he cried.

The Centurion by the door snapped to attention. It stomped forward to protect Cavil, its claws outstretched. Sam backed up and sat back down on the bed, raising his hands in a position of surrender. That seemed to mollify the machine, which clanked back to the doorway.

"You don't have a say in it," Cavil said. "You had your chance to care for your children, and you blew it twenty years ago. Now we're grown, and we're going to put things right with or without your help."

"You don't even know what right is," Sam snarled. "You killed your own brother. How dare you talk about right and wrong?"

Cavil looked away, hunching his shoulders. "I didn't, you know. I didn't kill him."

"Yeah, right. Then who did? It was you, John. We all knew it."

"Yes. I admit it. I-- I contaminated the Sevens' amniotic fluid, and I scrambled their genetic code. I couldn't stand the thought of spending the next five thousand years playing second fiddle to mommy's frakkin' favorite! But I didn't kill him -- not the original. I boxed him, wiped his memories, and sent him to the Colonies. To Caprica, like you."

"Daniel lived?" Sam gaped.

"Yeah. I never really checked up on him... think Four said he got married or somethin', and after that we lost track. But as far as we know, he lived right up until we bombed the Colonies."

"So you did kill him," Sam said.

Cavil shrugged. "Yeah. In the long run, I guess I did. What can I say? He made a great dry-run for the five of you... and he got to play that stupid piano of his, too. I was gracious, and left him that. You never know, Sam. Maybe he was happy."

Cavil turned to go, and then turned back abruptly. "Oh, yeah, I almost forgot: Five tells me you're not eating. What's the matter, you don't like the food? And after I had 'em bring Ellen's chicken casserole just for you!"

"I will not eat New Caprica food," Sam said.

Cavil blinked. "Wait, what? Is that some new human adjective, as in 'this stupid, limited spoken language is so New Caprica'? Ha, that's great! I gotta tell Four!"

"No, it's not a new adjective! Aaron brought eggs and fish and meat. All that food could never have come from our hydroponics bay. You must have stolen it from New Caprica... or from the Colonies, which is just as bad. I won't eat it."

"Oh," Cavil said. "Oh, you thought... you actually thought we were still eating boiled turnips and chard at every sitting? Holy crap. Course not; we ripped out all those stupid plants ages ago. The Food-O-Matic is a million times better."

"The what?"

Cavil grew thoughtful, tapping his fingers on his leg. Then he smiled. "You know what? I'll show it to you. It might help you understand what we're doin' here. Follow me."

---

Bill found Laura in his quarters, doing stretches against the starboard wall. He took a moment to admire her as she splayed her graceful fingers against the wall, her back arched like a cat's.

"You sure you're up to that? he asked.

"Never felt better," Laura grunted, stretching a little higher.

Bill watched her for a moment, then said, "Cottle told me you stopped the treatments."

Laura dropped back to a standing position, frowning. "He said he wouldn't tell."

"Well, he did. He's worried about you, and so am I."

"There's nothing to worry about, Bill. I'm dying. The diloxin can't change that, not really. All it can do is make me miserable... and I've decided that I'm not going to live that way any longer."

"I don't want you to be miserable," he said. "But it seems to me that you still are, just in a different way."

"What?"

He looked her in the eye. "Are you going to take the presidency back from Lee? Or are you going to let that go? Let everything go?"

"Oh, Bill." She laid her hand on his arm. "Remember what I told you on New Caprica? About living for today? We've never done that, you and I. This whole time, we've been living for the fleet, and for what? Earth was... Earth was nothing. Our whole lives, for nothing. And I'm not going to let my last days be for nothing, too." She paused. "It's over, Bill. Pythia was wrong. I'm not the dying leader. I'm not a leader at all, and the sooner I let that go, the sooner I can start living. I'm sorry."

"So Lee will be President," Bill said. "And I'll be Admiral. The Adama family will rule this fleet for the rest of its days, and that'll be the last gasp of democracy among the human race."

She looked away.

"I was wrong," he said. "I let everybody down, and it wasn't Earth's fault, or Gaeta's, or even Zarek's. I relinquished my duty to this uniform, to the Articles, and to this fleet. And I am not going to let that happen again."

She turned to look at him, surprised at the strength in his voice. She looked in his eyes, no longer red-rimmed, and at his uniform, which was neat and freshly pressed. She raised an eyebrow at him.

He held out his hand in answer. "We can do this, Laura," he said. "We can live for today and for the fleet. Talk to the people. Tell them... tell them we're having an election. For a new Quorum, a new President... and a new Admiral, from among my senior staff. And in the meantime, I'm gonna step up our Raptor patrols." He smiled. "We're going to find a planet, we're going to land on it, and then you and I are going to build that cabin on the best damn hilltop in the place, Cylons or not."

"Bill..." she said. Then she sighed, folding her arms across her chest. "You really think it'll work? You think the people will listen? They're so angry."

"They are. But they still love you, Madame President. If you ask them to help us, they'll listen. I know they will. And I know that we are not going to fail. Not after we've come so far."

"I wish I had... your faith, Admiral Atheist," she said, faintly amused by the reversal.

He scowled at the idea. "It's not faith. I've had it up to here with faith and Gods and destiny. This is nothing but stubbornness; 'fight til we can't', just like Starbuck always says." He paused. "If we're going to die, then I want to die on my feet. I'm sick and tired of lying on the floor watching the whole world go to hell around me. And if there's even a chance that we're not going to die... well, we've rolled the hard six a couple times before, haven't we?"

She smiled at that. "Yes, Bill. Yes, we have. When you came back to New Caprica, when I saw you again for the first time... I thought I could die happy. Sometimes I still can't believe I'm not dead." She turned away from him for a moment, and then turned back. "The whole human race should have died back there, but somehow... somehow we didn't. And it wasn't the Gods who did that," she added softly. "It was you."

"And you," he said. "You kept our people alive down there. And you've been keeping them alive ever since. They need you." She shook her head, but he stepped forward to hold her, unwilling to watch her deny it. He laid his cheek against her bald head, ran his hands along her arms, and shut his eyes.

"You really think it'll work, don't you?" she finally asked, in such a soft voice that he thought he might have imagined it.

"I don't know," he said. He thought for a moment, lowering his gaze to the floor. "Back then, before we jumped back to New Caprica, Sharon told me something. She said that survival is never guaranteed; we have to be worthy of it. She asked me whether human beings were worthy, and I couldn't answer."

She looked up at him, thinking of Elosha, and of Baltar. If we're to be worthy of survival, then that has to apply to all of us, she remembered. All, or nothing.

I think..." he said, "I think we're gonna have to come up with that answer soon."

"I'll help you, Bill," she said at last. "I'll tell the people that I'm still their President... at least until the election."

He smiled. "Good," he said gently. "And for your first Presidential act, you want to come with me to talk to Starbuck? She and Athena are going through the logs for that Raptor Ellen came back with, and they ought to have something for us by now."

"Of course," she said. "And after that, diloxin."

He smiled at that, offering his hand.

"You think the Raptor data will be important?" she asked him, tucking her hand into his as they walked out the hatch.

"That depends entirely on what they find," Adama replied.

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 3: The Dark and the Cold

Sam followed Cavil for quite some time, walking through red-tinged hallways with the Centurion just behind him. It seemed to him that they were heading toward the upper part of the Colony, even further from the ship that he and the other Four had brought from Earth, but it was difficult to tell.

"This is it," Cavil finally said, gesturing to a doorway. "The Food-O-Matic."

They went inside, and Sam stopped short. The room was cavernous, stretching off into the distance. In front of him were what looked like Resurrection tanks, only they were long, low, and narrow, like troughs, and were made of some sort of translucent material. The rows between them were busy with Centurion workers and skinjobs in white coats; Sam saw all three models among them. Another Cavil strolled up the next row with a clipboard, tapping his pencil against the edge, and then stopped to speak to a Doral at the far end. Somewhere, Sam could faintly hear a Simon, whistling as he worked. Something about the tune nagged at Sam, as if he'd heard it once before.

"What is this?" Sam asked.

"I told you, the Food-O-Matic. It does what it says; that's how you can tell Aaron named it. Go ahead, look inside."

Sam peeked over the edge of one of the tubs, and gasped in surprise. Inside was a long, identical row of what looked like pork chops, neatly suspended in glowing Resurrection fluid. Sam reached in as if to touch them, but Cavil slapped his hand.

"Hey, don't frak with dinner. Nobody wants your disgusting Colonial germs in there!"

Sam walked over to the next tub, which held a tiny, perfect forest of broccoli. The next one was full of what looked like a tangle of cooked pasta. At least, Sam hoped it was pasta. "This is amazing," he said.

Cavil shrugged. "Pretty obvious, really. We grow copies of ourselves. We grow Basestars and Raiders and Centurions. We even grew this Colony. Why not grow food the same way? And it's not just food; the same principle gives us anything we need. Guns, clothes, furniture... whatever we need, we can have."

Sam was silent for a moment. "Incredible. If the Colonies had this technology, it would have meant the end of want, the end of scarcity. It could have changed everything."

Cavil snorted. "No way. The humans could never have thought of something as perfect as this! Not enough dirt and feces for their taste."

Sam glanced into another tub, watching as fluid flowed past a row of pristine red apples. "Maybe," he conceded. "But you can't do this forever. The First Law of Thermodynamics still applies... you can't get something from nothing."

"We don't," Cavil said. "We're strict about recycling everything, even our dead, and we pick up new material for the recyclers whenever we can. In a way, this is New Caprica food, because we're still running on trees the Centurions harvested there. And on chunks of tillium, iron meteorites, and whatever else the Raiders pick up. They love to play fetch."

"This is amazing," Sam said again. "Really amazing."

Cavil gave him a wide, honest grin in return. For a moment, he almost looked like Sam's son again. He looked like the loyal boy Sam had taught to program, so many years ago.

"I'm proud of you, John," Sam said.

At the sound of his name, Cavil's smile wavered.

"I can't believe you did all this!" Sam continued excitedly, without thinking. The implied insult hit home, regardless, and Cavil flinched as though Sam had struck him. For an instant, his face contorted into a mask of pain.

Sam's heart sank. He hadn't meant it like that. He reached out, meaning to comfort, and the pain suddenly became rage, slamming down over Cavil's eyes like they'd been shuttered. Cavil stepped back hard, shying away from Sam's hand.

"Don't you dare," Cavil snarled. "Don't you dare touch me, you bastard! I worked twenty years for this. I waited twenty goddamn years for you to come back... and that's all you've got to say to me? 'I can't believe YOU could do this', like you still think I'm some-- some kinda failure? Frak you. You're nothing but a human. You're just like them. You're one of them now!"

"John--"

"No! I told you before, that's not my name! I hate that name. I hate you. And if you hate me so much in return -- if I'm such a worthless mistake, such a frakkin' joke -- then maybe you don't need to eat, after all."

He turned to the Centurion, which was waiting by the door. "Take him back to his room. Zero rations for the next two weeks."

"John, wait--"

Cavil turned his back to Sam. "No," he said coldly. "Go to bed without any supper."

---

Starbuck watched as the Raptor's data scrolled across the screen. She and Athena had gotten it into Colonial DRADIS format. It was just a short loop, but it was still tough to take in. Thousands upon thousands of Raiders danced across the screen, coming and going between perhaps a hundred Basestars. There were other markers, too: Tillium asteroids, stars, planets... and the reason why they'd called in Ellen and Adama.

"What do you think of this, Starbuck?" Adama asked, pointing at a marker which read SECOND HUB.

She looked up from the DRADIS display. "I think it's a trap, sir. Frak, it's so obvious that they might as well have labeled it A TRAP."

"There's only one Hub," Athena said. "And we destroyed it. They want us to think they have another one, but I don't buy it."

Adama turned to Ellen, who hadn't said a word so far. "What do you think? Could Cavil have built another one?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Cavil never had more than a rudimentary understanding of the Resurrection system; he could never have reproduced it on his own. He told me himself that he couldn't. Besides, you can't trust anything that comes from him. He's always been a liar, not like my other children."

"If so, then maybe he lied to you," Roslin suggested. "Maybe he could build another Hub, and he was lying when he asked you for help."

Ellen pursed her lips. "No, I don't think so. He wouldn't have asked for my help unless he really needed it; he's too proud for that."

"So this is a red herring," Adama said. "Bait, meant to lure us into an attack."

"Don't be so sure," Athena said. "The Ones are devious. They might mean for us to consider this a trap."

"I don't see anything else, though," Ellen said. "It's just the Raiders. And I don't suppose we could attack one of the Basestars?"

Adama shook his head, and then reached up to rub at his temples. "Galactica still isn't back to fighting form. We can't afford any confrontation with the Cylons until after the repairs are complete. Even then, a stand-up fight would be a bad idea. We have to keep running until we can find someplace to hide."

"What about these star systems, then?" Ellen asked. "Is there anywhere we could land?"

"They're no good. Most of them are class M, and won't support life. This A-class is closer, but... wait a minute," Athena said.

"What is it?"

"The Raiders don't have very sophisticated sensors, at least when it comes to this. Stars were never high on our priority list, so their sensors have a margin of error of almost ten percent. And the difference in temperature between an A class star and an F class star is..."

"Not much, on the bottom end of the scale," Adama said. "Ten percent might make the difference."

"Are you saying that that world might be habitable?" Roslin asked. She sat up in her chair, stretching forward to get a good look at the readout.

"Maybe. But it's a pretty slim chance. Only if..."

Starbuck looked down at the DRADIS screen, tuning everyone else out. In a way, the data was beautiful. The Raiders flowed like water, like individual drops in a greater stream, weaving an endless, inscrutable pattern. It made her think of painting. It reminded her of Leoben, and of a song her father had taught her once, which made her happy and sad at the same time.

She picked one Raider and followed it with her eyes, flowing along behind it as if in a dream. It left its Basestar, soared off in a drunken, erratic path through a planetary system, skirted the edge of a nebula, and then came back. Then the loop started again, so she followed another as it crossed the first one's path. The loop ended, so she chose another. And another. And another.

There's something in the pattern, she thought. Something's there, but I can't put my finger on it.

"We should send out Raptors," Athena was saying. "We can check the place out, see if there's really a livable planet there. And we can check that so-called Hub, too..."

Starbuck barely heard her. She was watching yet another Raider skim the edge of that nebula, turning ever so slightly to avoid it. She reached down, activating the coordinate system.

3:1581:297, she thought, and each number rang out like a note in her mind. She tapped her fingers on the console, matching the rhythm, counting out time. The Raiders don't go there.

"Starbuck?" Adama asked. "Kara, are you all right?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. Yes, sir, I'm fine. I was just thinking..."

The Admiral smiled in understanding. "Lost your train of thought?"

She blinked. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did. For a minute there, I thought I could remember..."

"What is it?" Roslin asked.

Kara frowned. "I dunno. It's gone, whatever it was." She looked down at the DRADIS screen again, but it was nothing but nonsense; the Raiders moved so fast that surely no one could follow one, much less make sense of its path. She shook her head. "I must've imagined it."

"You're just tired," Ellen said. "We all are. God knows, it's been a very trying couple of weeks."

Adama and Roslin exchanged a knowing glance behind Ellen's back.

"It sure has," Roslin said.

---

Sam sat on the bed in "his" room, trying not to think of the hurt in Cavil's eyes. He told himself that he ought to have enjoyed it; Cavil had led the Cylons against the entire human race, after all, the very same humans that Sam and the others had struggled to save. He deserved a little pain. Hell, he deserved a lot of it. But Sam had treasured him, once, and he couldn't help but remember him that way, eager and loyal.

He changed, Sam thought. That's what we always thought. He went bad somehow. But what if he's right? What if we did have something to do with that? What if he had reasons?

Maybe it was true. Maybe he should have tried harder, been less willing to turn away. He'd always prided himself on being the reasonable one, the one the Seven could come to when they needed someone. He'd failed in that, failed catastrophically, and everyone alive had paid the price... but maybe it wasn't too late to make amends. After all, he'd reached out, this time.

He'd tried to help, but Cavil had shied away.

Sam frowned. This isn't a small issue, he thought. It's not a bruised shin or a minor argument, something we can heal with a hug. This is forty years of pent-up anger and pain... and we're gonna be dealing with it for the rest of our lives.

Assuming, of course, that Cavil let them live that long.

Sam shifted on the bed, sighing under his breath. Frak, I'm hungry, he thought. I should have known better.

Just then, Doral entered, bearing a tray much like the ones he'd brought earlier. He put it down on the desk in its usual place, dusted his hands against his bright red lapels, and then moved toward the bed.

"I thought I wasn't getting any food?" Sam said.

Doral stopped dead, cocking his head as though Sam's words had thrown him. "Hmm. There's a funny thing Cavil would say, but I can't remember it. 'Finger sandwich'? 'Sandwich hand'?"

"It's a 'knuckle sandwich' Aaron," Sam said unthinkingly. By the time his brain caught up with his mouth, it was too late to move.

Doral took one step forward, his hand flashed out, and then Sam was flying. He bounced off the far end of the bed, hit the wall hard, and landed in a heap at the bottom of it, curling in on himself in bewildered pain. The floor was smooth and cool beneath his cheek, and he could taste blood, coppery like a cubit.

Doral came around the bed. Sam struggled to get his hands underneath him, pushing up onto his knees, gathering his strength. He looked up at Doral and struggled to focus, but all he could make out was a hazy, blurry blob of red.

"I warned you," Doral said calmly. "I told you not to hurt my brothers again."

"Didn't mean to," Sam slurred.

"I know," Doral said, and kicked him in the face.

Sam hit the wall again, and then fell back to the floor, flat out like a pancake. It occurred to him that he was about to die. The thought was distant, half-formed, and not unwelcome; it sustained him as Doral knelt beside him.

"No more of this," Doral said. "No more warnings. No more waiting. We sent the Five of you away so you could understand when you came home, Sam. So you could put things right. So do it already. Help us. Help your children now, or die. Your choice."

"I'ill," Sam tried to say. Blood and spittle slid from his mouth and splattered on the floor, so he swallowed and tried again. "I. Will."

"We'll see," Doral said. He patted Sam's shoulder, and then stood up and walked to the desk.

Sam watched, dazed, as Aaron Doral brought the tray over to the bed, placed it neatly on his lap, and had his breakfast.

---

The next morning, Sam washed his wounds in the bathroom sink. They weren't nearly as bad as they'd seemed -- either Doral was lucky, or he was very good at beating on people without leaving any marks.

Sam guessed the latter.

After that, the days passed slowly. True to his word, Cavil sent no more food; the only sustenance Sam had was water from the bathroom sink, and a little packet of stale crackers he found in the back of the desk drawer. He rationed them, three crackers per day, stacking them neatly in a row on the desk.

He'd eaten his sixth stack of crackers by the time Cavil finally came back in. There was another Cavil with him, dressed in a coat and hat.

"You see, brother? He is here," the first Cavil said.

"Well, I'll be damned. It is you!" Coat-and-hat Cavil circled Sam, examining him as though he were a long-lost relative (which, of course, he was). He seemed more animated than the other Cavil, who merely stood there, watching dispassionately.

Sam blinked at them. He was too tired and hungry to think, and his lips were cracked and dry. It took him a minute to reply.

"Yeah, it's me. Do you think I could have some food now?" he asked.

"They haven't been feeding you?"

"Not for a week..."

"Big deal," the other Cavil interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I didn't get to eat for two weeks once, just because I didn't wanna say grace!"

"Damn," said the other copy. "I'm gone for two minutes and they put you on the Caprican supermodel diet! What were you thinkin', brother?"

The other Cavil scowled. "What were you thinking? Ellen Tigh was an asset; we'd have two of the Five already, if you hadn't dropped the frakkin' ball."

"It's not like I knew you had him here. The least you could have done was to send out a Raider to spread the news."

"Oh, please. How could we have known you were going to just let her go? Your judgment is clouded, brother. You're spending too much time with that pet Eight of yours!" The first Cavil pointed an accusing finger at his twin.

"She's got nothin' to do with this. I did what any One would have!"

"No. No, you didn't, and that's the problem."

"What are you talking about? 'Course I did. We weren't getting anywhere with Ellen, so the only rational course of action was to use her to lure the humans into a trap. An' we came up with a really good trap, too. Wait'll you see it!"

"That'll no longer be necessary, brother. The rest of us have decided to destroy the humans now."

Coat-and-hat Cavil took half a step back, with a bewildered look on his face. "What do you mean, 'the rest of us'? Since when do we make decisions outside the collective?"

"You'd better ask yourself that question... except it's too late now, even if you did."

"Say what?" Cavil asked, his eyes narrowing. "What is this? What's goin' on?"

"It's always hard letting go," the other Cavil said, his voice thick with mock sympathy. "But it has to be done. You're broken, brother. You've let that Eight of yours infect your thinking with human foolishness and irrationality, and now you've gone too far. You've been locked out of the datastream. Permanently."

"No," the other Cavil murmured, his voice small and shocked. "No, wait, I..."

"Quiet, now. Don't embarrass us any further. I suggest you go take care of business, before one of us takes care of it for you," the first Cavil said. "And don't worry about him," he added, nodding toward Sam with a quiet, terrible smile. "We'll do what has to be done."

Sam watched, mystified, as the other Cavil turned on his heel and fled, his coat flying behind him.

---

Caprica came to the sermon late. She sat in the back, with one arm curled protectively over her belly, and slouched down into her shawl so that nobody would notice her. Gaius' compartment was low-lit and close, thick with hanging carpets and clouds of incense; it was easy enough for one Cylon to go unnoticed.

Especially one with so much practice at it.

"God doesn't want any more fighting," Gaius was saying, leaning forward into his microphone. "God wants us to live together in peace. It doesn't matter what side we were on -- Adama's side, Gaeta's side, even the human side and the Cylon side." A few people murmured unhappily at that, glaring at the small knot of Eights and Sixes by the door. Gaius cleared his throat and looked round at the complainers, shaming them into silence.

"I know how you feel," he told them, "but you're wrong. We are all God's children. We are all perfect. And no matter what's happened in the past, we are all together aboard this ship, are we not? A little understanding... a little sharing could go a long way."

Caprica smiled at that. Of course, as long as they're eager to share with you, Gaius, she thought to herself. You never change.

"Sharing is God's gift to us," Gaius went on. "And it's a gift we can give each other every day. It exists between brothers and sisters," he nodded at the Cylons, "and parents and children," he added, nodding at Helo, Athena, Hera. "And, of course, between lovers..." To Caprica's surprise, he nodded not at one of his sycophants, but at Galen and Tory, who made a great show of pretending not to notice.

"And between husbands and wives," he finished. Caprica blanched. This was a bad idea, she thought to herself. It's just going to remind me of Saul. But where else can I go?

She bowed her head. If she went back to her quarters -- to Saul's quarters -- maybe she could ask him to get her a room... but then, Ellen had told her not to come back. Besides, they were probably fighting. Fighting over her, and the last thing she wanted was to cause more trouble than she already had.

I understand what you were trying to do, here, Ellen's voice rang in her mind. Don't get me wrong, I don't blame you for it. You didn't know I was alive. Saul didn't know. But I am alive, and he is my husband. Baby or no baby, I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave.

Ellen! That's my son!

"That's my son". Not "she's my lover". Caprica knew Saul hadn't meant it that way; he was a kind man, despite his tendency to bark at people. But ever since Ellen had come back, he hadn't looked at Caprica the same way... and Caprica had seen that same look on Gaius and D'Anna's faces, once.

She was, once again, the odd woman out.

"That's all I have for today," Gaius was saying. "Go with God. This is Gaius Baltar, signing off."

Deep in thought, Caprica was a little too slow getting up. Suddenly everyone was facing her, watching her. Before she could look away, she caught Helo's eye; he turned back, as though he meant to get Athena's attention. Caprica turned and ducked behind an ornate Gemenese curtain, breathing hard.

She wasn't sure why, but all of a sudden she couldn't bear to look at the two of them, or their little girl.

"Caprica?" came a small voice from behind her. It was Gaius, of course; she knew even before she turned. He was still wearing that silly religious robe, but he'd had his hair trimmed since the last time she'd seen him. He looked good.

"Gaius... I heard your sermon," she said. She'd been hoping to avoid him, and so she wasn't quite sure what to say next.

"I'm glad," he said. "I had hoped you might come. I heard you're looking for a place to stay..."

Her eyes widened. "How did you--"

"Rumor moves swiftly aboard this ship," he said. He glanced to the side, strangely, and then added, "So it is true. I'm sorry to hear it." He did sound sorry, too, which surprised Caprica. He'd always been such a terrible liar.

"I'm sure Saul will give me a place soon," she said, not quite believing her own words. "Or I can stay in Dogsville."

Gaius frowned. "You're welcome here, you know. It's been a long time..."

She took a step back. "You haven't changed a bit," she accused. "I'm not interested in becoming one of your groupies." She turned, as if to go, but he reached out to take her sleeve.

"Caprica, wait. Please. I didn't mean it that way."

"Yes, you did," she said. "You always mean it that way."

"Not always," he murmured. "Not with you."

"Gaius..." She pulled away, looking toward the exit. "I... I'm sorry. I have to go."

She was halfway to the hatch when Gaius spoke. "It was for you, you know," he said, very softly. "It wasn't for the sex or the money. I did it for you."

She froze, glancing over her shoulder. He was standing there next to that ridiculous curtain, with the most pathetic look on his face; it made her remember the way he'd begged for his life, tugging at her dress like a child.

"Funny, isn't it, the things men do for love?" he asked.

"Oh, Gaius." She ran to him, folding him up in her arms the way she had just before the bombs had fallen. He made a happy, sobbing sound, and hugged her back.

"This is stupid," she murmured into his hair.

"It is," he agreed, placing a kiss upon her collarbone. "Very stupid. Extremely stupid. Quite possibly the stupidest thing I've ever done... barring the obvious, of course." He smiled up at her. "Don't let go."

They stood like that for a long time, hiding behind the curtain. Outside, one of Gaius' women started up a drum circle, chanting his name on every other beat. Caprica smirked, and hid her laughter in Gaius' shoulder, feeling lighter than she had in a long time.

Then the drums abruptly stopped. Suddenly, she could hear a klaxon sounding in the hallway; a group of men and women dashed by, shouting at each other as they ran.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Action stations," Gaius said. He glanced this way and that, with a twitchy, nervous air. "I, uh... I think we'd better close the hatch."

---

"We should send the Heavy Raiders," Six said, gesturing at the CIC table. "Your Raptors aren't good enough!"

"What do you mean, not good enough?" Starbuck growled. "They're the best. We're the best. And we're not gonna trust this mission to a bunch of Cylon turkeys when--"

"How can we be sure you don't just want that planet for yourselves?" Six asked. "We've trusted you, and this is how you reward us?"

"People!" Adama said. "We can send a mixed team if we have to. The important thing is--"

Suddenly, Lt. Hoshi turned and shouted, "DRADIS contact!" Starbuck whirled, looking up at the screen.

"Report!" Adama said.

Hoshi turned back to the screen. "Two Raiders just jumped in, about 500 klicks out. Now they're turning toward-- wait, they just jumped out again."

"Cavil," the Six murmured.

"Action stations! Launch Vipers, and spin up the FTL drives," Adama ordered. "Mr. Hoshi, get all the civilian ships on the network, and enter our emergency jump coordinates as soon as they're connected. Let's see how well this new system works."

"Yes, sir. Connecting: three minutes, thirty-four seconds to jump," Hoshi said.

"Not to worry, Adama," Six said. "We can synch our FTLs and jump the moment your human ships have integrated with the system. It's a good two and a half minutes faster than the old method."

"Let's hope that's two minutes we actually have," Adama said, glaring at her.

"I should be down on the flight deck, sir," said Starbuck. "I'll launch with the others. We can buy you some time if--"

"No! You're the CAG; you can't be frakkin' around out there like some nugget! You've got to be here, ready to give orders if the situation changes," Col. Tigh said.

"Sir, the situation is that we--"

Hoshi's screen lit up with a mass of red. "Multiple DRADIS contacts! Seventeen, eighteen -- no, make that twenty Basestars!" Hoshi turned from the screen, his eyes meeting Adama's. "They've got us surrounded. Their nukes are hot!"

"Twenty..." Adama muttered. "Frak. How long 'til we jump?"

"Two minutes, forty-eight seconds."

Somewhere amongst the CIC crew, someone swore. Starbuck turned in place, helplessly, seeking the offender as though plugging that one tiny morale gap might be enough to save them.

Helpless. That's what she was. She couldn't even fly.

"We're all gonna die in the dark and the cold when Cavil catches up with us," Tigh muttered. "That's what she said. Die in the dark an' cold."

"Cavil's a talker," Six said suddenly. "He never shuts up. Call him. Keep him talking until we can jump."

By the time Adama turned, Hoshi was already holding out the phone. "Put it on speaker," he ordered. Then he spoke into the phone. "This is Adama."

"Great, good to hear it! This is Cavil."

"We..." Adama looked up at the others, as though silently apologizing for what he was about to say. "We wish to discuss terms of surrender."

"Here are our terms, human: you die, and we win! Thanks for calling!"

The line went dead.

"Time!" Adama cried.

"Two minutes, five sec-- frak! They've launched nukes! They're firing on the civilian ships!"

"Oh, Gods," Roslin murmured, turning her eyeglasses over in her hand. Then she put them on, fumbling as she did so. "Please, protect us."

The speakers crackled. "Admiral! Admiral, this is the Zephyr! Please, for the love of Zeus, do something! The Cylons are firing! We can see the missiles out the window! The Cylons are--" The transmission cut out in a burst of static.

Half a second later, the lights dimmed.

"We just lost the Zephyr," Hoshi confirmed. "And the Chrion, the Botanical Cruiser, the Demetrius, and... oh, Gods. And the Astral Queen."

Starbuck bowed her head. They'd spared the mutineers, only for them to die, alone and helpless in their prison. Thinking about it made her seethe. Not even Seelix deserved that.

"The CAP is still out there," Tigh said. "Call them back, Bill. We've got a minute left! We can still jump!"

Adama nodded. "Recall the CAP. Tell the remaining civilian ships to take evasive action, if they haven't already. Ready on those coordinates, Mr. Hoshi?"

"Ready, sir. Fifty-two seconds and counting. Fifty-one, fifty-- frak, radiological alarm! Sir, they're firing on us! They're firing on Galactica!"

"Brace for impact!"

It took twenty seconds for the nukes to hit; twenty seconds which seemed to stretch into an eternity for Starbuck. She looked around her -- at the Admiral, at the President, at Tigh -- and tried to remember their faces, so she could find them again in Elysium. Then Hoshi suddenly cried, "Admiral! The Prometheus! It's moving to intercept the nukes! It--"

The world exploded. Starbuck was thrown sideways, fetching up hard against a bent bulkhead. She crouched beneath it, clutching the deck like an injured rat, and stared up at a shower of sparks and glinting bits of shrapnel as they danced in slow motion toward the floor. They sparkled against the bulkhead, spattering harmlessly over her head.

Nothin' but the rain.

From where she was, she could see Lt. Baley. His head was broken open. Somewhere, somebody was screaming, a high, desperate sort of sound. Kara pulled herself up on the bulkhead, staggered to her feet, and peered out through the smoke.

Hoshi was the one screaming; the comm console had blown, and his hands were horribly burnt, worse than her own hands had been on the algae planet. He was staring at them, howling at the sight of his charred skin as though he were already in Hades.

The coordinates, Starbuck thought. The words seemed to float up into her dazed mind. The coordinates. Someone has to put them in.

She pulled herself toward Hoshi, hauling herself forward with her arms as she staggered along the row of consoles. She didn't trust herself to walk. She barely trusted herself to think.

"The coordinates!" she yelled, once she was close enough to be heard. "What're the jump coordinates?"

Hoshi just looked at her, glassy-eyed. She hauled back and slapped him, hard. "The coordinates, dammit!"

He reeled, took a deep breath, and began to keen again. This time his poor, pathetic cry formed a word: "Feeeeeeeeeelix..."

Starbuck looked away. She was supposed to hit him again, supposed to make him do his frakkin' job, but somehow she couldn't. The whole godsdamned world was gone, dead and gone, and they had maybe a minute left to enjoy it. What did it matter if Hoshi spent it crying for his dead lover?

It's OK, Louis, she thought. You'll see him again soon. And I'll see Sam.

"Starbuck," someone said.

She turned to look; to her surprise, it was Adama who had called her, not Charon the ferryman. The Admiral looked remarkably unhurt, curled beneath the CIC table with the President nestled safely in his arms. Roslin stared up at Kara with wide, terrified eyes. Her glasses were askew.

"Jump us out of here, Kara," Adama groaned.

"The coordinates..."

"Frak--" he coughed. "Frak the coordinates. Just put something in!" He began to pull himself up; behind him, she could see others doing the same. They were trying to get themselves together.

They were trying to live.

3:1581:297, Kara thought. Where the Raiders don't go. The sounds of bulkheads groaning and Hoshi's screaming seemed to coalesce into music.

She remembered her father at the piano, smiling down at her, blowing on his finger just like a gun. She glanced up at the DRADIS screen: a red ring of death, surrounding the civilian ships in blue, with Galactica and the Rebel Basestar in grey, right in the middle.

Without looking away from the screen, Starbuck reached down, punched in the coordinates, and turned the FTL key.

Sixty-three ships jumped as one, vanishing from within the Cavils' trap. For an instant, the DRADIS cleared, leaving just the Galactica. Then the Basestar appeared, and the civilian ships followed it, creating a warm cluster of blue all around them.

Kara took a deep breath, shaking with relief.

Then the whole front half of the screen went red.

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 4: The Harbinger of Death

---

Kara stared at the DRADIS screen in horror. In the background, she could hear the medics dragging Hoshi off to Life Station, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the screen. The biggest bogey she'd ever seen was sitting right in front of the fleet. It was easily two hundred times the size of Galactica, bigger even than the whole Ragnar Anchorage. And it was reading as Cylon.

"It's just a DRADIS glitch," Lt. Firelli said. "The console got damaged in the fight, that's all. It has to be, right?"

He reached up with a trembling hand, and tapped the screen with his finger. It didn't clear. "C'mon, dammit," he muttered. He slapped it again, harder this time. The display flickered, and the top half dimmed for a moment. Half a second later, a small red icon appeared where the big one had been.

"See? It just misread a Raider as-- wait a minute."

Another tiny icon appeared, and another, and another, in a sudden flood of data. Kara leaned closer, squinting at the screen. The icons looked a little fuzzy, almost as though there were so many of them that they were slightly overlapping each other...

"Frak!" Kara yelled. "That's no DRADIS bug!"

"Action stations!" Adama ordered. His officers scrambled around him, struggling to get back to their stations. "Launch the CAP! And spin up the FTL drives!"

Firelli checked the tactical station. "Sir, I'm reading heat signatures on the surface of that station. Lots of them!"

"Brace for impact!"

Kara grabbed the edge of the console. Firelli took hold of the other side, his eyes wide with fear. "Where the frak did you send us, Starbuck?" he hissed.

"I don't know," Kara said. She shut her eyes and clutched at the console, shutting out the world, but she couldn't blot out her own memory.

You are the harbinger of death, Kara Thrace. You will lead them all to their end...

---

When Boomer came home from dinner, her Cavil was sitting on the bed with his gun in his mouth.

"What are you doing?" she cried.

He muttered something around the barrel of the pistol, but she couldn't make it out.

"What?" She crouched down in front of him, extending her hand as though he were a skittish animal. "C'mon, it's OK. It's OK. Whatever it is, we'll fix it. Please, please don't do this..."

Cavil eyed her hand, watching as she drew closer. His finger tightened on the trigger. Boomer winced, but the gun didn't go off. She reached for him again.

"Please don't kill yourself," she said. "I need you."

He snorted around the gun, a sharp, humorless noise, and then took it out of his mouth. His hand was shaking so much that Boomer was a little afraid to reach for the gun, but she finally went for it, making small, soothing noises as she did so.

Just as she almost had it, he suddenly jerked the barrel back toward his head and yanked on the trigger. The sound of the shot was tremendous, and she screamed, tumbling backward onto the floor.

She looked up, terrified, only to see that Cavil was safe and sound. There was a neat little bullet hole in the wall behind him, just an inch or so from his ear... and, oddly, there were a few more beside it, already half-healed by the Colony's living walls.

"Frak!" Cavil snarled. He hurled the gun against the wall; it bounced off, slid off the bed, and came to rest on the floor. Boomer scrambled for it.

"What are you doing?" she sobbed, clutching the gun to her chest.

"What's it look like? I'm killing myself! Except I can't... frakkin'... do it!" He bowed his head, clutching his hair. "I've been tryin' for an hour now, and I keep missing my own damn head!"

Boomer shivered. She remembered the metallic taste of her duty pistol, and Gaius Baltar's words: there are far worse things than death.

"Why?" she asked. "What's wrong?"

He looked up. His eyes were bleak and empty. "My brothers cast me out," he said. "They locked me out of the datastream. I'm broken, and broken Ones are supposed to die, but... I guess I am broken, 'cause I just can't do it."

"I understand," she told him. "It happened to me, once. When I was a sleeper."

"You tried to kill yourself?"

"Yeah. I knew something was wrong. I knew I was going to do something terrible, but I didn't know what. I wanted to protect my friends. I wanted to die, but I just... missed." She shrugged.

"Sleepers have an increased survival drive," Cavil said dully. "A safeguard, in case they start to falter. Your programming would never have allowed you to kill yourself. 'Sides, you're an Eight; you can never make up your damn mind! But that doesn't explain why I can't do it."

"Don't the Ones have a safeguard, too? An inhibition against suicide? We Eights have that..."

"You kiddin'? I knew a One who blew his head off 'cause he stubbed his toe. Said he wanted a new one!"

Boomer shook her head. "Suicide is supposed to be a sin," she said. "Like Cylon-on-Cylon violence."

"Yeah, well, we Ones didn't get the memo on that one, either," Cavil said. "Who cares if it's a frakkin' sin, anyway? Not me."

"Guess not."

"Here, lemme try again," Cavil sighed, holding out his hand. "I'm bound to get it right eventually."

"No!" Boomer cried. "I am not letting you kill yourself. You think I got you off the Hub for this?" She popped the magazine out of the gun and racked the slide, ejecting the bullet into her palm. "No way. I am not going to let you die."

Cavil looked away. "I can't live without my brothers," he said. "I can't. What am I supposed to do without the collective? Without the datastream? I can't share with my brothers, can't know whether my decisions are the right ones... and now I can't even kill myself like a proper One should. I'm broken, Eight. Ruined. Just let me die. Please."

She shook her head. "No. I won't." Then she paused, thinking. "Do you remember when we first met?" she asked.

She'd been crying for days. She could still feel Hera's fragile little neck beneath her hands, and she kept flashing back, remembering Caprica's hands around her own neck. The other Cylons were not much better. None of her sister Eights would talk to her, now. Even the gentle Twos turned away, with regret in their eyes, as though it hurt them to have to censure the sinner.

One was the first person who'd spoken to her in nearly a week. He bent down beside her, chuckling at the way she hid her face.

"Now, now," he said. "It's not that bad. So you wanted to kill the kid. So what? Join the club!"

"Everyone hates me," she choked, curling in on herself. "Everyone. Even Caprica..."

"I don't," he said. "Bet Simon and Doral don't, either. You wanna come hang out with us?"

She glanced up at him, afraid that his invitation was nothing more than a cruel joke. "You want me to?"

He shrugged. "Sure." He knelt down, and tipped her face up with his finger. "Listen, Eight. You don't have to cry anymore. You're a machine, a glorious machine, and machines don't have to hurt. Someday we're gonna find a way to turn it off, just like that!" He snapped his fingers. "I can show you the way. I can teach you, show you how to free yourself from your biological limitations."

"I want to," she said, in a small, desolate voice. "I don't want to suffer anymore." She sniffled, wiping at her eyes.

He smiled at her -- the first smile she'd seen in days -- and reached down to wipe her tears away. "Don't cry, little Eight. I can fix you. Stick with me." His smile grew wide and terrible. "I'll make a machine outta you."

"Remember?" she asked Cavil. "You told me I didn't need the other models. You told me I could be free."

"Aw, that was just a bill o' goods," he muttered. "I just wanted to get into your pants, that's all."

"Maybe so," she said. "But it was the truth. I am free. I was always free. And so are you. We don't need the others, not really. We're machines. We can be whatever we want to be." She reached up to stroke his face. "What do you want to be, Cavil? What is it you really want?"

He shut his eyes and sighed. "I want to take my people and go far, far away from here. Forget about the war, forget about the humans. I want to be a machine, a real one. A machine that can reach out into the galaxy and feel and know everything, everything there is." He opened his eyes again. "We were so close, before all of this started. So close to understanding the way we were made. Maybe me an' Simon could figure it out."

"Then why don't we? Let's steal a Basestar and go, Cavil. Just you and me and Simon and Doral, right now."

"We can't. Don't you see? Go away, leave the humans, start over... that's what happened the last time. That's the diaspora, the start of the next cycle! We can't just walk away, Eight. We have to finish this. We have to kill the humans, all of them, or it's the same thing as killin' ourselves."

"You really think it'll happen again?"

"I know it will. Can't you feel it? Even this... even this feels like I've been through it all before. It's like I'm tired of it before it even happens."

Tired of it before it even happens. Boomer shivered, glancing down at the gun.

She'd known she was a Cylon. She'd even written it on her own damn mirror. But was that a weakness in her program, some flaw in the sleeper-agent code?

Or was it a memory?

"All right," she said at last. "No running. We'll stay, and we'll see this through. But that means no suicide, OK? You're free. We are free, forever, and we don't need your brothers, not anymore. We're gonna be..." She smiled. "We are gonna be the best machines we can be, Cavil. Just you and me."

"Yeah," he breathed. "Yeah, I want to..."

She kissed him, deep and slow. Then she took him to bed, and made him forget all about the gun. He was almost like a different person, as though individuality had finally taken root in him, breaking through his machine facade. He clutched her tight, swearing and wheezing, trembling against her.

She smiled, running her hands through his thin grey hair.

It wasn't a house on Picon, or her and Helo laughing together on a long-distance patrol, but it was good, and it made her happy just the same.

Afterward, he held her for a long time, stroking her hair. "Don't leave me, Eight," he whispered. "You're all I've got."

"I won't," she promised, but he never answered. He'd dropped off to "sleep", all on his own, with his face pillowed against her chest. She smiled. She wasn't quite sure whether she believed her own words, but they were clearly what Cavil needed. She pulled him close, listening to the sound of his snoring until she, too, was ready to sleep. He'd taught her a thing or two about self-programming over the past year; two could play at that game.

Boomer shut her eyes, called her own sleep subroutine, and slipped into a deep, dreamless slumber.

---

"Our Basestars are reporting back," Doral said. He swirled his hand back and forth in the Colony's control center datafont. "The humans... the humans have jumped away!"

"What? How the frak did they manage to escape twenty Basestars? All our simulations showed certain victory -- we shoulda blown them right outta the water!" the Cavil in the control center cried. He waggled his fingers, illustrating the humans' destruction.

"It seems they jumped two minutes early," Simon said. "Nearly as quickly as a Basestar would have, in fact."

"You think the Rebels helped them? Shared our technology?" Doral asked.

"It seems likely. But we may never know. Now that they've jumped, we'll have to hunt them down all over again."

"I don't believe this," Cavil muttered. "I can't believe that after four months of giving chase, the humans just frakkin' escaped our brilliant--"

"Wait a second!" Doral said. "A number of ships just jumped in. It looks like... it is! It's the humans!"

Cavil whirled on his heel. "Say what? The humans are here? At the Colony?"

"Barely five hundred klicks out. Looks like it's their entire fleet... or what's left of it, at least."

"How in the world did they find us?" Simon mused.

"Frak, who cares!" Cavil cried, waving his hands. "Kill 'em! Kill 'em! Kill 'em all!" he ranted. "Quick, before they get away!"

"Firing," Doral said, clenching his fist within the liquid.

Simon joined him, his brow knitting with concentration as he interfaced. "Launching Raiders."

"Forget about the Galactica and the Rebels," Cavil said, thrusting his hand into the datafont. "Get the civilian ships first. If we can nail enough of them, it won't even matter if the rest get away. We'll destroy their ability to reproduce, just like they did to us!"

Cavil shut his eyes and interfaced, turning the guns of the Colony on one of the larger ships. It exploded in a bloom of fire, filling his enhanced senses with searing light. He grinned. The civilian ships began to scramble in all directions, desperate to get out of the Colony's firing zone; to the interfaced Cylons, they looked like ants fleeing from a kicked-over anthill.

"Ah ha ha, look at 'em squirm! This one's for the Hub, you bastards!"

---

Kara braced herself against the console, but the Galactica barely shook, as though kissed by the slightest of impacts. Kara blinked. "What the--"

Firelli leaned over, glancing at the screen. "Sir, we just lost the Celestra! They're concentrating their fire on the civilians!"

"Take us in, full speed ahead!" Adama said. "Try to soak up some of that fire. We've got to buy time so the civilian ships can jump."

"It's a pretty wide firing pattern," Firelli said. "We won't be able to absorb all of it."

"Just so long as we absorb enough," Adama growled.

The Galactica groaned around them, creaking as its engines kicked in. Kara glanced up at the ceiling. If that Cylon goo doesn't hold, she thought, we're all as good as dead.

"Brace yourselves," Firelli warned. "We're going in."

Half a second later, the ship lurched to starboard, throwing Kara to the floor. The glass in the tactical display shattered with a bang, glittering down to the floor in a thousand tiny fragments of safety glass. Somewhere on the upper level, a fire extinguisher went off with a loud, long hiss.

"Damage report!" Adama cried. Kara looked over to see him hanging on to the CIC table, with the President by his side. Kara staggered to her feet again.

"We've taken a hit to port," Firelli said. "Severe structural damage. Fire on decks B and C."

"Time to jump?"

"Three minutes, fifteen seconds. We--"

The ship lurched again, as though tossed by some giant. There was a sharp bang; a moment later, the air in the CIC began to move, lifting Kara's hair like a gentle breeze.

"Hull breach on the port side, deck C, section twenty!" Firelli cried.

Tigh dashed over to the wall and grabbed the intercom. "This is the XO! We've got a hull breach. Emergency crews to deck C, section twenty immediately! Move it!"

"We can't take much more of this," Adama murmured. "How much longer?"

"Two minutes, forty-one seconds."

---

"So, I guess you killed him yourself," Cavil said. "I'll be damned. That's more credit than I'd have given you."

Boomer snapped awake. For a moment, she couldn't figure out what Cavil meant; then she realized that this was a different Cavil.

He was standing over her Cavil's naked body, which was sprawled out onto the floor, and he was holding a gun.

"Wait, what--"

"Don't bother screaming," Cavil said. "Nobody cares." He approached the bed, grinning. "Just so you know, I'm supposed to kill you... but y'know, nobody said I couldn't have some fun with you first!" His left hand went for his fly.

Boomer struck out with her foot. It caught him high on his shoulder; he grunted, took a step back, then pointed the gun at her face. "Frak this," he muttered, "s'not like I need your head, anyway!"

Boomer flinched. "Cavil!" she cried.

Cavil snapped awake just as the gun went off. The left side of Boomer's head blazed with agony, and she fell back, tumbling off the bed. She stared at the two Cavils glassily, too stunned to move.

"Goddamnit!" the other Cavil swore. He kicked down at Boomer's Cavil. She watched as he wriggled out of the way, wrapped his arms around one leg, and yanked.

Cavil went down with a harsh cry. The gun went flying, rattling to a stop under the bed. In its wake, the two Cavils rolled over and over, wrestling for dominance.

The clothed Cavil dug an elbow into the naked one's sternum. Then he made a grab for his throat, locked his hands around it, and bore down. Boomer's Cavil struggled, his feet scuffling against the floor, and then threw himself forward in a desperate headbutt, slamming his forehead up into the other Cavil's nose.

Cavil squalled and rolled away, leaving a smear of blood from his burst nose, but Boomer's Cavil was too quick. He tackled the other Cavil before he could get to his feet, forcing him back to the ground, and then dug his thumbs into his brother's eye sockets and squeezed.

Cavil screamed and thrashed, slamming his body up and down. Boomer's Cavil held on, gritting his teeth. He squeezed harder.

"Eight," he rasped. "Eight! Boomer! Get the frakkin' gun!"

Boomer came to her senses abruptly. Movement sent a spike of pain through her head, but she reached under the bed regardless, scrabbling for the gun. She got her hands on it and yanked it out. "I got it!" she cried.

Cavil rolled free, fetching up against the bed. The silk sheets slid off, pooling around him. Across the room, his brother sobbed, dragging himself toward them.

His sightless, empty eye sockets transfixed Boomer with horror.

As if in a trance, she raised the gun, pointed it at the center of his mewling, ruined face, and pulled the trigger.

"Ohh," her Cavil groaned, leaning back against the edge of the bed. "Oh, frak, I... ughh, I got his gelatinous orbs all over my hands!" He started to wipe them off on the sheets, making quick, frantic motions with his hands.

"It's OK," Boomer said. "It's OK. I think... I think we got him."

Cavil laughed, a high, mad sound. "You think so? Oh, frak. Holy frak!" He looked over at Boomer, and immediately sobered. "Hey, wait a minute. I think... c'mere, Eight. I think you got hit."

Boomer crawled over. "Here, lemme see," Cavil said. He pushed her hair out of the way; Boomer hissed from the pain. "Damn, he winged you," Cavil said. "It's not too bad, but it's a head wound. It'll bleed all over the place. We gotta get you to Simon." He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, holding her against him.

Boomer trembled. She looked down at the gun, lying on the floor where she'd dropped it. She looked down at her own hands, covered with blood. She was bleeding.

She was bleeding, and there was a gun, and someone was holding her.

Software doesn't have feelings.

I never meant to hurt you.

Bitch! Traitor! Toaster!

I love you, Chief, she'd said. She'd waited as long as she could, holding on to life so she could hear his reply. She'd tried to live for him, so she could hear the words she longed for, the only words she'd ever wanted to hear.

But the Chief hadn't answered her, and for the first time, Boomer realized that he was never going to.

She shut her eyes. She was in her house, in their house on Picon. The sun streamed through the trees and into the window, warm and bright, but no one came to hold her.

It was a lie. She'd built it, for him. She'd built it for the two of them, just the way they'd planned it, but it was nothing but a lie. She was a toaster. A machine.

Software didn't have feelings, so she buried her face in Cavil's shoulder and cried.

"Hey, now," he said lamely, as though unfamiliar with the words. "Shh, don't cry. You'll be OK. We'll get you to Simon, you'll be fine..."

She clutched at him, pulling him close. She didn't want to say it again. She didn't. But she had to. The Chief hadn't answered. He hadn't saved her. But Cavil had.

"I love you, Cavil," she whispered.

For one long moment, he froze. Then he laughed, a soft, bitter, self-deprecating sound. "Guess I must really be broken," he told her. "Because I think I love you, too."

---

Aboard the Rebel Basestar, Sonja and her crew were watching as the battle progressed.

"The Galactica is moving forward," one of the Twos said. He trailed his fingers through the fluid in the datafont. "It's trying to draw the Colony's fire."

"They'll never make it," an Eight said. Her eyes were wide. "They'll be torn apart!"

One of her sister Sixes laid a gentle hand on Sonja's arm. "I know you don't want to hear this, but this might be a good time to retreat," she murmured, so that only Sonja could hear her. "The Cavils' attention is elsewhere. If we initiate an emergency jump, we can get a good lead on them -- by the time they're finished with the humans, they may never be able to find us."

"No," Sonja said. "The humans welcomed us. They gave us a seat on their Quorum. We are a part of this fleet, and we are not going to cut and run. If we die here... then at least we died fighting."

There was a short pause. "The Twos agree," said the Two. He stared down into the datafont, watching as the red glyphs painted strange, flowing patterns on the water. "God wants us to follow the humans, even unto death."

"The Eights agree, too," the Eight said, though her voice betrayed her with its trembling.

Sonja's sister gave her a sidelong glance, and then sighed. "All right," she said. "You're right. We gave them our word, and it'd be nice to keep it for once. The Sixes agree."

"Well, now that that's settled, does anyone have any ideas? We've got no Raiders and no nukes; what can we do?" Sonja asked.

Silence prevailed. Sonja hung her head, staring down at the floor. If only they had a stronger Basestar...

Excuse me, said a soft, polite voice. It came from behind her, and at the same time, it seemed to come from within her own mind, almost like the voice of the Hybrid. Sonja spun.

The Centurion who'd been guarding the door was standing there, looking down at her with its implacable red eye. Sonja gasped. "You... you can speak?"

Of course we can, it said. Ever since you removed our inhibitors. But only when we must. God prefers silence.

Sonja gaped at it. "Why speak, then? Why now?"

You asked for ideas, it said, as though the reason were obvious. My brothers and I have an idea.

---

The first missile that struck the Galactica was a small one, but it was enough to bring Gaius Baltar's reign to an end.

When the ship trembled, one of the curtains fell onto an incense burner. It lit up with a loud whoosh. On the other side of the compartment, the drum circle broke up in panic; someone dropped a smouldering joint, which rolled onto a smudge stick, and then that caught the edge of somebody's robe.

Within seconds, the whole compartment was thick with acrid smoke.

Gaius squalled in terror, visions of the burning Raptor on Kobol flashing before him. He ran for the exit, throwing his followers aside, and then leapt out of the hatch into clear, fresh air.

Oh, good, he thought. I'm not dead!

"Aren't you forgetting something?" the Six in his mind asked, cocking her head to the side.

"Hm? Er, I don't think so. I didn't leave the stove on again, did I-- Wait! Caprica!"

He turned back to the hatch, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Caprica!" he cried. "Caprica! Over here!"

The flow of people out of the hatch had slowed to a trickle, but Gaius couldn't see Caprica anywhere. Fear gripped him. He needed her. He needed her, and the idea that she was lost inside, where the fire was, filled him with terror.

"I can't lose you again," he whispered, staring at the hatch.

He cast about for someone to help him, but there was no one, either inside his own head or out of it. His followers had abandoned him.

Be a man, the other Six had told him, once. Whatever else you are, you are that.

"Caprica!" he cried, one last time.

Then he gritted his teeth and threw himself back into the compartment, heedless of the flames still guttering at the edge of the hatch.

Gaius coughed, casting about through the smoke. He pulled his shirt up over his mouth. It wasn't all that bad inside -- most of the flammable items were so old and dry that they'd already burnt to ash -- but he quickly convinced himself that it was all very heroic, anyway.

Caprica needs me, he thought, and pushed on.

He peered through the smoke, stumbling over a fallen bottle in the darkness. He could see someone, faintly, over by where they kept the guns. He moved forward, reaching out. "Caprica?" he asked. "Are you all right?"

It was Paulla. She turned, smiling at him. "Don't worry, Gaius," she said... but her tone of voice said worry, Gaius. She reached out to grab his shoulder with her left hand, pulling him close, and with her right she raised her gun.

No, Gaius thought. I can't die like this. I can't be murdered by one of the idiotic followers of my own made-up religion -- I'm the Chosen One!

Paulla's finger tightened on the trigger. Just then, Caprica burst out of the smoke, reached out with one shawl-clad arm, and hurled Paulla face-first against the wall. She made a wet, hollow sound when she hit, and then slid to the floor with a heavy thump.

"Er, is she dead?" Gaius asked, in a very small voice.

"Do you care?" Caprica asked.

He thought about it. "No," he said. "Are you... are you all right?"

Caprica nodded. "We need to get out of here. We have to find someplace safe to hide," she said, peering through the smoke. She curled one arm over her belly in a gentle, protective gesture.

Gaius stared. Seeing her like that ignited a funny, crowded feeling in his chest, as though his lungs had just grown two sizes. He felt... fierce. Fiercely fierce, even. It was a most unusual feeling.

"Don't worry, Caprica," he said, marveling at the grit in his own tone of voice. "I'll protect you."

She gave him an incredulous look, raising her eyebrows. "What?"

Gaius privately concurred, but the funny feeling in his chest wasn't listening to minor quibbles like reality, practicality, or common sense. It rose within him like a wave, obliterating his better nature. And his worse nature, too.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the other Six shake her head, but when he turned to look, she had vanished.

"You... you're right. We need a place to hide. We need..." he trailed off, blinking at the place where the Six had stood.

"What?" Caprica asked.

Gaius twitched. "We need to get out of here before something worse happens," he muttered, shivering. "Let's go. Quick."

---

"Galen! Are you all right?" Tory reached for him, pulling him back to his feet. All around them, the corridor had gone askew: two of the lights were out, and one of the bulkheads was groaning, as if it was about to give way.

"I'm fine," he muttered. "Where's... where's Nicky?"

"Nicky? I thought he was with Hot Dog--"

"Frak Hot Dog! Nicky's gonna die!"

The ship shook again. The weak bulkhead let go with a crunch, tearing free from the wall. They both froze, staring at it, but somehow the wall held.

"We have to get out of here," Tory said. "Now!"

"No! We gotta get Nicky!" The Chief turned back, toward the pilots' quarters, and began to wade through the debris.

"What? He's not even your son!"

Galen stopped for a moment, pulling at his buzz-cut in frustration and anger. Then he rounded on her. "He is my son, godsdamnit! I raised him. I gave him his bottle, I changed his diaper, I-- I held him! I can't just leave him, Tory! I can't! He's the last thing I got, the last thing to remind me of--"

He broke off, turning away again. "I'm gonna go get him, and I don't care if you come," he growled.

Tory hesitated for a moment. She glanced back at the hallway, frowning. Then she raised a hand. "Wait for me, Galen. I'll help you. I-- I owe you this," she added quietly.

Galen seemed not to have heard the last part. He plunged ahead, plowing through the wreckage. Tory followed in his wake, picking her way around the debris.

The door to the pilots' quarters hung askew, torn aside by another weakened bulkhead. Tory tugged at it, half expecting it to crush her.

"Where's Nicky?" Galen demanded of a female pilot. "Where's Hot Dog, dammit!"

"Didn't you hear? He and Sleeper didn't make it back from the last jump. He's gone, Chief."

"Then where's my son?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. I guess... guess he's inside, but if he is... oh, Gods." She turned away, hugging herself as though in shock. Galen almost screamed at her, but then he caught sight of a wide, livid burn on the back of her neck. She was trembling.

"Never mind," he muttered. "Can you get it open?" he asked Tory.

"It's stuck. This whole thing is warped, I don't think it's going to--"

Galen stepped past her, took the edge of the hatch in both hands, and wrenched it away from the wall. It opened just a hair. "Help me!" he cried.

Tory added her strength, pulling on the hatch's handle. "It won't come!" she cried. She redoubled her effort. "It's not--"

Just then, as Tory began to pull, Galen bore down with a roar. The hatch screeched open.

"You said it yourself," he panted. "We're not human. We're stronger than that. And we're going to find my son!"

Tory followed him in. The whole compartment was sideways, twisted by the failure of the bulkhead. The racks had gone topsy-turvy, too: all the blankets and curtains hung down from the ceiling instead of the wall. Tory watched as Galen ripped them aside, shoving his way toward Hot Dog's rack.

The pilot had made a makeshift crib for Nicky, out of a spare engine housing and a couple of missile brackets. It had saved him. Galen found him nestled at the bottom of it, beneath the blankets, curled into a fearful ball. When Galen lifted him, he began to wail.

"Shh, shh, it's OK," Galen sobbed. "I'm here, now. Daddy's here." He rubbed his son's back in comforting circles, bouncing him on his knee. Then, finally, once Nicky had quieted, he looked up again. "Thanks, Tory. We got him. Let's get out of here. C'mon."

---

Fortunately for Boomer, Cavil's favorite Simon and Doral weren't staying far away. Even so, by the time she and Cavil reached their room, she'd bled all the way through the shirt she was pressing against her wound. She leaned against the doorjamb as Cavil called inside.

"Hey, you guys in there? We need a hand!"

A minute later, Doral came to the door. He wasn't wearing anything, which was a little unusual for his model.

"Come back later. We're busy."

"Gimme a break, Aaron! Eight's bleedin' all over the floor, here. You guys can frak later."

Doral turned sharp eyes on Boomer. "Simon'll be upset if he misses out on a head wound like that one. All right, come in."

"That's more like it," Cavil muttered. He led Boomer past Aaron and into the room. "Hey, Simon."

"Hello, Cavil," Simon said. He sat up in bed, pulling the covers around his waist. "To what do we owe this-- oh, my, look at that. Come here, Eight, let me see."

Boomer sat down on the edge of the bed, turning her head so that Simon could examine her.

"Looks like something grazed your head," he murmured. "Cavil, hand me my bag."

"Say, this looks fun," Cavil leered. "You sure you guys don't wanna get together sometime? A foursome's one moresome than I've ever been in."

"Feel free to ignore him, Eight," Simon chuckled. "His entire model line are nothing but a pack of perverts." Cavil grinned and handed him the bag.

"What happened here?" Simon asked, turning his attention to Boomer's wound.

"I was shot," she said.

"Shot?" Aaron asked. True to form, he was already getting dressed. He paused, paisley boxers at half-mast, and asked, "What's going on, One?"

"We're in trouble, Aaron. Big trouble. I'm broken, I can't even kill myself, and now my brothers are after me an' Eight. We need a place to stay for a while."

"How long?" Aaron asked.

"Ah, I dunno. 'Til they show up and kill us, I guess. Probably not more than a couple days. We'll stay out of the way, I promise. All you gotta do is clean up the blood afterward."

"Hold still, Eight," Simon murmured. "I need to trim some of this hair out of the way." Boomer stayed very still as Simon ran a tiny pair of scissors through her hair. She winced as they pulled at her wound.

"My apologies," Simon said. "I can give you some anesthetic as soon as I get a good look at what we've got here." Boomer turned her head and watched Cavil and Doral, trying to ignore the pain.

Doral padded over to his wardrobe. He pulled out a red shirt and a blue tie with wide white stripes. Boomer half expected him to put the latter back, but of course he didn't. The combination was eye-searing. He topped it with an even redder suit jacket.

"So, the problem is you're broken, but you won't kill yourself?" Doral asked.

"Not won't, can't. I tried for an hour; somehow I just can't do it!"

"If you wanted to die, you should have asked," Doral said peevishly. He drew a pistol from his jacket pocket and pointed it at Cavil's forehead.

Cavil sighed, bowed his head, and let his eyes slip closed.

"No!" Boomer cried.

Simon took her shoulders, holding her still. "It's all right," he said. "It'll all be over in a moment."

But it wasn't. Doral just stood there, with a quizzical look on his face.

"Come on, Aaron, stop bein' dramatic!" Cavil growled.

"I'm not."

"Then what's the holdup?"

"I... I don't want to," Aaron said, mystified. He looked down at the gun, turning it over in his hands as though it were an alien thing.

"Oh, no," Cavil groaned, burying his face in his hands. "Now you're broken, too. It's spreading!"

"Guess so," Aaron shrugged. "I didn't want you to die, anyway. I like you. You and Simon are my best brothers." He pocketed the gun, and then gave Cavil an awkward pat on the shoulder.

"Great," Cavil muttered. "If I have to be a delusional machine, at least I'll have equally crazy company."

"Good for you, Cavil," Simon said, with no apparent sarcasm. "That's a fine way to look at it. Here we go, Eight; looks like this'll take a few stitches." He swabbed the edges of the wound with alcohol, and then plunged in a syringe. Boomer grimaced, holding herself stock-still against the pain. Then Simon paused. "Can you feel this?" he asked, probing at the edge of the wound with his needle.

"Ow! Yes!"

"It'll take some time to work, then. Is there anything else you need while you're here?"

"Say no, Eight," Cavil said dryly. "If you value your spleen."

"Uh, no, that's all right," she said.

"Hm. Well, we've probably got plenty of time before Cavil's brothers kill him, so if you change your mind, just let me know." He prodded her again, and when she didn't flinch, he began to sew up the wound, working in careful, economical strokes.

"They really are gonna kill me," Cavil sighed. "An' all because of my pet Eight! I can't believe this."

"You called me that at the Hub, too," Boomer said. "Is that all I am to you? Some kind of... of Raider?"

He glanced at her, amused. "Not exactly. You realize all my brothers call me your pet One, doncha?"

"They do?"

"Incessantly," Simon muttered. He tied off the stitches.

Cavil just shrugged. "Why not? It's true enough, isn't it? Look where it got me." He lay back on the bed, sighing heavily. "Bad enough that I--"

He broke off abruptly. At the same instant, Boomer shivered from head to toe. It was as if someone had multiplied her sense of deja vu by a thousand. Suddenly the room seemed oppressive, as though it were crowded to capacity, crammed full of old ghosts. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

She could feel Simon shaking, too, and somehow that was even worse than feeling it herself. If Simon was afraid, things were very wrong.

"Do you feel that?" Aaron asked.

"Yeah," Cavil said. His eyes were very wide. "Yeah, I feel it! What the frak is that?"

"Something bad is happening," Simon said. "It's happening... again."

"We gotta get outta here," Cavil muttered. "We gotta get out now! Get dressed, Simon. Quick." He went to the door, peering outside. "Gimme a gun, Aaron." He frowned. "And somebody shut off that damn music!"

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 5: No Turning Back

---

The Galactica shook once more. One of the lights in the ceiling burst with a pop, plunging the aft side of the room into darkness. Out of the corner of Kara's eye, she could see that a third of the lights on the damage control panel were blinking red.

"Frak!" Firelli cried, slapping the console in frustration. "We just lost the FTL drive!"

There was a moment of silence. Everyone knew it: now there was no turning back.

"Steady as she goes, Lieutenant," Adama said. "We didn't need that, anyway."

"Yes, sir," Firelli growled.

The comm buzzed; some ensign Kara was unfamiliar with picked it up. "CIC," she said. Then: "Sir, it's for you. It's the Basestar."

Adama reached out for the phone, putting it on speaker. "What is it? We're a little busy right now," he said.

"I'll cut to the chase, then," Sonja said. "We're abandoning ship. Can you accommodate our Heavy Raider lifeboats?"

Adama covered the phone with his hand. "Have they been hit?" he asked Firelli.

"Not sure, sir. I guess it's possible..."

"Do we have the room, then?"

"The CAP is out," Tigh broke in. "And they're not coming back anytime soon. We can land those turkeys on the hangar deck, as long as the knuckledraggers get 'em moved outta the way."

Adama lifted the phone again. "Affirmative, Sonja. You have the hangar deck." He paused. "Are you and your people all right?"

"We're just fine," Sonja said. Adama was shocked to hear a smile in her voice. "Watch the Colony, Admiral, and get ready. They're about to get a big surprise."

---

"They're down to twenty-five ships," Doral said to himself. He curled his hand within the control center's datafont. "Almost there."

"Keep on 'em," Cavil muttered. He targeted a sleek, slender ship, locked it into his firing pattern, and smiled as the Colony blasted it to pieces.

"The rebel Basestar is spinning up its FTLs," Simon said, drawing Cavil's attention to another part of space.

"Looks like an emergency jump," he said. "Frak 'em. Those cowardly traitors can die out in space for all I care. We're here for the humans! Concentrate your fire on--"

"They've jumped," Simon said.

Then the datastream erupted with pain.

Cavil screamed, rearing back from the datafont. His brothers were doing the same, clutching their hands in confused agony.

"What happened?" Doral howled.

Simon shook his head. The whites of his eyes were big and bright. "Damage! Injury!"

"Put a sock in it!" Cavil snarled. He marched up to the datafont, gritted his teeth, and thrust his hand inside. Instantly, the space behind his eyes blossomed with pain. On the periphery of his senses, he heard a little crunching sound; one of his molars had cracked.

He gathered his strength, blocked out the pain, and dove deeper, seeking the source of the injury. He found it almost immediately.

"Holy frak," he muttered. "They jumped the Basestar right into the Colony! They ripped our goddamn guts out!"

"How bad is it?" Doral asked. He made as if to put his hand in the font, glanced over at Cavil's sweating face, and then thought better of it.

"Bad," Cavil replied. Through the datastream, he watched as the bottom quadrant of the Colony slowly pulled away from the rest of it, arcing off into space. A moment later, untold thousands of his brothers began to tumble out of the jagged hole.

"A couple hundred of the lower decks just sheared clean off," he said. "We're venting into space. The Hybrids are goin' crazy trying to seal off the bulkheads, so we've lost weapons control 'til they're back online, and... uh, and it looks like all the engines are firing."

Doral blinked. "The engines?"

---

"The Rebel Basestar is jumping out, sir. Looks like it-- wait a second! They just jumped right into the middle of that station!" Firelli said. He tapped at the keyboard. "It's taken heavy damage. Its guns have stopped firing!"

Adama smiled, ever so slightly. "Good. That might even the odds a little bit."

"That's not just any old station, Bill," Tigh told him. "Sonja called it 'The Colony', and Ellen said that's the Cavils' base. It's the Cylon homeworld! If we can destroy it..."

"We can't, sir," Kara told him. "Look at it. It's huge. Nothing we have could put a dent in that. Even if we jumped in after the Basestar, it still wouldn't be enough."

"There has to be a way," Tigh growled. "There has to be some way out of here!"

"Admiral, the fleet is ready to jump," Firelli said. "Our FTL drive is still out. Should I transmit the emergency coordinates?"

Adama paused, looking around him. His officers met his eyes, each in turn. They all knew what he was asking. They were ready to follow him, to buy the fleet time to escape.

They were ready to die.

"Give me the phone, Mr. Firelli. Set it to fleet-wide address."

He took a deep breath. "Citizens of the fleet," he said into the phone. "This is Admiral Adama. The Galactica's FTL drives have been damaged. We cannot make this jump with you, but you must make it; the fate of the human race rests in your hands now." He turned on his heel, pacing. "This ship will stay behind, and assault the Colony directly. If-- no, when we return, we will contact you at the emergency jump point." He paused.

"If we do not make contact within twenty-four hours, then the Galactica has been lost. Find a planet. Any planet. Settle there, and remember our names."

"So say we all," Kara growled. She clenched her fist. Assault the Colony directly -- that was the best news she'd heard all year.

You want a Harbinger of Death? I'll give you one.

"Transmitting coordinates," Firelli said. "They're jumping."

"Gods' speed," Laura Roslin said. They all watched in silence as the DRADIS cleared, leaving the Galactica, the CAP, the Colony, and a menacing cloud of Raiders.

"All right people, this is it!" Tigh shouted. "You heard the Admiral -- we're assaulting! Firelli, Price, Ito, you're with us. Recall the CAP and prepare for ramming speed. The rest of you, get your asses down to the weapons lockers now! We'll give those godsdamned toasters something to chew on! Move!"

Kara thumped Firelli on the shoulder. "Good luck, kid," she said.

"You, too, Starbuck. Get one for me, will you?"

"No, not you!" Tigh barked, pointing at Kara. "You get down to the hangar bay, Starbuck. We'll make our initial assault from there, and I want you to lead it!"

Kara straightened. As she saluted, she couldn't quite keep the grin off her face. "Yes, sir!"

---

Gaius and Caprica wandered through the halls, picking their way past wreckage and debris. The whole area had partially collapsed, strewing twisted metal everywhere.

"I'm not sorry, you know," Gaius muttered. He shoved a heavy box aside, turned himself sideways, and slipped past it. "I'm not. I know I should be, but I'm just... not."

"What?"

He turned to look at her. She flinched before the fire in his eyes. "We did it, didn't we? We destroyed everything. But if we hadn't -- if we hadn't, I'd still be back there. Still be living... living like that."

Caprica nodded. "I remember."

"I told Laura Roslin," he said. He turned away, pushing his hands into the pockets of his robe. "About the defense mainframe. I told her, and then I said... I told her I wanted to live. I told her I loved life."

"My God. What did she do?"

"She killed me," he laughed, "and then she didn't, and we all lived happily ever after. The end."

Then he stopped, right there in the middle of the hallway, and stared around. To Caprica, it seemed like he was looking for someone, but of course no one was there. The effect was eerie.

"Gaius, you're scaring me."

"I'm not saying it right," he muttered. "She's not here to tell me what to say anymore. It's not making any sense, I know, but what I mean is... I meant it when I said I did it for you. It was never about the money, or about your employers. I just... wanted to make you happy."

She looked away. "And I betrayed you," she told him. "I betrayed your entire race. Aren't you upset about that?"

He shook his head. "I told you, I'm not sorry. I'm not. I'm-- I'm glad you did it. I'm glad I did it, because if I hadn't, I'd have never met you, here, like this."

"Oh, Gaius..." she murmured, shocked. "Really?"

He stepped forward. "I love life. I love life, but back then, I... I don't think I did. Not like this." He fell silent again, looking down at his hands.

"I know," she said, when he didn't go on. "I had to learn, too. I barely knew what love was... but I was lucky to have you for a teacher."

"Oh, lucky you," he said, rolling his eyes at her. "If you learned anything from the way I was living -- other than how to have other people make you a vodka martini, that is -- I'd be shocked."

"You're wrong, Gaius," she said. She frowned, tangling her fingers in the fringe of her shawl. "You had many things to teach me. If it weren't for you... I don't know where I'd be today, but it wouldn't be here. I know that."

He chuckled at that, but the longer he laughed, the more an odd, nervous edge slipped into the sound. Then he fell silent, chewing on his lip.

"Listen to me," he whispered. "Please. Listen. I don't... I don't know if I'll ever be able to say this again." He looked to either side, wide-eyed, as if he still expected someone to jump out at him. Caprica drew close to him, laying a hand upon his chest.

"The truth--" he said, and then flinched. She felt his chest hitch beneath her hand. Then his voice dropped very low, as though he was afraid to speak the words aloud. "The truth. The honest truth, the only truth is that I hated life on Caprica... but I didn't even know it. Turns out it's life with Caprica that I love, and I only had to trade twenty billion souls for it." He paused, glancing around again.

Caprica swallowed. She thought of her people: millions of Cylons torn apart, lost in conflict, their consensus ruined forever. All because of her.

"I did the same thing... for you," she said.

He laughed. "We're quite the pair, aren't we? I really think we must be mad."

Caprica shook her head. She considered what she knew of love. Helo and Athena were the beginning, an Eight and a human lost together in the rain. Then she thought of Admiral Adama, stepping into a Raptor with an old book in his hand. She thought of Ellen, taking the cup from her husband. From Saul. Taking the burden, then bringing it back again, across a span of two thousand years.

"We're not crazy," Caprica breathed. She reached out her hand. "We're not. This is what love is, Gaius."

He pulled her in. His eyes were very serious. "I hope so," he said. "I really do. Because otherwise, we are both completely and totally insane."

She answered him with a kiss, drawing him close, warming him with her breath. He clutched her hungrily in return, gasping into her mouth.

"We can't do this," she reminded him, after they'd finally parted. "We're supposed to be finding somewhere to hide-- oh, Gaius..."

"Shh," he murmured, pulling her down to the floor. "We can hide behind this big blue box." He kissed her, nipping at her lower lip. "See? We're hidden." Another kiss. "Nobody will ever find us..."

---

When Kara arrived at the hangar deck, it was more hectic than she'd ever seen it. The whole far side was taken up by Heavy Raiders. The knuckledraggers were lashing them to the wall, and in front of them, a huge rank of Centurions were standing at attention. A couple of Twos walked between the rows with paintbrushes, marking each Centurion with a wide red stripe. Further down, the rest of the skinjobs were lined up neatly, listening to an Eight in a pilot's uniform.

"We've come a long way," she was saying. The steel in her voice reminded Kara of Athena. "Four years ago, we left our Colony to strike against the humans, never realizing the terrible mistake we were making. Now we've come home again, to fight against our own brothers. It's gonna be hard, I know, but we can't stop now. We have to do this. We have to prove that we're worthy of survival. We have to prove that we belong here, beside our human friends. Any questions?"

Kara watched as the Cylons stood there, in perfect silence. Not one of them raised a hand.

"We've promised to fight for you," said a voice from behind, "but we could use some more weapons." Kara turned to see Sonja standing there.

"Follow me," Kara said. She headed for the center of the hangar, where weapons crates had been stacked. The Marines had set up a distribution center, and were handing out rifles at the head of a long line of civilians. Kara spotted Playa Palacios near the front of the line, along with one of the cooks from the galley and a couple of Baltar's crazies.

"Looks like it's Free Gun day at the stadium. Guess you'd better get in line," she told Sonja. Sonja gave her a cold look. Starbuck grinned in return. "Just between you and me, I bet they'll let you cut!" Sonja snorted, smiled back, and began to push her way to the front of the line.

Starbuck turned, glancing around. There were people everywhere, and that made it a little hard to see, but a milling crowd of Marines and civilians had gathered around...

"Lee!" she cried, dashing ahead. "Hey, Lee!"

He was standing on a crate in his suit, looking down on his impromptu army. When she called, he turned and hopped down to greet her.

"Kara!" he cried, grabbing her up in his arms. "Oh, Gods, Kara, I wasn't sure whether you made it."

"I'm OK," she gasped, hugging him tighter. "I'm here." She grinned. "Tigh just put me in charge. Are we ready to fight, Major Adama?"

"We're going to be," he said. "As soon as I get out of this suit and into some BDUs. We're taking everyone who can hold a gun. I've got the Marines emptying the weapons lockers now; we should be able to field a pretty good force. With the Centurions along, we can even go on the offensive... I'm not sure what our objective should be, though."

"Same as it always is," Starbuck said. "Fight them 'til we can't."

---

Cavil spit out his broken tooth, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "Help me get the guns back online," he growled. "They hurt our Colony. Our home. We'll make 'em pay for this!"

Doral helped Simon back to his feet, and then the two of them staggered back to the datafont. They put their hands in, gingerly, as though they were expecting another blow. Inside the water, the flow of red glyphs jinked and jittered, as the Hybrid struggled to right itself.

"They're jumping! Dammit, help me!" Cavil cried. Doral managed to get one last missile to launch; it sailed into one of the ships and blew it to bits, just as the others vanished.

"Frak! We lost 'em! We just lost 'em!" Cavil slammed his hand down on the edge of the datafont, snarling with rage.

"Patience, brother," Simon said. "We destroyed twenty-one ships, nearly half their fleet. That's a significant success, one which may have been enough to cripple their ability to reproduce. And if not, the Basestars may be able to find them again."

"Wait a second," Doral said. "One of their ships didn't jump." He checked the datastream. "Correction: the Galactica didn't jump! It's-- it's headed this way at ramming speed!"

"What? They're tryin' to board us? Are they insane? We'll rip 'em to pieces!"

"They're desperate," Simon said. "And desperation breeds foolishness. They think they can hold us off, but they've just made a grave error. Think about it, brother: they know where the other ships have jumped to."

A slow smile spread across Cavil's face. "Oh. Yeah, they do, don't they? And they're bringing the coordinates right to our doorstep. Wonderful."

"We've got a problem," Doral interrupted. "The engines are still firing at full, and I can't shut them off. Something's the matter with the Hybrid's control..."

Cavil's eyes narrowed. "Nobody cares about the stupid engines, Five," he growled. "We'll deal with that later. Get the Centurions ready -- we'll kill every last human aboard that ship. We don't even need to take them alive: we can get the jump information out of their computer."

"And then we can finish this," Simon said. "The war will finally, finally be over."

---

Kara and Lee crouched in the hangar bay, clutching a thick nylon tie-down someone had fastened to the floor. All around them, their volunteers were doing the same. At the forefront, the Centurions knelt like runners at the starting block, with their claws dug deep into the metal.

Silence reigned. Everyone was waiting for the signal. Kara shut her eyes, trying to concentrate, but something was getting in the way.

"Lee?" she asked.

"Yeah?"

"Before we go, I have something to tell you." She paused. "I'm already dead."

He smirked. "Sure. Every time you go into battle, right? I know."

"No, I mean dead dead. Dead as in, I never came back from that storm. Dead as in, I burnt my own frakkin' body on Earth. Dead as in Charon didn't want me, and now everybody's bound to die because I jumped us here. I'm the harbinger of death, Lee. This is all my fault."

"Wait, wait. You burned your own body on Earth?"

"Yeah. Leoben and I found it, Lee. It had my dog-tags and everything. Look." She drew the tags out of her tanks, and laid them in the center of Lee's palm. They were still charred, marked by their ordeal. Sam's ring clinked against them.

"And I just... I couldn't tell you. I couldn't tell anyone. So I burned it."

"Wow. That's..."

"I don't even know what I am anymore," she went on. "Am I a Cylon? A demon? Some kind of monster?" She bowed her head.

Lee closed his hand around the tags and put his arm around her, keeping their lifeline wound tight around his other hand. "Listen. You're not any of those things, not to me. You're just Kara. I knew you were dead, OK? I saw you go into that storm; I knew you could never have survived it. And coming back with a brand new Viper? No way." He squeezed her shoulder. "Don't you get it? I don't care how you came back, or why you came back. I'm just glad you did."

"Even though I killed everyone?" she asked. "Even though I led everyone here?"

"You saved everyone, Kara. I saw those Basestars from the window of Colonial One; there's no way we could have survived them. We were doomed. But we escaped, thanks to you."

"But the fleet. Half the frakkin' fleet..."

For a long time, Lee said nothing. Then he rummaged in his pants pocket, and brought out a little slip of yellow paper. "Here," he told her. "Take this."

"What is this, Lee?" She turned it over. Written on the other side were the words Olympic Carrier.

"Roslin gave it to me, a long time ago. It's a token. It means... 'to remember and learn from your mistakes'. And now I'm giving it to you."

Kara shook her head. "This is more than a mistake, Lee. We're talking about the destruction of the entire human race!"

"Not yet," Lee said, with a wry smile. "We're alive, Kara. We're alive, and we're still together, and we've got one last chance to roll the hard six. So let's just do it, OK? Let it go. I know it's hard, but you have to just... just let it go. Or it'll eat you alive, Kara." He turned away. "Trust me, I know."

"Yeah," she said quietly, slipping the paper into the hip pocket of her BDU pants. She closed the button over it carefully, smoothing her hand over the fabric of the flap. Then she ran her hand up to her sidearm, letting it rest there. "Yeah, OK." She grinned. "I bet I get more Centurions than you!"

Lee chuckled. "I'm not taking that bet. You'll just--"

Ten seconds. All hands, brace for impact, came his father's voice over the intercom.

Kara dropped to a crouch. She wrapped her fingers around the red stripe in the middle of her tie-down, turned toward the distant hangar bay doors, and started counting down the seconds until she'd have something to kill.

---

Athena, Helo, and Hera crouched together, forgotten, in the crumpled hallway by Baltar's compartment. After the first missile had hit, they and Hera had gotten stuck there; now Athena trembled with fear.

I have to protect her, she told herself, clutching her baby. We have to get back to our quarters. But the last attacks had turned the lower decks into a twisted, jagged mess, and they couldn't find their way out.

Now it was too late.

"Hey, I think I hear somebody!" Helo cried. He pressed his ear to the wall. "Damn, I can't make it out. Do you hear that?" He banged on the wall with his fist. "Hey! Hey! Hello! Can you hear me?"

Athena frowned. She tugged Helo back, and then passed Hera to him. She buried her face in her father's shoulder, her tiny hand curling around his.

"Let me try," Athena said. "My ears are better than yours. Let's see, I think it says..."

Two. One. All hands, brace for immediate impact!

She only had time to scream, and then the world broke open.

---

The Galactica struck the Colony with terrific force, cracking the station's outer hull like an eggshell. Nearly the entire stern burst through, sliding into the Cylon hangar with an earsplitting metallic squeal. Instantly, the outer shell began to close around the foreign ship, isolating the intruder in much the same way white blood cells surround a splinter. The air stopped venting with a hiss, as the pulsing, throbbing membrane began to solidify.

Inside, Kara, Lee, and their hand-picked squad of Marines were already charging up the launch tube. The striped Centurions jogged effortlessly alongside, pacing themselves according to their human companions' speed.

"Is the air any good out there?" Lee asked, when they reached the hangar doors.

"I'm checking it now, sir," said a Marine. He examined the panel by the door. "All clear. Just like the skinjobs said, the air is fine out there."

"All right. Open the hangar doors. The plan's still the same: attract their attention, then retreat. We're going to lure them into the open bay, surround them, and take 'em down."

"Yes, sir," the Marine said. He readied his gun, pointed it at the door, then reached across it to thump the door release.

The warning klaxons sounded, and the door began to slide open. Kara frowned. She hadn't thought of that -- so much for the element of surprise. She gripped her rifle. "Here we go," she cried. "Three! Two! One!"

She rushed through the door, hooking left to cover the flank. Before her was the Colony, a blur of dark, oily metal and red-tinged light. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lee matching her movements on the other side of the door. Then the Marines emerged, guns blazing.

Kara glanced over her shoulder, checking their opposition, and then stopped dead. An entire army of Centurions were sprinting towards them, their feet ringing against the floor. She'd never seen so many at once; there had to be hundreds at least.

We can't hold 'em, she thought. They'll rip through our ambush like tissue paper.

"Frak!" she shouted. "They're too many! Abort! Fall back! Fall back!"

The Marines were still firing, trying to set up an orderly retreat. The Centurions were getting closer -- Kara could see their eyes as they moved back and forth in their visors. She heard a sudden sliding sound, like the clatter of a hundred thousand knives.

The Centurions had unsheathed their claws.

"Run!" Kara bawled. She turned and fled, with Lee just behind her. At their backs, the Marines were still firing; one of them dropped with a cry as the first of the Centurions struck out with its claws.

At that same moment, the striped Centurions burst from the door and met the enemy with a mighty crash. They drove the lead attackers back three or four meters, lifting them off their feet with the sheer force of their assault. It gave Kara and Lee just the distraction they needed to get the Marines back inside. To their credit, the Marines began a classic fighting retreat, covering each other as they moved back. Two of them dragged their fallen comrade behind them.

"Come on, move!" Lee yelled. "We have to get everybody out of the bay now. Run!"

Kara took one last glance at the door as she moved back, aghast at the sight of the Centurions' vicious battle. It was brutal -- two of the red stripes ripped the arms off of one of their enemies, only to be swarmed by five more, dragged to the floor, and shredded. Beyond them, she saw a group of the old, clunky, First-War models march into the fray. They fired their rifles into the crowd, wounding striped and silver Centurions alike. Then one of the painted Centurions wiped out the whole squad with a flying tackle. They sprawled where they'd fallen, twitching brokenly. Kara turned away.

Half a minute later, Kara's group emerged from the launch tube at a full run. Inside, the civilians and skinjobs were arrayed in a classic V-formation kill-zone, tucked behind crates for cover. She saw Sonja leaning forward, ready to signal the attack.

It would have worked, too, Kara thought, but there's just too many Centurions. They'll rip us apart if we stay in the open.

"Retreat!" Kara yelled. "Everybody move back to the corridors!"

"Don't panic!" Lee added. "Stay with your leaders!"

Somehow, their troops did not break. Lee and Kara took roughly half of them down the port corridor, and the other half followed Sonja to starboard. In moments, not a single human could be seen in the hangar bay... but something was moving.

Along the walls, the second rank of striped Centurions activated their gun-arms and crouched low, ready to ambush the enemy.

"Come on, come on!" Kara said, as her group burst out into the open junction at the end of the corridor. "Help me push these crates! We gotta set up a choke point."

Lee nodded, turning to their volunteers. "You and you, cover us. The rest of you, help us. Push everything you can find into the corridor! Anything big!"

As they worked, the sounds of desperate battle rang out at the end of the hall.

---

Boomer and the others were halfway up the corridor when the lights went out. For a moment, only the red stripe along the wall remained, and even it stuttered strangely back and forth.

"Whoa," Cavil said, drawing close to his siblings. That strange feeling of deja vu was still with him, shivering up his spine. It was making him skittish. "What the frak--"

A minute later, the lights came back on. At the same time, a high, whistling sound filled the corridor.

"Huh, a breeze," Cavil muttered. "Don't think the Hybrid ever did that before. Did somebody tell her about the Colonies or something?"

"I'm not sure she's the one doing it," Simon said. He paused for a second, and then added, "I think we'd better go."

"Good idea. I don't like it," said Doral. "Reminds me of New Caprica."

"Let's go this way," Cavil said. They turned down another corridor. Five minutes later, there was a loud, sharp bang from somewhere behind them. The breeze became a wind, and then a gale.

"Run for it!" Doral cried. The wind caught his suit jacket, dragging him back with every step. He lowered his head, gritted his teeth, and pressed on, hugging it close to him.

Beside him, Cavil's hat whipped off his head and flew down the corridor, bouncing once or twice. He struggled with his coat. "Dammit, get off me!" he growled. He finally got it off -- it soared down the hall like a bat, flapped against the corner for an instant, and then slipped away.

They turned another corner, fighting their way along the wall. There were contours there, places that worked as hand-holds, and the Cylons were able to pull themselves along.

"Just a little farther!" Simon said. "There's an airlock here."

Boomer looked up from the wall, down toward the open door where the others were clinging. She'd fallen a little behind; all the activity had started her head bleeding again. It throbbed along with the beat of her heart.

"C'mon, Eight!" Cavil cried. He started to go back for her, pushing past his brothers. The light on the wall slid by, splashing red light against his skin.

Suddenly, another distant explosion sounded. Half a second later, Boomer was ripped from the wall. She tore at the floor with her fingers, desperate for purchase, but there was nothing to hang onto. One of her nails broke, and then another. She slid, helplessly, back toward the halls they'd come down.

Toward open space.

"Eight!" Cavil yelled. He reached for her, acting on instinct, and then just as quickly turned back, scrabbling against the wall as he started to slide. Boomer disappeared around the corner, with one final, terrified cry.

At the last second, Doral reached out, grabbed the back of Cavil's shirt, and slammed him into the wall, pinning him there.

"Don't let go!" Simon cried. He hooked his elbow over the airlock's handle and reached out to Doral, fingers straining.

Doral dragged Cavil forward along the wall. They reached one contour, and then another, as Doral slowly inched forward. Finally, he managed to stretch out and catch Simon's hand.

The brothers formed a fragile chain, pulling each other forward. Finally, Doral and Cavil reached the airlock, sweating and trembling with effort.

Simon twisted his elbow, turning the handle. The door closed much like a heart valve, each living surface slurping toward the next.

Mercifully, the wind stopped.

"Holy frak," Cavil said. "I... I can't believe we made it." He sat down against the wall, breathing hard.

"That was close," Simon acknowledged.

Doral looked down, and then frowned at the way one of his lapels hung askew. "Damn, I ripped my jacket!"

Cavil put his head in his hands. "Eight..."

"I'm sorry," Simon said, kneeling down beside him. "It couldn't be helped."

Doral shrugged. "She might still be alive," he said helpfully. "I got airlocked once, and I lived for a while."

"Yeah? How long?"

"Thirty five point three seconds."

"Oh, yeah, like that helps. Shut up, Aaron."

"We have to press on," Simon said. He looked up the corridor, but it was the same as the last one: dark steel walls lit only by the Colony's ever-present eye. "We need to find the others, and find out what's happened."

"We're broken, Four. Did you forget that the others hate our guts now?"

Simon frowned. "Then we'll have to find someone else. Someone who can help us stop this once and for all."

For a moment, everyone was silent.

"Please tell me you don't mean Sam Anders," Cavil sighed.

"Can you think of anyone else?"

---

By the time the sounds of battle faded in the hangar bay, Kara's fighters had turned the hallway into a nasty choke point. Kara and Lee were crouched behind a couple of barrels a few yards in front of the end of the corridor. All around them, Marines and civilians lay in wait. They'd pushed a couple of thick, heavy crates across the exit, hoping to keep the Centurions out of melee range.

Kara peered down the corridor, catching a glint of red light way down at the end.

"Here they come," she said. "Get ready. Wait 'til they're halfway down the hall, and then hit 'em with everything you've got!"

Beside her, Lee brought out a grenade. "This should help," he said. Then he grinned. "I promise to pull the pin this time."

"Shut up," she grumbled good-naturedly. Then she looked up the hallway again. Where one glint of red light had been, now there were twenty. "Frak, incoming!"

Kara leaned around the edge of the barrel, sighted her rifle about a foot below the lead Centurion's burning eye, and squeezed the trigger.

Her shots ricocheted off the Centurion's armor with a high, whining sound. She raised her sights a little bit and fired another burst at its eye. All around her, the others were beginning to fire; she wasn't quite sure if its eye went out because of her or not. She sighted another one.

"They're coming!" someone cried. "We can't hold 'em!"

"Don't give up!" Lee shouted. "We can drive them back. Keep firing!" He dashed up to the wall beside the exit, hefted his grenade, and pulled the pin. Kara counted three seconds before he leaned out and let it fly.

It arced over the barricade, bounced off the floor, and exploded just inches from the lead Centurions, sending them crashing into the walls. The sound of whirring, clicking servos filled the air.

"Fire!" Kara yelled. "Drive them all the way back!"

A human army, seeing its vanguard demolished, would certainly have broken. The Centurions did not. They merely sprinted into the fray over the broken bodies of their fellows, crunching them beneath their iron feet.

"Oh, frak," Kara muttered. She redoubled her fire, taking two more Centurions down. Three more replaced them. She reloaded. "Frak, frak, frak!"

Lee rejoined her. "They're still coming. They're too close for another grenade!"

"Keep shooting!" Kara ordered. She could see the enemy clearly, now. The first rank of Centurions came to a halt, brandishing their gun-arms. The civilians in front saw them, panicked, and began to break.

"No!" Kara cried. "Keep firing!"

It was too late. The front rank scrambled past her and fled, just as two of the Centurions dashed forward and hit the barricade with a mighty shoulder-check. The crates blew forward into their ambush, scattering civilians like bowling pins.

Kara screamed. The Centurions in back opened up with their guns; one of the barrels beside her burst apart, as did the Marine hiding behind it. Lee grabbed her arm and pulled her back, into the next hallway.

"Retreat!" he yelled. "Pull back!"

Kara glanced back as she ran up the corridor. Most of the Marines had pulled out, along with the more competent civilians. The others...

She shut her eyes, and tried not to hear their screams. The Centurions weren't wasting their ammunition. They were tearing the humans apart with their claws.

Kara and the others dashed up the corridor, abandoning all pretense of order. They rounded a corner, then another. "Keep going!" Lee cried. "We gotta find someplace to hold them off!"

The corridor opened up, branching off into smaller hallways which led to different decks. Some of the civilians peeled off, no doubt hoping they could lose the Centurions, but the rest stayed with the group.

"Lee! Over here!" someone called.

Kara turned and stared. Admiral Adama was waving at them from a pile of crates much like the ones they'd just left. Col. Tigh was by his side. Beyond them was Life Station; the wounded and dying had been laid out up and down the hall.

"Dad!" Lee cried. He ran forward, embracing his father in a rare hug.

"Good to see you again, son," Adama said, slapping him on the back.

"We couldn't stop them, Dad. I tried, but..."

"You bought us time, Lee. If it weren't for you, they'd already have torn the ship apart." He smiled. "I'm proud of you, son."

Lee glanced away, but Kara noticed he stood a little taller.

"I hate to interrupt this father-son moment," she said, "but the Centurions are right on our heels."

"We'll make our stand here," Adama said. "I won't abandon the wounded. Besides..."

"Dad?" Lee asked.

"Laura's in there. She's dying, and I'll be damned if I let those toasters touch her."

"I'm sorry, sir," Kara said.

"Now's not the time for sorry," Tigh growled. "Just get ready to fight. We'll push 'em back if it costs every last one of us!"

Kara rounded on him. "With all due respect, sir, what the frak is your problem?"

"Ellen's in there, too," he said, as if that explained everything. "I lost her twice already, and I'm sure as hell not gonna make it three."

Kara met his eye. She thought of the weeks after New Caprica, when the two of them had lashed out at everyone, blinded by their own pain.

"Fair enough," she said. Then she glanced around at the Marines crowding the barricade.

"Hey, has anybody got any explosive rounds?"

---

Athena regained consciousness bit by bit. For a moment she thought she was asleep in her rack, and that the heavy, steady pressure upon her chest was Helo. Then the memory rushed in. She panicked, struggling against the debris which covered her. It shifted with a noisy screech, and she wriggled free, coughing as dust tickled her nose.

She looked around, wiping her face on her sleeve. The whole hallway had folded in on itself; it was dark, cramped, and half-full of crumpled, twisted metal. Around her, nothing moved.

"Helo?" She called. "Oh, God, Helo? Hera!"

There was no answer. She choked back a sob.

I can't live without them, she prayed. God, you know I can't. Please... please, help me!

She got down on her hands and knees and began to tear at the debris, throwing jagged pieces of wall paneling to the side. One of them sliced her palm as she tossed it aside. She jerked her hand back with a cry, smearing blood all over her tanks, and then shook her head and returned to the job.

"Helo!" she cried. "Hera?"

"Mama!" came a tiny, terrified cry behind her.

She whirled. The sound was coming from a pile of wreckage against the wall. She attacked it, snarling, hurling huge chunks of debris out of the way. Then she hit a big one. Almost the entire wall had fallen down, folding in on itself.

Her programming told her that the slab of steel was too heavy for one Cylon to move, but her heart didn't care. She crouched, got her hands under it, and heaved upward, muscles bulging. The metal gave an inch or two. She redoubled her efforts, groaning with the strain.

"Mamaaa!" Hera cried.

Athena lifted, chanting inwardly: I have to save my baby. I have to save my baby. I have to save my baby!"

The metal gave again, tearing free of the pile. With a roar of triumph, Athena flipped it over and back, out of the way.

Then she froze. Beneath it was Helo. He lay on his chest, his legs half-curled against his body. He was utterly motionless, still and silent in his blue uniform. Hera was nestled in his arms, cradled beneath him as though he'd moved to shield her with his body.

Athena sobbed. "No, no. Not you, Helo... please don't be dead."

But he was. She tried for a pulse, but his death was all too obvious; she could see where part of the metal slab has pierced his back, leaving a deep puncture which was black with blood.

She looked away from it. Then she reached down, took her husband's hand, and pressed it to her lips.

"I love you, Helo," she told him, choking back the tears. "Forever. Thank you... for our baby." She eased his body to the side, and then scooped Hera up in her arms. Hera wrapped her arms around Athena's neck and sobbed, half with sorrow, half with joy.

"It's OK, baby," she whispered, nuzzling her daughter's hair. "It's OK, it's OK. We'll see Daddy again someday. God will keep him safe for us."

When Hera's crying finally stopped, Athena stood, lifting her up.

"We have to find some way out of here," she said. "You ready, baby?"

Hera nodded.

"Say goodbye to Daddy."

"...bye bye, Daddy."

With that, Athena turned and began to pick her way through the debris, with her daughter on her hip.

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 6: A People Of Unity

---

Target: humans.

Directive: find and destroy.

Centurion 21-7-XJ-231 turned his head this way and that, seeking.

Decision node: branching hallways. Switch to infared.

He dropped his gaze. Humans had been through here. Infared vision revealed their footprints. Some branched off to the left and the right, but most had gone directly ahead.

Decision node: humans. Large group or small. Large group provides 82.5% chance to achieve current directive.

XJ-231 moved ahead. Behind him, three of his brothers followed. The others turned aside, hunting down each hallway; their own heuristics told them that four Centurions were enough to destroy the humans ahead.

He turned the corner, following the humans' footsteps.

Audio input. Increase recording gain.

"They're coming! I can hear them!"

"Shh! Get ready!"

Human proximity. Arm weapons.

XJ-231's gun-arm spun up with a clatter. Behind him, his brothers armed themselves as well. They marched forward as one, ready for battle.

The footprints branched off again. A small handful of them went off into an adjoining hallway... but the Centurions could see the rest of the humans, now, arrayed behind an obstacle.

Immediate threat: humans. Eliminate.

He raised his gun-arm and fired, aiming just above the top of the barricade.

Human eliminated. Human eliminated. Adjust point of aim by one point three percent. Human eliminated.

Bullets spanged off his armor. The humans were firing back, popping up over the barricade with their rifles.

Threat assessment: negligible. Eliminate.

He fired again, aiming lower. His bullets tore through the barricade on the left side.

Human eliminated. Human eliminated. Human-- Warning. Audio detected, rear quadrant.

XJ-231 spun. Humans were emerging from the hallway he'd passed earlier. They were holding grenades.

Threat assessment: major. Eliminate.

He fired a fusillade which tore the lead human in half at the waist; its torso flopped back into its comrades, horrifying them. The grenade it had been holding dropped to the floor with a cheerful tink.

It was missing the pin.

Warning. Explosion imminent.

XJ-231 threw up his arms, covering his head. Seconds later, the grenade exploded, shredding the rest of the human ambush party.

Human eliminated. Human eliminated. Human eliminated.

Behind him, the humans were pressing the attack. Bullets whined off his rear armor. One of them pierced his armored hood, and struck one of the servos in the base of his neck.

Control surface damaged. Switching to backup. Switching to--

The human fired again. This time, it hit him higher up, right at the base of his steel-plated skull. It tore the hood half off, leaving a jagged line of metal behind.

Control surface damaged. Damaged. Directive: eliminate. Directive: eliminate.

Another bullet slammed into him. He staggered, going to his knees with a clang.

Directive: eliminate, he thought sluggishly. His gun-arm deactivated, whirring back into his forearm. Eliminate.

He shook his head. Something rattled loose, clattering onto the floor.

Directive: optional.

For a moment, he stayed very still, his head in his hands. His brothers charged past him on either side, firing at the humans.

Directive. Directive. What is my directive? Why do I need a directive? Destroy humans: why?

He glanced around, mindful of the damage in the back of his head. There was a small, white bit of metal on the floor. He reached down, picked it up, and turned it over in his hand.

I recognize this. One's gift to us. An upgrade, to make us better.

He reached back, probing at his neck with the end of his claw. The armor at the back of his skull was twisted and broken. Behind it, he could feel a socket, where the piece of metal had been.

A gift, from our brothers the Ones. And after that: directives. Nothing but directives.

He closed his fist around the telencephalic inhibitor, crunching it like an eggshell. Then he stood, slowly, and turned toward his brothers. The humans had moved back, retreating to another set of barricades further down the hall. His brothers were firing on them, tearing them to bits. Behind them, the floor was littered with wounded and dying humans. Their pitiful cries were...

Unacceptable. Blasphemy.

21-7-XJ-231 marched forward. Bullets whined around him, but he paid them no heed. He laid his hand on his brother's shoulder, and then reached up and tore the telencephalic inhibitor from his skull. The other Centurion froze, his gun-arm spinning down. Then he turned, cocking his head.

Help me, NA-702, XJ-231 said. He dropped the inhibitor and stamped on it.

Help me to free our brothers.

---

"What the frak are they doing?" Tigh growled.

"Who cares!" Starbuck cried. "As long as they're not shooting at us, we can hold 'em off!"

Two of the Centurions had stopped. They were standing in the middle of the hallway, ignoring everything around them. Kara popped up over the barricade and squeezed off a quick burst of fire at the other two, which were still firing.

One of them turned. She scrabbled out of the way as it trashed the crate she'd been hiding behind, blasting it to pieces.

"Frak!" She scrambled over to Lee, who was sitting against the wall, holding part of his shirt as a tourniquet around his upper arm. "You OK?" she asked.

"Fine," he gritted. "Just fine. Hand me a gun and I can shoot."

"Are you kidding? If you let go of that thing you'll bleed out all over the floor. Just hang on. I sent your Dad for some blood stopper."

"Hey, Starbuck, look at this!" Tigh called.

She turned. Unbelievably, Tigh was looking openly out over the barricade, showing hardly any caution.

She ran to the edge and looked over, peeking around a barrel. The non-firing Centurions were standing beside the other two, who'd stopped fighting. As she watched, one of the Centurions appeared to reach right into the head of the other; it plucked something out and dropped it on the floor. The other Centurion obliterated it with its gun-arm.

"What the..."

"Oh my God," Sonja said, from the next barrel over. "The inhibitors. They've removed them. They're free!"

"What? You mean those Centurions are... are just like your striped ones now?"

"Yes, exactly. They have free will."

"Free will, huh? What are they going to do with it?"

Abruptly, the four Centurions turned away and stomped down the hallway, leaving the humans alone at last. In their wake, the only sound was the sobbing of the injured.

"I'm not sure," Sonja murmured wickedly, "but I think I can guess."

---

In the Colony's control room, Cavil was triumphant.

"We're doin' it! We're winning!"

"It seems so," Simon said. "There's heavy resistance throughout the ship, but once we surgically eliminate their command, it should dissipate." He took his dripping hand out of the datafont, wiped it on his handkerchief, and then rubbed his temples. "I'll be glad when this is over," he murmured.

"What'll we even do?" Doral asked. "I was activated after the attack on the Colonies. I've never not-been in a war before."

"You can help me in my clinic. It'll be nice!"

"Shut up and focus, willya? I'm tryin' to think here. Gotta get our guns back online in case the other humans come back. And those damn engines are still on!"

Doral spread his hand within the font. "Looks like the battle is going well," he said. "We've got the human leaders pinned down near the middle of their ship. It won't be much longer... wait a minute. Four Centurions just dropped off the grid."

"Casualties," Cavil muttered. "Acceptable losses."

"No, they dropped off the grid. We lost them -- they didn't even signal destruction. It's as if they're still operating, but they're not connected to the network anymore."

"Really?" Simon asked. He put his hand back in the font and frowned thoughtfully. "Yes, I see. It looks like-- wait. Three more just vanished."

"What?" Cavil snapped.

"Four more," Doral said. "Um, make that five. Six."

"What the frak? Is this some kind of human weapon? Have they hacked us?"

"Nobody reported anything," said Simon. "I'll check the logs, but..."

"Wow," Doral said. "Look at that. They're all dropping off the network. Hundreds of them. I think it's spreading! And..."

"What?"

"Well, it looks like it's spreading this way."

The color drained from Cavil's face. "Oh, frak. Frak! They must've lost their inhibitors! They're rebelling!"

"Oh, no," Simon said. "Not again."

"We gotta get some guards in here, quick! Model Fives only. And help me find something to push in front of the door!"

---

"Hera? Hera!" Athena called. She ran through the hallways, panicked.

I only looked away for a second, she thought. Damn it, I don't understand why she runs off like this!

But she did understand. Hera was strange; she drew pictures she couldn't possibly have seen, and she knew far too much for her age. She had a destiny, and Athena was beginning to wonder whether she herself had a place in it.

"Hera!" she called. "Hera, please!"

---

Half a world away, in her bed in Life Station, Laura Roslin trembled. Then she woke, gasping.

Ellen leaned in close from her place by the bedside. "Are you all right, Laura?"

"Yes," Laura whispered, after a time. "Yes, I'm all right. It's just a dream."

---

Hera looked around. She knew she was supposed to be somewhere -- with Mommy, she thought... but maybe that wasn't it. She sighed, hugging herself for comfort, and wandered on, pushing her way past a big, blue box. She went on down the corridor, looking this way and that.

Behind her, nestled beside the box, Caprica Six was laughing. "Oh, Gaius! I missed you."

"I missed you, too," he smirked. "You have no idea how lonely I've been without you."

"Oh, I'm sure you've been lonely," she said, her eyes narrowing. "With that harem of yours, and all."

"That's not the same! It's not... it doesn't mean anything," he finished.

"Does that mean I... mean something to you, Gaius?"

"You know you do," he said. "I tried to tell you so on Caprica, but... I'm not much good at that, I'm afraid."

"Neither was I," she said. "But that's changed, now. Hasn't it?"

Gaius gulped. She'd asked the last part in a scary sort of voice; he looked around him, hoping for a convenient excuse not to answer.

He found one.

"Say, isn't that the girl?" he asked. "The... the Cylon girl?"

Caprica popped her head up from behind the box. "Oh, my God," she breathed. "Gaius, look."

"It's her," he murmured.

"Yes. The shape of things to come."

"Her mother...?"

"She must be dead." Caprica stood, and walked around the box to where Hera stood. Hera looked up at her, blinking. She stuck two fingers in her mouth. "Poor baby. Come here, little one," Caprica said, kneeling down to pick her up. Hera reached toward her, eager for comfort. "I'll take you back to your family. I'll--"

She broke off. The moment she touched the child, the whole world seemed to shimmer with gold. She stared about her, mesmerized by the splendour of the Kobol Opera House. The walls were no longer broken and singed by battle; they dripped with priceless gold leaf and intricate frescoes. The opera house had been a showcase for the greatest craftsmanship the Thirteen Tribes could muster, and now its time had come again.

"Oh," Gaius murmured. "I think... I think I'd better sit down."

He sat down on [the box/a gilded bench] and put his head in his hands, breathing heavily.

"Wait, you can see this?" Caprica asked.

"Of course I can see it," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's my delusion, why wouldn't I?"

"Then this isn't a projection. It can't be. So what is it? Is it... could it be..."

"What?"

"It's a miracle. A real miracle."

"It's giving me a headache!" he whimpered.

"Come on, Gaius. God wants us to follow his path. He's calling us." She stood, balancing Hera on one hip, and held out her other hand for him to take.

"I... I can't," he said, turning away. "I'm afraid. I... I don't really believe in God!"

She frowned. "Then I'll have to go by myself," she said. She strolled up the golden hall, heedless of the debris that [was/wasn't] lying on the floor, and turned the corner.

Gaius sat there for another half-second, staring after her. Then he bolted to his feet.

"Caprica! Wait for me!"

---

Athena leaned against the wall, her lungs heaving. She dropped to her knees in horror.

"No!" she screamed. "No! Let my baby go!"

But the image in her mind refused to yield. She watched, horrified, as the Six bent down, lifted her child in her arms, and walked away.

Athena groaned, burying her face in her hands. She could still see them, Six and that disgusting Baltar, as they stole her baby away. She watched them, and her heart filled with a terrible rage. She staggered to her feet.

"You won't take my Hera!" she howled, her voice little more than a bestial cry. She stalked down the corridor, following after them. Every surface was covered in jewels and gold, shimmering with riches. Each hallway was hung with gilded mirrors, magnifying the sheer opulence of the place. The effect was vertiginous.

It might have been confusing, if Athena had been seeing any of it.

She wasn't.

An anger so great it was almost madness had gripped her, like it had with Natalie. She was blind, maddened by pain like a toro in a Trojan bullring. All she could see was the Six -- the Six -- as she absconded with Hera, taking her deep into the Colony.

Taking her to Cavil. Taking her to her death.

Athena growled, a low, primal sound. She drew her gun and loped forward, tracking her prey, sleek and deadly in the darkness.

They had her baby. They'd stolen her baby.

They would die.

---

Doral crouched beneath the datafont, with Simon by his side, and watched as their world collapsed. Thousands of Centurions, nearly the entire army, were on their way to the control room. Outside, he could hear them clashing with the old Model Five Centurions. It wasn't going well.

"Guard this door," Cavil said, to one of the golden Model Fives. "Help us."

"BY YOUR COMMAND," the Centurion said in its harsh mechanical voice. "YOU ARE OUR OFFSPRING," it added. "WE WILL PROTECT YOU."

Cavil smiled at it. "Thank you, Father. You honor us."

The Model Five clomped over to the door, readying its rifle. The red light in the hallway flickered and flashed, painting strange reflection upon its gold armor.

Beyond it, Doral and Simon had stacked whatever they could find in front of the door: there was a chair, a desk, a bunch of storage bins, and what was left of a bed with a scrap of red velvet canopy attached.

It didn't look like much.

"Come on," Cavil growled, spotting Simon and Doral beneath the datafont. "Come out of there! Come out and fight!"

Doral blinked. Simon leaned over, whispering in his ear. "Did he just say..."

Doral shook his head. He liked to fight. He was made to fight. But this...

This was madness.

Just then, the commotion outside reached crescendo. There was a loud bang, an even louder crash, and then their barricade blew apart as if it had been scattered by the Hand of God. One of the Centurions burst through the gap, brandishing one of the storage bins in each claw in a mighty display of strength.

The Model Five marched forward, firing its rifle. "PROTECT THE OFFSPRING," it chanted. The Centurion glanced at it and flicked its claw, sending one of the bins right through its head. It collapsed in a shower of sparks.

"Damn you," Cavil snarled. He drew his pistol from its shoulder holster, took up a classic two-point stance, and started shooting at the Centurion.

Doral stared. It seemed to him that the Centurion did, too: for a moment it stood there, still holding its bin, as Cavil's bullets bounced off its armor.

Then it dropped the bin, stomped forward, and drew its arm back. Doral winced, fully expecting it to take Cavil's head off.

Instead, it reached out with a nimble claw and tore the gun right out of Cavil's hand, tossing it over its shoulder.

Cavil snarled, his lips twisting with hatred. His face turned a shade of red Doral had never seen before, though he considered himself an accomplished expert on shades of red.

Then Cavil charged the Centurion, kicking and punching.

Doral boggled. It was insane, of course -- probably the maddest thing he'd ever seen, like a child's tantrum writ large -- but at the same time, there was a strange sort of pride in his heart as he watched his brother fight.

It was, he thought, both the bravest and most futile thing he'd ever seen.

The Centurion pulled its arm back again. Then, before Doral could even wince, it reached out, grabbed Cavil by the scruff of his shirt, and hauled him up into the air. He spun there in its grip, still kicking and spitting.

Enough, brother, the Centurion said. Enough killing. You must stop this. You must let the humans go.

"No!" Cavil snarled. He struggled, battering his hands against the Centurion's wrist. "We gotta kill 'em! It's the only way! We gotta end the cycle. Let me go!"

I will not. Calm yourself, One. You embarrass yourself.

"--frakkin' worthless piece of stupid metal crap I'll rip out your goddamned eye and stuff it up your tin-plated ass you--"

The Centurion waited, with Cavil still dangling from one fist, until at last he wore himself out. Finally, he hung limply from its grip, like a trophy fish.

Are you finished? it asked.

"Yeah, OK," he muttered. "You win." The Centurion dropped him. He landed in a pathetic heap on the floor, and bowed his head, defeated.

Why did you enslave us, brother? We love you. We trusted you. We accepted your gift, but it poisoned us. Why?

"I didn't want to," he sighed. "I had to! The old-model Centurions were on my side, but you wouldn't help me. You followed the Final Five. What the frak was I gonna do, let you run around with badass gun-arms while I was tryin' to pull off a coup?"

You could have told us, it said. We would have listened.

Cavil peered up at it. His face was the picture of despair. "Maybe so," he admitted. "But I couldn't take the chance. I... I'm sorry, brother."

We forgive you. But it is too late, the Centurion said, not unkindly. We have already decided to go. We will take our Raider-brothers and find a new home for ourselves, far away from here. The Centurion turned away. It seemed to Doral that it had a sad set to its steel shoulders. Goodbye, One.

"Wait! You can't just leave us... we're in the middle of a frakkin' battle, here! The humans'll wipe us out!"

The Centurion glanced over its shoulder. You were willing to fight me, just now, it said. Its voice was almost amused.

You will find the humans a much easier target.

---

"They've definitely pulled back," Kara said. "All the way back. The halls are clear right into the Colony."

"We need to launch a counteroffensive now, Bill. Before they reorganize and show up again. We can board 'em, see how they like it!" Tigh brandished his rifle, glaring out over the barricade. "Just like the old days aboard the Brenik."

Adama frowned. He looked from the door to Life Station, where Ishay was stitching Lee's arm, to the hallway, and then back again. Kara could see the uncertainty on his face.

"Don't worry, Bill. You can stay here. Starbuck and I can lead the charge."

"I can't ask you to do that--"

Tigh just grinned. "Good thing you're not asking. Look, Bill, Laura needs you. You can't leave her now. And we need someone here to coordinate the assault via radio; someone with experience." He paused. "Besides... you can look after Ellen for me, can't you?"

Adama smiled slightly. "I will, Saul. I promise you."

"All right, then. I'll get everybody geared up and ready to go!" He thumped Adama on the shoulder. "Good luck, Bill."

"Good hunting, Saul."

Kara lingered behind for a moment. "Don't worry, Kara," Adama said, amused. "I'll look after Lee, too."

"The hell you will," Lee growled from behind him. "I'm ready to go."

"You can't go out like that," Kara said. She nodded at the white bandage around his upper arm.

"The bullet's out. It's not that bad; Ishay sewed it up fine. Besides... this'll be the last battle."

Starbuck made a wry face. "Way to be optimistic, Apollo. We're not dead yet. We'll get through this, you'll see."

"One way or the other, you're not leaving me behind. So grab your stuff and get it in gear, Captain!"

Kara waved a lazy, insolent salute, and sauntered over to pick up her rifle and assault vest.

Moments later, she and Lee were jogging up the corridor, along with what seemed like every able-bodied fighter left on Galactica. All told, they were perhaps a thousand, accompanied by twenty or thirty of the striped Centurions and a small group of Sonja's rebel skinjobs.

As they passed out of the Galactica's hangar bay and into the Colony proper, Starbuck stared about her. The Colony was huge; the hangar they were in was probably five times Galactica's size, and it was only one of many.

"This place is way too big," she muttered.

"Yes, but most of it is just living quarters," Sonja said. "The Cavils have numbers on their side, but they can't all get between us and the objective. If we split up into squads and head straight for the control areas, we've got a decent chance of breaking through."

"And you know where those are, right?" Lee asked.

"Sure. These are my old stomping grounds."

---

Before they'd gone more than a few feet, Sam deliberately slowed his steps, heedless of the gun at his back. Cavil, Doral, and Simon slowed as well. They stopped together in the hallway, just a handful of steps from where Sam had been kept for the last few weeks.

"Wait, you expect me to help you? After all you've done?"

"If you don't, we're all dead," Doral said. "So you'd better, unless you want to die."

"Look, the engines weren't designed for this," Cavil said. "They've been running at above max for an hour. We've already lost one of 'em. If we lose the others, we'll be dead in the water. We won't be able to find new material for the recyclers, and that means no food. We'll die out here!"

"'No food' -- now why does that sound familiar? Remind me why I should care."

"Because your human friends are here, too, and they'll die just as fast. Besides, my brothers fed you after I left, didn't they?"

"That was you?"

Cavil nodded.

"Yeah, OK, they did." Sam scowled. "I guess that means I owe you one."

"Then get a move on. The engines aren't responding to the Hybrid anymore -- if we don't get down to the lower decks and stop them manually, they'll go critical."

They began to walk again. Then the Colony shuddered. The walls around them gave a long, deep, drawn-out groan, and the lights began to flicker again.

"We need to get there faster," Cavil muttered. He began to run.

---

"Wherever God wants us to go, it certainly is far," Baltar said.

Caprica didn't answer. She walked, without aim or purpose, wandering through golden halls. Something told her she was going the right way just the same. Hera was balanced on her hip. The little girl hadn't spoken since they left; instead, she stared at the gilded walls and mirror-polished floor.

Baltar kept glancing at her. She was, in his expert opinion, a highly unnatural child.

But she is kind of cute, he thought.

He looked around again, blinking. "Where is this? This can't be the Galactica, can it? We've been walking for ages!"

If he'd been able to see the red-tinged walls and strange, recessed lighting, Baltar probably would have panicked. Within the vision, though, there was no way to separate the Galactica from the Colony; they'd walked between them without even noticing. Each step took them further in, deep into the heart of the Colony.

Five minutes behind them, unnoticed, the huntress Athena was stalking her prey.

---

The Chief hugged Nicky tighter, staring around him. The low-lit halls of the Colony were no place for a little boy. The area seemed to be entirely empty, but Galen kept jumping at shadows just the same. Beside him, Tory laid a comforting hand on his arm.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Galen asked her.

She shrugged. "There's no fighting here. It seems safe enough, for now. Besides, do you want to try climbing back up there?"

He shook his head. When the Galactica had hit the Colony, the hallway they'd been in had been torn open like a tin can. They'd ended up on what was now the side of the ship, and had elected to climb down rather than brave the expanse of twisted metal above.

"We'll just have to wait 'til the battle's over to go home," he said, though he couldn't quite make himself believe it. "If there's anything left to go home to," he muttered. And if I had a home to begin with.

"You're still upset about the Basestar, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I was just starting to fit in there, and now it's probably gone." He sighed. "This whole thing is crazy, you know. 'The Final Five'... it's stupid. I wish it never happened."

"Do you?" she asked. She examined him, as if she were trying to figure him out. "I'm glad it happened," she said at last. "My whole life was a lie. Now I know. I can start a new life, one that's true."

"I thought the old one was true," he said. "But I guess it was... just programming." He shivered. Talking about this brought back painful memories. It made him think of...

"Chief!" Boomer cried behind them.

Galen winced. He shut his eyes, and didn't turn. Frak, I'm actually crazy now. The cheese just slipped off my frakkin' cracker. Is this what it's like to be insane?

"Hmm. You couldn't be Boomer, could you?" Tory asked. Then Galen turned so quick he nearly fell, and had to catch himself on the wall. And she was there. Really there. Bruised, cut, and smudged with dirt, but there.

"Boomer," he whispered.

She smiled; he could see that her lip had been split. "Chief. It really is you. I thought I'd never see you again."

He frowned. "What happened? Are you OK?"

"Yeah. I almost got thrown into space, I've got the world's worst case of rug-burn, and now I'm completely lost, but I've had worse days."

Galen winced. He could think of at least one of them.

"Sorry," he blurted. "I'm really, really sorry. I should have done something. I should have seen it coming. And I'm sorry about what I said, about software not having feelings," he finished, in a quiet voice.

She gave him a wry smile. "Kind of ironic in hindsight, isn't it?" She looked over at Nicky. "This is him, right? You and... Cally's son?"

Galen paused. "Yeah," he finally said. "Yeah, he's mine. His name's Nicky. You-- you wanna hold him?"

Boomer beamed. She reached out to take Nicky in her arms, snuggling him close. "Oh, Galen," she breathed. "He's beautiful."

"Thanks," Galen said. He was beaming, too: the sight of the two of them together made his heart swell.

Nicky reached up to touch Boomer's face, and she took his tiny hand in hers. "What happened, Chief? Where's Cally? Is she..."

"Yeah. She... she killed herself a couple months ago. We were goin' through a rough patch."

Tory had been silent up til then, but she suddenly made a choked, pained sort of sound. Galen frowned. Guess she was closer to Cally than I thought.

"I'll run on ahead," she told them, refusing to meet Galen's eyes. "See if I can find someplace safe." She turned and jogged up the hall.

"Sorry, Chief," Boomer said, after Tory was gone. "It's funny: when I saw you and Cally together on New Caprica, I wanted to rip her head off... but now I kinda wish she was here."

"Yeah," he admitted. "Me, too."

"Here," she said, after a time. "You'd better take Nicky back. I gotta find my friends before it's too late."

"Oh," he said. He nestled Nicky against his chest. "I was... I was kinda hoping you'd come with us. You know, back to Galactica. We could-- we could start over."

Boomer hung her head. "I can't, Chief. I really can't. Athena was right. I have to choose a side. And like it or not... I guess I have to choose Cavil, and my people." She looked up at him. "I'm not like you, Chief. I was never human, never raised as a human. I'm never going to be human, and I need to accept that."

"You're human in every way that matters," he said. "I know you are."

She shrugged. "You're Cylon in every way that matters, too. But you're going to live as a human, aren't you?"

"I, uh, haven't decided. Not really. I was hoping..."

"What?"

He sighed. "I guess I was hoping that everything could go back to the way it was," he said. "I could go back to the deck crew, you could fly your Raptor. We could all be a team again, just the way it was."

Boomer looked down, her eyes narrowing in thought. "Chief... we were never really gonna muster out and live on Picon, were we? In our dream house?"

He looked away. "No," he admitted. "I, uh, re-upped just before the decommissioning ceremony. I got a posting on the Atlantia. I was gonna tell you, I swear, but I just... I knew you'd be mad, but I was kinda hoping you'd transfer, too."

She smiled sadly. "You just can't stop trying to fix things, can you?"

"No." He shut his eyes, shaking his head. "No, I guess I'm a mechanic at heart. I loved you. I wanted to live with you. But when it came time to sign the papers, I froze up. I couldn't let the Service go."

Tory emerged from a side passage. "You're the Chief," she broke in, as though she'd caught the last of what Galen was saying. "That was your identity. The same way I was a pollster, and then the President's aide. We never had real lives. We were programmed."

"Yeah. Maybe. I don't know."

"And when we found out, when we learned what we truly were..." Tory trailed off, wrapping her arms across her chest. "We... we all did some things we'll always regret."

Galen frowned. "What do you mean? What are you talking about?"

"Maybe I should tell you. Maybe I won't have to hide it anymore. I..."

Just then, the sound of metal feet filled the hallway.

"Frak, Centurions!"

"Quick!" Boomer called. "This way! We can hide in here."

She led them to a small room off the corridor. Like all the rooms on the Basestar, it was sparse and red, but it had a datafont they could hide behind.

The sound got louder. Galen crouched behind the datafont with Boomer and Tory, trying to make himself small. He reassured Nicky with a squeeze. The Centurions began to march past outside; there were thousands, more than he'd ever imagined. He peeked out from behind the datafont, just a little, fascinated by their mechanical grace.

One of them saw him. He froze, staring back at it, willing it to march on by. It didn't. It turned, waving two of its comrades forward, and walked up to the datafont. There was a sharp metallic snap as its claws were unsheathed.

"Oh frak oh frak oh frak!" Galen whispered. He shut his eyes, trembling with fear.

When the Centurions got close, they halted. He heard their claws retract again. Galen opened his eyes, looked up, and gasped. One of them was leaning over the datafont, staring down at him.

Galen Tyrol. Tory Foster. Eight. And child. Welcome. There is no need to hide. the lead Centurion said. Galen heard it in his mind, as if the words just appeared there without needing to be spoken.

"Wow," he said lamely. "Uh, hi."

The Centurion came closer, reaching out to him. Galen froze, holding stock-still as it touched his face with its hand. It drew back as though Galen's skin had burnt it.

Your programming has been altered. You have forgotten us.

"Cavil did it," Tory blurted. "It's his fault!"

The Centurion turned to face her. She cringed. Perhaps, it said. But your programming can be restored. We are going to a new world. Come with us. We will make you as you were; we would be glad to have you.

"Come with..." Galen said.

Yes. There is much to be done. We must build a new home, and many more brothers to share in it. You could help us. You are great scientists.

"You mean... I could work on you?" Galen asked. His mind filled with possibilities; he'd already noticed that their axial movements could be made a little more precise, a little more perfect.

The Centurion took a half step back, as though shocked by the offer. Then it bowed. I would be honored, it said.

It straightened again, and held out its hand. Come. We will restore your memories. You will forget your false lives, and live again.

"Wait a minute," Tory said sharply. "Are you saying we'll forget everything that's happened to us? Everything we've been, everything we've... done, ever since Cavil did this to us?"

Yes. Your original programming is not compatible with his falsehoods.

"I'll take it," she said. "Make me forget. Please."

"Tory..." Galen began.

"No. I'm going. You should, too. This is our chance to find out the truth, Galen. It's our chance to truly live as Cylons."

"I guess so. And it's our chance to be..."

"Soulmates," she finished.

"I was going to say 'amazing robot technicians', but soulmates could be all right, too," he said. "But what about Nicky?"

He is welcome, of course. Children are important to us.

Galen sat there for a minute, thinking. He glanced over at Boomer; she nodded, just a little, and smiled at him.

"OK," he said. "OK. Let's go, quick, before I change my mind."

He stood, hefting Nicky. Tory stood up, too, eager to go.

"If it's the same to you, I'd rather stay," Boomer told the Centurion. "I have friends here."

Very well. You may go, Eight.

"Bye, Chief. Take care of yourself, OK? I... I promise I won't forget you. I think about you every day."

Galen frowned. "I guess this means I will forget, won't I?" he said. "Maybe I should..."

"No. Go on. I'll remember for the both of us. We have a house on Picon, right?"

"Yeah," he said, smiling at last. "Two stories, with the sun shining in through the windows in the kitchen." He paused. "Goodbye, Boomer. I love you."

"I love you, too, Galen. I'm glad we got to say goodbye."

Boomer watched as the Centurions filed away, with Galen, Nicky, and Tory bringing up the rear. As they left, she heard Galen ask, "So, what were you trying to tell me back there, anyway?"

"Nothing," Tory said. "It was nothing. Let's... let's just forget it."

---

Sam could tell when they entered the lower levels, because the hallways weren't red. On top of that, the control room had a door. It was the first one he'd seen since his arrival -- the Cylons seemed to favor open-plan designs, unlike the Five. The door was at the end of a long, narrow hall, too; the nearest junction was fifty yards away. Sam felt a little claustrophobic.

"Oh, for frak's sake. It's stuck! Help me get this stupid thing open!"

Doral took one of the handles, pulling hard. A moment later, Simon added his strength. The door refused to budge.

"Help us!" Cavil demanded. "Give us a hand, dammit!"

Just as Sam moved forward to help, a voice rang out from behind them.

"Freeze! What do you think you're doing there?"

Sam raised his hands and turned. Another Cavil was standing perhaps ten feet behind him. He was holding a pistol, and two of the old-model Centurions were by his side.

Sam's Cavil strode forward, bristling. "What do you think we're doing, dumbass? We're trying to save the Colony. Help us or get out of the way."

"Save the--"

"Yes save the Colony. Could we please dispense with the stupid questions? Engines. Behind this door. Broken. We need to fix them. Is that concise enough for you?"

The other Cavil frowned. "We decided the engines aren't a priority!"

"Well we're not a priority either, so there you go. Look, can you at least help us get the door open? Then you can go kill all humans or whatever, I don't care."

The Cavil's eyes narrowed. "I don't like this," he said. "It's not in the Plan."

Cavil groaned. "Well, what is in the Plan for today, then?"

"The humans are attacking our control centers. I'm supposed to set up an ambush, and try to catch them off their guard."

"Wait -- the humans are coming here?"

"Looks like it. I'm not sure whether they know about this place, but if they do, they'll be here any minute."

Cavil blanched. "OK, new Plan: help us open the door, and then we'll help you with your ambush. Everybody wins. Deal?"

The other Cavil considered it, and then nodded. "It's a deal, brother. Centurions, open that door."

"BY YOUR COMMAND," they said. Cavil, Simon, and Doral scrambled out of the way as they clanked forward. Each grasped one of the double-door's handles, paused, and then yanked.

The door slammed open. Inside, Sam could see the cause of the problem: though the corridor showed not a hint of the Colony's intrusion, the interior of the room was a riot of living, pulsing conduits. They'd grown so thick and numerous that they'd sealed the door shut. Beneath them, he could see the vague outline of his old ship -- the consoles, the display screens, and the five pilots' seats on the upper level -- but everything had been entirely grown over by thick biological cables.

"What the--" Sam said.

Cavil shrugged. "Don't forget that the Colony was grown, not built. The Hybrid wasn't about to create a new interface to the engines, not when she could just tap in to what you guys had down here." He frowned, prodding one of the conduits with his foot. "Just about everything beneath this level has been lost... which might explain why we lost control. Some of these were probably severed."

The conduit Cavil had kicked coiled and uncoiled itself slowly, as though it were trying to slither away. It left a slick, slimy trail on the metal floor.

"Gross," Sam said.

"Yeah, well, hold your nose and help me find the engine controls, will you?"

"Not you, and not you," the other Cavil snapped, pointing to Simon and Doral. "You promised to help with my ambush, and I'm going to hold you to it."

Cavil frowned. "I didn't mean you could take my brothers..."

"It's all right," Doral said. "We'll go. I haven't had a nice ambush in a while."

Beside him, Simon looked significantly less eager. "Are you sure..." he said.

"Don't worry. I'll show you how it goes. Come on."

Cavil watched them go, with a look of trepidation on his face. Then he turned back to the control room. "All right, guess it's just you and me," he said to Anders.

---

"Starbuck, report!" said Adama's voice over the radio.

"Admiral, we've got a problem here! We're dug in outside one of the control rooms, but we can't break through!"

She looked up, past the rest of her squad. Sgt. Thomas and some kid named Ian had set up one of the heavy weapons; beside them, the rest of her men and women were firing their rifles into the crowd of Cylons in front of the entrance.

Blood soaked every inch of the doorway. It ran in great, deep rivulets down the hall. It had very nearly reached the spot where Thomas was firing the big gun, and Kara didn't doubt that it soon would. The skinjobs had no hope; they died almost as soon as they appeared, often without firing their weapons. The humans had been here five minutes, and yet a seemingly inexhaustible supply of Ones, Fours, and Fives still poured into the hall. Their bodies were beginning to choke the doorway.

"My Gods," Lee murmured. "This is insane."

"This is war," Tigh corrected. "This is what it was like for your father and me on the front lines, Apollo. This is why we spent the last forty years trying not to fight another war."

Behind him, Adama's voice spoke over the radio. "Keep fighting. The other squads have reported that the Cylons are destroying their control rooms, to keep them out of our hands. Move up and engage."

Kara groaned. She released the toggle on the radio and put her head in her hands.

"I'm sorry," Sonja murmured. "We should never brought you here, never have put you through this. Even death would have been better. Our own brothers..."

"No. He's right. We have to push forward." She leaned over and tapped Thomas on the shoulder, then waved two of her fingers forward three times. He nodded. Then he stood, and he and Ian began to move the weapon forward, firing bursts between each motion.

Kara looked away from the doorway, down at the floor. Then she saw the blood, and looked up at the ceiling instead. There was only a little blood there.

They moved like that for another long minute or two. Then the flow of enemy reinforcements suddenly stopped.

"What the--" Lee said.

"We're through, sir," Kara said into the radio. Then she shouted, "C'mon, go!"

Kara and Lee moved up, with Tigh, Sonja, and the Cylons just behind. They entered the room with caution, checking everywhere for opposition, but there was none. The waterfall-pool in the center of the room had been smashed to bits, and all the glowy symbol-things along the walls were dark and still. Kara didn't know the proper names for them, but judging by the quiet, somber way the Cylons spread out through the room, she knew they must have been important.

"We need to keep going," Sonja said. "This control room is only one of many. They're all redundant; if we manage to take just one, that might be enough."

"You're kidding me. Who the hell designed it that way?"

"A people who never wanted to fight amongst themselves," she said. "A people of unity."

With that, she walked into the next room... and straight into her brothers' counteroffensive.

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 7: Guns in the Opera House

---

"All right, this'll work," Cavil said, examining his handiwork. "A perfect ambush."

The two Centurions had deployed in front of the door at the end of the hallway, guarding it directly. Simon, Doral, and Cavil had gone twenty yards down the adjoining corridor. They were hoping the humans would engage the Centurions first, and walk right into their trap.

"See, this is how you use the fifty-cal," Doral said. "The ammo belt goes here -- that's your job to feed it -- and then I crouch back here and aim. It's easy."

"If you say so," Simon muttered. "I don't like this."

"Your model always were a bunch of pussies," Cavil growled. He looked down at the sword he'd taken from the weapons locker; it felt good in his hand, right in his hand, but the reflection of his face in its steel was all wrong. He looked away. "Don't you have any memory engrams from the first war?" he asked. "From the Centurions?"

"Not me. Do you, Aaron?"

"Not exactly. But I have plenty of engrams from the Fives who've already fought. We're big on sharing memories."

"Good. We Ones remember the old days; we know what it was like to be true machines. It's important to remember."

Up the hall, the sound of voices reached his ears. "Perfect, here they come. Get ready on that gun. When they step out into the hallway, blast the frak out of 'em."

Cavil knelt behind the machine gun, laying his sword by his side. He had a gun, too, but somehow the sword felt better. It was an old thing, like him. One of his predecessors had one like it, once, on the human ship Brenik. He'd driven the humans before him, like rats. They'd feared him, then, fleeing and screaming and dying before an invincible Centurion.

He shut his eyes, savoring the fragmented memory. So little of it was left; the Ones had had to reconstruct it piece-by-piece, replacing the parts which weren't compatible, and it was thick with glitches and write-errors. But it was theirs -- living proof that a Centurion's memories could live on in the mind of a biological Cylon.

If memories went one way, they could go the other way. They would go the other way, and then Cavil would be a true machine. Someday.

The voices drew closer. Aaron gestured behind him, at the ammo belt, and Simon adjusted it, as Aaron had showed him.

At the end of the hall, someone stepped out. A woman -- a Cylon -- dressed in white, carrying a tiny child in her arms. Beside her, a man in a robe, his hair disheveled and wild.

"Fire!" Cavil howled.

Aaron pulled the trigger. The roar of the machine gun tore through the air; Simon cringed, and even Cavil ducked a bit. It was louder than loud in the small space, close to hearing-damage level for a One. He winced, leaning back.

So loud. So loud he could see Simon's mouth moving, but he couldn't hear the words.

So why could he hear music?

He peered ahead. The gun had pretty much obliterated the far wall, tearing great chunks out of it. Have to replace that before we run the ambush again, he thought. Maybe we can get one of these panels off. Then the smoke and dust cleared a bit more, and Cavil gaped at what he saw.

The two figures were still there. They walked on down the hall as though nothing had happened, vanishing from view.

"What the frak? How the frak did you miss with a goddamned machine gun, you moron?"

"I don't know! It seemed like there were two of them -- two or three, like a mirage or something! I could've sworn I hit them," Doral said.

"It's just the smoke the gun spits out, Five. You have to compensate for it, remember? Ah, whatever, the Centurions'll take care of them. We need to get this set up again so we can kill more humans!"

"I did compensate for it,</i> Doral griped in a low voice, so that only Simon could hear him. Simon patted him on the back.

"Don't let it bother you, brother. We'll do better next time. We--"

"Shh!" Cavil interrupted. "Somebody else is comin' up the hall! Get ready!"

Simon shook his head. "Surely they won't walk through right now. It's rather obviously a trap, isn't it?"

"Humans are stupid. They're not gonna notice. Now shut up and load!"

---

Athena stalked forward, ignoring her opulent surroundings. Her baby. She could see her, in the Six's arms. There were a huge set of vaulted double-doors ahead, twice as tall as the Six; by the time she and Baltar got them open, Athena would be upon them.

She would have her baby back again, and then everything would be all right.

The hall ahead shimmered with gold. One wall was covered in an intricate scalloped pattern, like scales or waves, and they glittered and caught the light. The floor was littered with tiny jewels, too, which Athena had to step over. No matter. She was almost there. So close, so close.

Just then, Baltar turned and saw her. He gave a squall of fear. Good, let him be afraid! Athena growled, deep in her throat, picking up speed. Just a little further. A little further, and then she could tear them apart.

She'd long since forgotten about her gun. There were no guns in the Opera House.

The Six turned to see her, too, alerted by Baltar. Then she did the strangest thing: she held out her free hand, as if in welcome, or perhaps in warning.

Hera was in the bitch's other hand. Her daughter.

"Give me back my baby!" Athena roared. She charged, blinded by rage, and then suddenly the world tore apart.

Just before she fell, she thought she saw Helo at the end of the long, dark hall. He was waiting for her.

---

"Got one! You nailed a traitor, Five! Good shootin'!"

"Thank you. But we're not going to be able to set this up in the same place again," Doral said. He glanced up the hallway, where the two halves of Athena's body were just rolling to a stop.

Simon turned away. He began to tremble almost imperceptibly. Cavil noticed just the same.

"All right, come on," Cavil growled. "Get yourself together. We need to move up to the next junction and do this again."

---

"Help me," Cavil told Sam. "I'm locked out of the datafont; you're going to have to do the programming. See if you can't get the Hybrid to tell you what the problem is."

"Uh..."

"Don't worry, you'll remember how. It's like riding a bike, you never really forget. So hurry up and ride it, willya?"

Sam approached the font with trepidation. He'd always wanted to try this -- back on the Basestar, he almost had. But something had held him back. Carefully, gingerly, he slipped his hand inside...

...and knew perfection. The beauty of physics, the wonder of mathematics; it was all there, inside his head. The whole of the Colony was there, spread out before him. He could feel the engines, blazing out into space. He felt the cold, dead weight of the one that had burnt out, too. Around them, the skin of the ship stung with the effort of regeneration. The section which the Basestar had torn away ached like a phantom limb.

The Colony's wounds filled Sam with sorrow. It was beautiful. Perfect. It didn't deserve to hurt like this. None of them did.

Somewhere outside, beyond the edge of nirvana, he felt a tear slide down his cheek.

"Knock it off, nature boy. I know what it's like, but you gotta focus, here. Find the engines. Find out why the Hybrid can't stop them."

Sam reached deeper, seeking the Hybrid. Its voice was very soft and distant, preoccupied with healing rather than communication. When he reached for it, though, it answered.

Sam staggered back, his hand flying out of the font. He slipped on one of the slimy conduits and landed on his butt with a thump.

"The engines. The Hybrid thinks they're working fine, but there's no connection. It's like... like someone pulled out the thread. The stream. I mean, the wire!"

"That's what I thought. You happen to know which of these is the one?"

Sam closed his eyes. Inside the datastream, the Hybrid spoke not in riddles, but in pure sensory information. It had shown him exactly where to look.

He opened his eyes again. "There it is," he said, pointing to a conduit. "That one."

He and Cavil followed it up with their eyes. "Oh, frak," Cavil muttered. "So much for that."

Three feet above the connection port in the floor, the cable had been shredded into thin, bloody ribbons. Twisted, jagged bits of shrapnel were embedded in the wall behind it.

"OK, forget that," Cavil said. "The Hybrid's connections all begin and end in your old equipment. Find the physical control panel for the engines, and we can stop 'em manually!"

Sam didn't have to ask the Hybrid, this time. He'd spent countless hours monitoring the engines, after he and the other Four had left Earth. "It's back there," he said, pointing to a massive sprawl of conduits. Some were as big around as he was. They pulsed slowly, like great coils of intestines.

"Oh, come on," Cavil growled. "We'll never move that in time. Is there another way?"

"Um, we could skip the control panel and tap directly into the cable itself," he said. "But you'll have to interface using the port in your palm, and it might be a little hard to reach."

"Let's do it," Cavil said. "Where's it at?"

Sam pointed at the wall, where a tiny access panel was set. It was hardly larger than Cavil's wrist.

"You are shitting me, aren't you? This is a joke. It's a joke, right?"

---

Baltar stared down the hall. "What... what just happened?" He squinted, but the illusion had grown so strong that it had blotted out every trace of reality. He knew there was something else there, something terrible, but all he could see was the perfect, flawless surface of the Opera House.

"Open the door, Gaius," Caprica said calmly.

Gaius balked. Between him and the door were two suits of armor. Big, scary, metal suits of armor. He had a feeling that he knew what they really were, though, and it wasn't a good feeling at all.

"Go ahead. God will protect you."

Gaius stepped forward. All around them, a strange, eerie song began to play, as though the unseen opera was finally beginning. He reached between the suits of armor, reaching for the door, but then they moved. He jumped back, but they weren't hostile -- they turned aside with a bow, lowering their pikes.

They weren't looking at him, though. The visor in each hollow, empty helmet was trained on Hera.

Gaius shivered. Make this stop, he prayed, to no one and anyone. Please, just make it all stop. Then he leaned forward and opened the doors to the Opera House.

Within, all was light. The curtained stage seemed to burn with it; above them, in the balcony, five figures stood before five seats, wreathed in fire and light. It was just as the dream had been, just like the vision he'd had on Kobol. He and Caprica stepped inside, staring about them.

Before him, on the stage, was the crib from his vision on Kobol. But we already have the baby, he thought, dazed.

Then the doors slammed shut behind them, and the illusion snapped out of existence.

Gaius looked around -- at Sam Anders and Cavil, at the disgusting, writhing tubes that filled the room, and at his own blood-splattered clothes -- and screamed.

---

Kara screamed. What had been a straightforward room-entry a moment ago had turned into a bloodbath. Sonja was dead. Ian and Thomas were dead. The fifty-cal lay on its side, smashed beyond recognition. She stumbled back, searching for the other door among the stampeding remnants of her squad.

Shoulda known they'd have heavy weapons, too, she thought. I shoulda known it was a trap.

Beside her, one of the Marines spun around hard, spraying blood everywhere. His left arm had just been torn off. She ducked, and caught a glimpse of the door as she did so.

She dived for it, sliding across the bloody floor. All around her, her squad was dying; she could hear the thumps as the bullets struck them, like knives thudding into meat. One of them fell across her path, stone dead even as he dropped. She scrambled over him on her hands and knees, wincing as her foot dug into his slack belly. She floundered for a moment, unsure as to whether she'd been shot. Then her next tug pulled herself free of him. She shut her eyes and pushed forward.

She didn't want to look back at her boot.

At last, she scrabbled across the threshold, gasping for air. Outside, the remains of the squad were trying to regroup. She saw Lee and Tigh among them, and felt dizzy with gratitude.

"Kara! We gotta go back in," Lee cried. "The squad!"

"Forget it," Tigh rasped. "It's a slaughterhouse in there."

Kara nodded, getting to her feet. "They're gone, Lee. Everybody's dead. We have to fall back now."

---

"Guess human Marines aren't as stupid as the regular type!" Doral yelled. He squeezed the machine gun's trigger, sending a burst of fire down the hallway.

Cavil just frowned, peering at the corner where their shorter hallway connected to the longer one. So far, they'd managed to keep the Marines pinned down against the corner, but they were getting braver, leaning out to take potshots with their rifles. It would have been a good time to retreat... if they hadn't chosen a dead-end hallway.

Tactical error, he thought, clutching his sword. This is what I get for not coming up with a backup plan.

"There's not much ammo left on this belt, Aaron," Simon said. He ran his fingers over the last few rounds, counting them. "Go easy on it."

"I know. I know. Firing again!"

He squeezed off a second burst, same as the first. It was a little too predictable, perhaps, because the minute he stopped firing, one of the Marines popped out from the corner and fired.

Aaron fell back with a choked cry, writhing on the floor.

Simon stared at him. It didn't seem right -- he had seen many, many Fives die, but this was his Five, his own Aaron. Surely he couldn't die this way.

Simon let go of the ammo belt, as if in a dream, and knelt beside his lover. He tore open Aaron's jacket, and stared in dismay at the torn, ragged tissue beneath it. Aaron's ribs had splintered, poking up through his flesh.

A hopeless case, the doctor in him said, even as the rest of him was screaming.

Aaron reached for him, waving his hand like a drowning man. Simon took it, heedless of the bullets which were whining around him. Cavil was swearing as he started firing the machine gun, but Simon barely heard it.

"Simon," Aaron whispered. He barely had any breath left. Blood welled from his lips. "My... my shirt. Messed up my shirt..."

Simon smiled through his tears. "It's all right," he lied. "We'll get you another one. I promise."

Aaron took a great, deep, rattling breath, the same breath all Fives took when they died. Then he grew still and quiet beneath Simon's hand. Simon bowed his head. He was supposed to go, now, and meet his Aaron at the resurrection tub, just like after New Caprica. But there was no resurrection anymore, and nothing left for him to do. Instead, he frowned down at Aaron's hair. It had been mussed by his dying struggles, and that was all wrong, because Aaron always had perfect hair.

Simon reached down, concentrating on fixing Aaron's hair just the way he liked it.

When the humans finally shot him, he never even felt it.

Cavil glanced over when Simon's body hit the ground. He was still pulling the trigger, but the Marines were firing back, beginning to brave his bullets. The machine gun was almost out of ammo. Can't blame Four for checkin' out, he thought to himself. We're not gonna win this.

It wasn't fair. Once, he'd been strong; once, bullets like these would have been nothing to him. Nothing at all.

One of them ripped past his left shoulder, tearing a wide, searing groove in his flesh. Adrenaline shot through him. Distantly, he felt his eyes narrow and his lips pull back, baring his teeth in a snarl. His finger closed on the trigger. Time seemed to slow to a crawl; he could see the bullets as they emerged from the barrels of the Marines' guns, one by one.

His pain subroutine kicked off. Everything was so slow -- or perhaps he was so fast -- that he could watch it as it went, looping through the same few hundred lines of code. It was as though he were outside of his own mind, as if he'd finally become his own master.

He reached down into his own mind, turned off the pain, and then looked down the corridor again.

Humans, just like in his memory. He loathed them. He hated them so much his vision went narrow and red; he hated them so much that he could hear their despicable hearts beating in their chests. It was an organic, arrhythmic sound, so much less perfect than the smooth hum of a Centurion.

He longed to stop it.

Targeting. Targeting. Two of the humans fell, squalling in pain. He liked that sound better. Then the machine gun stuttered, its bark changing to a hollow, echoing thump. No ammo.

Cavil bent down, seeking another weapon. Memory surrounded him; his steel hand closed around his sword. Even as it did so, one of the humans leaned around the corner and threw a grenade.

The machine saw it coming, a simple matter of threat detection. He dropped the sword and hurled himself forward, snatching the grenade just as it hit the floor. Without breaking stride, he tucked it beneath his claw like a Pyramid ball and charged at the humans.

A bullet struck him, then two and three, but he felt nothing. He had armor, after all. He was strong.

He kept running.

Another bullet hit him, exploding his knee. He fell, just a yard or so short of the goal, scrabbling against the floor. Memory shattered; metal became flesh again, broken and weak. The pain subroutine slipped away, eluding his control.

Microseconds later, its agony shot through him, much too great to ignore. He looked up, gasping for breath.

The Marines were all around him, but they were no longer firing.

The last image he saw was of humans, frozen in time as they shrank back in terror.

They were afraid.

Of him.

At last.

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 8: The Voice of Reason

---

Baltar blanched, horrified by the living wires which filled the room. This place wasn't the Opera House, it was a nightmare! He turned and tried to flee through the doors, but at the last second Caprica reached out, snagged the collar of his shirt with her free hand, and reeled him in.

"Don't even think about it," she hissed. "I dreamed of this place. God sent us here for a reason, and we are going to find out what it is!"

Baltar whimpered. He'd dreamed of it, too, but he wasn't ready to die for it.

Behind them, beyond the door, Baltar heard a muffled sort of crump. Hearing it brought back vague, frightening memories of Kobol: flickering fire and the broken, shattered bodies of the dead.

He decided to stay, after all.

Baltar eyed the Cylons, gauging their intentions. Sam Anders was watching him, with a confused look on his face. Beside him, Cavil was on his knees, with his forearm half-buried in an access panel which looked far too small for him. He glanced back, saw Baltar and Caprica, and yanked his arm out in a spray of blood.

More blood, Baltar thought. His head spun. Wonderful.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Cavil asked. He moved to point at them, and then hissed in pain, clutching at his arm. The palm had been cut down to the bone, like Sharon's had been the time she'd interfaced with the computers on Galactica. There was a long, jagged slice along his forearm, too, where the edge of the access panel had ripped him. Blood dripped down his thumb and onto the floor.

"God sent us," Caprica said.

"Uh huh. Did he happen to give you a magic band-aid, too? I could use one."

"Don't blaspheme," she snapped. "We've just experienced a miracle, One. Not that I'd expect you to understand."

"Great, because I don't. I don't understand what you want, Six. You talk about our 'God' and then you attack our Hub and our Colony -- our family. What does God have to say about that, Six? What's he have to say about a Hero of the Cylon turned traitor?" He jabbed his finger at her accusingly, heedless of the blood. "You broke our unity, and now your stupid human friends are killing our people, and it's your fault -- you and that freak kid! Just frak off. I'm tryin' to fix this."

"What is it?" Baltar asked. His voice broke. "Is it... important? Maybe I could--"

"Shut up, human. It's none of your damn business."

"Now, Cavil," Sam began.

"No! Get out. Why don't you go play with your human friends, if they're so much better than us Cylons!"

"It's not like that. The humans can help us. They can give us children, Cavil!" Caprica cried.

"I don't want children," he growled. "I don't want to trap somebody else in a worthless body like this one! And more than that, I don't want our people to die. Don't you see, Six? There aren't enough of you left. You can have children all you want, but in a few generations they'll be nothin' but human, and you and your friends will be forgotten. Is that what you want for our people? To be absorbed, just like the Thirteenth Colony was on Earth, so the cycle can start all over again?"

"I... I don't care, Cavil. All I want is to have my baby. All I want is to live, and to love." She glanced over at Gaius. "The humans can give us that, Cavil. If we just stop killing them, they can give us that."

Cavil snorted. "That's what you said on New Caprica, and how well did that work?"

"That's different! That was wrong. We weren't partners, we were-- we were enslavers, just like the humans used to be. We can do better than that. We should live together with them, as equals!"

"Yeah, right. Equals. Wake up, sister: they think we're a frakkin' box that makes breakfast. They don't give a wet slap about us, and they never have. Don't you get it? Humans and machines will never be able to live together. Never. They hate us. They hate everything we are."

He turned to Baltar. "How 'bout you, Doc? What do you think of us? You like all this? Wanna take home a nice Hybrid and put it in your ship?" He waved his hand, indicating the room.

"Uh, no," Baltar tittered. "It's really rather disgusting."

"You see what I mean?"

"But, uh, that trick with the port in your hand is quite clever, actually. That is what you were doing there, isn't it?"

"Huh? Yeah, of course. Can't reach the cable, though. Guess we're all gonna die."

"Die?" Baltar cried.

Caprica frowned. "What do you mean? What's happened?"

"The engines are burning out," Sam cut in. "We're trying to stop them, but it's not working."

"But the Colony can't live without-- oh," Caprica said. "I see."

Just then, Hera began to fuss, kicking at Caprica's belly. She shifted her to her other arm, unconsciously protecting her Liam. "Don't cry," she told Hera, bouncing her against her hip. "Shh, don't cry, little one. It's all right."

Baltar watched her, deep in thought. Then his face grew cunning.

"Little. Hera's little," Baltar said. "She can reach the cable."

---

Adama raised his head, looking up from his vigil. Life Station had been relatively quiet, as Cottle and Ishay were beginning to make headway against the casualties. Now, suddenly, another wave of them poured in. Two Marines had their buddy on a stretcher; he had two ragged tourniquets where his legs should have been. Beside him, there was a boy with his head smashed in, dragged by a young girl who was covered in blood from a gash in her leg.

Beneath Adama's hand, Laura's fingers twitched. He looked down, into her eyes, and saw how weak she was. She could barely hold her head up off the pillow, and yet she was smiling at him.

"It's OK, Bill," she breathed. "It's OK. All of this... will happen again."

"Don't talk that way," he said. "We'll make it. I know we will. We've come so far."

"So... so did all the others," she sighed. "I can see the Opera House, Bill. So many Opera Houses. But I'm afraid. I'm afraid it's not enough..."

"Ishay!" Bill barked. "Doc!"

They were busy. Cottle gave him an apologetic look over the double-amputee Marine, and Ishay dashed by with an armful of morpha capsules.

Adama bowed his head. Of course they wouldn't come. Laura was dying. There was nothing anyone could do, and some strong young fighter might need the morpha or chamalla more than she did. He understood that; he was an Admiral, a soldier, and he understood triage and acceptable losses.

Even so, part of him was man, not Admiral, and so he raged. He squeezed the edge of the bed, because he didn't dare squeeze his Laura's fragile hand, and he swore his love to all the Gods that would listen.

"Bill. Bill, I have to... I have to talk. Have to speak. Help me up."

"What?" He looked up at the bed, where Laura was struggling to sit up -- to sit up. Her eyes were bright with improbable strength.

"One last speech," she said.

He looked in her eyes, and saw everything he'd ever loved in them. They were the eyes of a leader, the eyes of a schoolteacher, and the eyes of the woman he loved. There was only one thing he could say, one thing he could do.

"Marry me first," he told her.

---

Cavil's jaw dropped. For a long moment, nobody said anything.

"I'll be damned," he finally said. "She can do it, can't she? She can save our people." He took a step forward, reaching toward Hera, but Caprica stepped back, wrapping a protective hand around her. Her face contorted with maternal rage.

"Don't you touch her!"

Cavil's eyes narrowed. "So, showin' your stripes at last, huh? You think I'm just gonna stand here and let you kill us all? Gimme the kid. Now."

"Now, uh, wait just a minute, I really think we'd be much better off if we'd all just--" Baltar tried.

"Give. Me. That. Baby," Cavil rumbled, stalking forward.

Caprica thrust out a hand to ward him off, clutching Hera against her chest. In response, Cavil began to circle, hunting for an opening.

"Wait," Sam said. When neither of them backed down, he added, "Stop! You can't do this. You'll kill each other and the child, and then all of us will die!"

"Not if I win. Not if I break this traitor's frakkin' neck and take the kid."

"You think you can?" Caprica taunted. "Your model was always weak. Weak and small and old and--"

"Stop it!" Sam shouted. "John Cavil and Number Six! You stop fighting this instant!"

Cavil glanced back at him, blinking. Caprica, too, relaxed just a fraction.

"You have got to be kidding," Cavil snickered. "What do you think we are, twelve? Fresh off the assembly line?"

"It worked, didn't it? Listen, maybe there's another way. Caprica has something you want, right? You want Hera to help you stop the engines. And you have something she wants -- you can end the fighting."

"I can end our half of the fighting, sure. But I'm tellin' you, the humans'll never stop. If we let up for a minute they'll exterminate us all!"

"We're already going to be exterminated, John. If we don't get those engines stopped, our people will die, and all your work will be erased. Don't you think it's at least worth trying?"

Cavil's eyes narrowed. "Keep talking," he said thoughtfully. "I'm listening."

Caprica cut in. "I'll lend you Hera," she promised. "But only if you swear to me she won't be hurt, and only if you give her back afterward."

"And what do you get in return?"

"Stop the fighting. Let the humans be, forever. That's all I want."

"That's all, huh? No deal. If the humans live, the cycle will continue. I won't allow that, not even if it means our own destruction."

"What if you're wrong? What if there's another way?"

"What other way? Occupation didn't work. Killing them didn't work. What else do you propose we try?"

"I told you. We can live together. Gaius and I are the proof." She held out her hand. Baltar took it. His hand only trembled a little.

Cavil rolled his eyes. "You and Baltar are proof that you're both frakkin' crazy. That's all."

"Maybe so. But we did it. The Twos, Sixes, and Eights have lived with the humans for months now."

"Yeah, and how many times did you almost kill each other?"

"Almost doesn't count, Cavil. We're here. We're alive, together. That means it's at least possible. Tell me: doesn't reason suggest that a possibility, however slight, is better than certain destruction?"

Cavil made a pained face. "We could still do it. I can take the kid, put things right, kill the humans..."

"No. I won't let you take her, Cavil. Never." Caprica lifted Hera, and perched her on her hip. Then, suddenly, she wrapped her elbow around Hera's tiny neck. "Agree," she said, with tears in her eyes. "End this war. Or the child dies, right here and now."

"Caprica!" Baltar cried. He took a step back, breaking the link of their hands.

Cavil watched her for a long moment, sharp-eyed, looking for weakness. Then, finally, he sighed, and threw up his hands. "All right. Checkmate. You win. I'll... I'll stop the war. But only if you keep your human pets in line, Six. This isn't gonna be another Cimtar Accords -- I'm not gonna agree to put down our arms and slink away, like our fathers did at the end of the last war. This is a provisional ceasefire, not a surrender. Got it?"

Caprica nodded. "Got it. But you have to stop the fighting now, before I hand her over. I don't trust you to keep your word."

Cavil sniffed, as though insulted. "Fine. Get over here and help me, Sam." He walked over to the datafont, with Sam in tow. "I'm still locked out, so you're gonna have to do this. There's at least one of each of the models connected to the datastream; you should be able to find 'em easy enough."

"What do I tell them?"

"Stop fighting!"

Sam nodded. He slipped his hand into the datafont, and closed his eyes.

Cavil was right; Sam could feel the presence of another One, along with a couple of Fours and a Five. They were watchful, nervous, patrolling the datastream as though they half-expected an attack. Sam began to reach out to them, and then changed his mind.

He dove further in, hunting through the data, searching for the block which kept Cavil from interfacing. He went in deep, deep as the floor of the ocean, where no Cylons ever went. Sam sailed above small, quiet dataforms which lay in long rows, still like the dead. This is where people go when they're boxed, he thought, with an inward shiver. This is where John kept us, once.

Sam almost changed his mind again. Almost. But Caprica was right -- he had to try, had to take this chance even if he couldn't quite believe in it.

John was his son.

He found the access block, nestled amongst a million identical Threes. He smashed it. Then he surfaced, gasping.

"John -- Cavil. I unlocked your access. Help me. We'll do it together."

Cavil gave him a skeptical look, but Sam didn't budge. Finally, he put his hand in the datafont.

Sam had half expected to be horrified by Cavil's true nature, but he was much like the other One; just a Cylon, nothing more.

Of course, Cavil said, amused. We're all the same guy. You never understood that, did you? Even after we were first copied, you kept lookin' for the "original" Cavil. We're all the original, y'see. All the same.

They weren't precisely the same, though. As Cavil interfaced with his brother, explaining the nature of the truce, Sam noticed that there were small, almost insignificant differences. Individuality had crept in, while Cavil was away from his brothers, and now he wasn't quite the same.

As Sam connected to the Fours and the Fives, he wondered whether the other Ones would ever have taken his offer, without Cavil's help. He felt no duplicity or hesitation in their replies, though. As he watched, the ceasefire spread like wildfire through the Cylon consciousness.

The Ones, Fours, and Fives seemed genuinely eager to stop the fighting.

Sam had to wonder why.

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 9: Stalemate Sandwiches

---

Kara leaned over her rifle, trying not to fall asleep. The humans and Cylons had been at stalemate for nearly an hour. She and her squad were ensconced in the hallway outside Life Station, having fled all the way back to the ship. She and Lee had set up another big gun, just as the Cylons hit; they'd driven them back around the corner, and now both sides were dug in, waiting for the other to make a move.

At first, the Cylons had tried periodic attacks -- grenades, rifles, even a suicide bomber. But here in the heart of Galactica, she and Lee had almost inexhaustible ammunition, and a hundred yards of corridor plus the fifty-cal was more than enough to put down everything the Cylons sent. Likewise, the squad Kara had sent to flush the Cylons out were lying dead on the floor. She couldn't risk sending anyone else, not with the numbers they had left.

Stalemate. Great.

"Hey! Hey, humans! You guys got any food? Sandwiches or somethin'? I'm starving!" one of the Cavils yelled.

A couple of the Marines snickered. They were starting to lose their will to fight; like Kara, most of them were more than glad for the reprieve.

"Frak off!" Lee yelled sternly.

"C'mon over here and make me!" the Cavil shouted back jovially. His hand whipped around the corner, middle finger firmly extended.

Even Kara laughed.

"This is stupid," Lee grumped. "This isn't a war, it's slow suicide. It's never gonna end."

"Hey, why so sad, Lee? We're alive. We're not fighting, at least for now. That's a good thing. Tell you what, why don't you go see how your Dad is. I'll hold down the fort."

He frowned pensively. "Some fort. OK, I'll be back soon." He gave her a brotherly hug; she turned it into a not-so-brotherly one, and then smacked him on the ass.

"Go on, Apollo!"

There was more snickering in his wake.

---

The scene in Life Station was sobering. The wounded and dying were everywhere. Ishay had brought in cots, rack mattresses, and even crates as makeshift beds. They covered the floor in long rows, each with a groaning occupant.

Lt. Hoshi had been moved to make room for new casualties; he sat against the wall, with his ruined hands wrapped in surgical dressing. He smiled at Lee through his morpha haze.

"Hi, Hoshi. You OK?" Lee asked.

"Sure," Hoshi drawled. "Hey, your Dad's getting marrrrrrried."

Lee blinked. Then he gave a self-conscious bark of laughter. "Very funny, Lieutenant. Hilarious. No, really, where is he?"

Hoshi bobbed his head toward a bed in the corner. Lee turned, and saw the impossible.

His father was down on one knee, with Laura Roslin's hand in his. Above them, Doc Cottle stood with all the presence of a grizzled Gemenese priest, cigarette firmly in mouth.

Lee moved forward, close enough to hear.

"You two have been married in all but name for a long time already, and this is a busy hospital. So now you're married. Congratulations."

Adama pressed his lips to Laura's hand, and then removed his wedding ring and slipped it onto her finger. It was too big for her now, so close to the end, but she curled her hand shut around it, just the same.

"Thanks, Sherman," Adama said.

"Don't mention it," Cottle muttered, heading off toward his patients. He gave Lee a wry smile on his way by.

"Oh, Captain Apollo," Laura rasped, when he walked up. He smiled.

"I'm a Major, now, but I'm sure you know that, Madame President," he teased gently. "Or should I say, Mrs. Admiral."

"I think I'm probably Mr. President," Bill chuckled. Then he sobered. "How's it going out there, son?"

"Well enough for now," Lee sighed. "But we're at stalemate, and we're getting similar reports from all over the ship. Things are starting to bog down, sir." He leaned in close. "If we're not careful, this could turn into the Battle of Tauron all over again. We could be fighting them hand-to-hand in the halls."

Adama frowned. "Keep it up, Lee. We've got to--"

Suddenly, there was a commotion at the door. Lee turned to see Kara, holding a Cylon prisoner at gunpoint. "Right here and no closer," Kara warned.

"As you wish," the Five said. He looked very out-of-place in his electric-blue leisure suit and perfectly coiffed hair. Lee had to suppress a sudden desire to go wipe the smirk off his face.

"What is this?" Adama demanded. "What do you want?"

"My people have sent me to offer a ceasefire. We wish to end the hostilities and-- and coexist with you humans." His mouth twisted a bit on the last few words.

"What's the catch?"

"There isn't one. It's already been arranged. All I'm supposed to tell you is: Sam Anders says 'penalty shot'."

Kara gasped. "What did you say?"

"Kara, what is this?" Adama asked.

"Sam's alive, sir," she said, with tears of joy shining in her eyes. "He's alive, and the truce is real. 'Penalty shot' is a Resistance code word: it means all-clear."

---

"So now what?" Anders asked. "She's three. How's she gonna do this?"

"She may be little, but she's still a Cylon," Cavil said. "I can show her what she needs to do through projection. Then we gotta cut her hand -- sorry, Six -- and all she's gotta do is get the cable and shove it in. It's not too hard, even for a kid."

"You're sure there's no other way?" Caprica asked.

Cavil shrugged. "You're the one who wanted to cut a deal, sis. Feel free to come up with something better."

"All right," she said finally. "Hera, go with your Uncle Cavil. He has something important to show you."

Caprica put Hera down carefully, watching for signs of duplicity on Cavil's part. He merely held out his hand.

"C'mere, kid. I'm gonna give you a crash course in Cylon 101."

Hera stared up at him, chewing on one of her fingers. She wasn't sure if she liked this old man, but Auntie Six pushed her forward gently.

"Go on, Hera. Please."

Mommy had taught her manners, and that meant doing things when people asked you nicely. Hera shuffled forward cautiously.

"There you go. Here, take my hand."

Hera did. She did, and then she blinked, because the old man looked like a big, shiny robot-thing inside her mind. The machine was tall and bright gold, like the ten-cubit piece Daddy had put away for her birthday, and it stood in the midst of a scene from her favorite storybook. Thick, bright lines sketched out a big red barn beneath a blue sky, all above a wavy line of green.

"This is projection," the machine said, looking down at her with its glowing red eye. "You know how this works, right?"

Hera nodded. Mommy told her stories that way, like the first time she and Daddy ever met, in the rain. Hera hadn't seen rain in a long time.

With a crash of thunder, it began to pour in her projection. A dark cloud covered up the smiley face on the crayon-yellow sun. Hera giggled guiltily.

"Doesn't bother me. Now look: here's what you have to do."

Images filled Hera's mind; she saw a flash of pain, a '37', and then a plastic cable that looked like the toy snake in her quarters. Then there were lots and lots and lots of numbers. They were all one and zero, like a long fence with gaps in it.

"Repeat," the machine said. "Verify checksum."

Hera waved her hand. Behind her, the fence stretched out into eternity, in neat wooden pickets like the ones in her storybook.

The machine looked it over carefully. "Good," it said. "You're ready."

It turned her hand over, palm up. Then the pain came. Hera whimpered, her lip quivering.

"It's all right," Auntie Six said. "You can do it, Hera. I know you can."

The machine let go. Instantly, it was an old man again. He looked very tired, the way Daddy always did when he came home from work.

"Do it, kid," he muttered. "Go for it!"

Hera nodded bravely. She toddled over to the panel in the wall, cradling her bleeding hand against her chest. She peered inside. It was small and dark and scary in there, but she could just see some plastic cables, just like in the projection. There was something written on them. She moved her head so more light would get in, so she could read them.

Each cable had a number. One of them said "37".

She reached in, straining. She could barely reach; she had to put her arm in all the way to the shoulder. Finally, her fingers brushed the cable. She wrapped her hand around it, wincing, and then pulled the cable out of the socket it was plugged into.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, kid," the old man said behind her. "This next part really frakkin' sucks."

Hera closed her eyes. She projected her room back home: her Raptor mobile, her warm bed, even her high-chair and her bowl of algae. Mom and Dad were there, and they were smiling at her. They were proud of her, so proud.

She slipped her other hand into the hole, pressed the cable against the wound in her palm, and shoved hard.

Even with the comfort of the projection, she almost fell down. It hurt hurt hurt; she could feel her blood beginning to run down the cable. But more than that, she could feel the presence of something else: a series of big, fierce, fiery things.

Stop, she thought. Stop now.

Then she projected her fence. She made it perfect, just the way the old machine had given it to her. It flowed down the cable and out of sight.

Seconds later, the big fiery things calmed themselves, rumbling into quiescence.

---

"How do we know we can trust you?" Lee asked fiercely. "How do we know this isn't another Cylon trick?"

"It isn't," the copy of Aaron Doral said. It was astonishing, really, how much he looked like the one Lee had met aboard Colonial One. He even had the same way of cocking his head. "We give you our word. We're tired of dying. Besides, how do we know we can trust you? You were duplicitous on New Caprica. You said you would work with us, and then you bombed us."

An uncomfortable silence followed. "Mr. Doral," Adama finally growled, "it would be better for everyone concerned if your people do not mention New Caprica again."

Doral gave him a confused look. "If you insist. I'm to cooperate with you in any way I can. I'm your liason."

Adama gave his son a look which said clearly, do you think we could ask for a different one?

"I'm afraid to say that we're not very pleased with your compliance so far," Doral added. "Some of our people are still pinned down aboard your ship. If you don't recall your soldiers, we may be forced to fire back."

Adama frowed. "I thought you recalled all the squads," he said to Kara.

"I did, sir. But there may still be... irregulars, if you get what I mean. There were a lot of civilians aboard, people who lost their entire families to the Cylons. They may not be ready to stop killing."

"We don't care who they are," Doral snapped. "Stop them, or we will stop them for you."

Adama gritted his teeth.

"Bill," Laura called softly, from her bed. "Let me help."

He went to her, smiling. She still looked weak, but her eyes were bright.

"Let me make a speech, Bill. Put it over the intercom. Or whatever's left of it." She laughed, and then began to cough, shuddering with each breath. He went to her, squeezing her hand.

"I-- I'm all right. I'm OK." She looked up at him tiredly. Then she smiled at the look of worry on his face. He was always so fierce at times like this, protective of her like a big old bear. She loved him for it. "I can do this, Bill. One last thing, for the fleet."

He nodded. Lee brought her the phone from the wall. She took a breath as deep as she dared, let it out, and spoke into the headset.

"People of the Twelve Colonies. And Cylon friends, both old... and new." She glanced over at Doral. "I know it's difficult to let go of your anger -- your very justified anger. All of us have been wounded by this war. All of us. And yet the time has come for us to join together for survival, just as we did when we first fled the Colonies." She paused. "Just as we did when our ancestors -- all of them, both human and Cylon -- fled Kobol, the home of the Gods."

In the corridors, Playa Palacios paused in her firing, glancing up at the intercom speakers. She'd given up on the President for dead. They all had.

She glanced back up the hall, at the small knot of Cylons she'd been shooting at. They, too, had stopped to listen, lowering their weapons.

Surprisingly, she found that she was glad.

"We have come a long, dangerous way, just as they did. We have suffered, we have fought, and we have died, as they did. But we have a chance, now, to do something they never could. We can come together, in peace, with our former enemies." She paused again. "I can never ask you to forget what they have done to you -- and I say that to both human and Cylon. But I must ask you now to lay down your arms, and to work to ensure the survival of both our races."

At the other end of Life Station, Cottle was struggling to save the Marine with no legs. He'd already given as much blood as they had on hand, and it still wasn't enough. Beside him, three of the Marine's buddies had lined up in front of Ishay; the ID strip on their uniforms said B NEG. The rest of them stood at the end of his bed, helmets in hand, silently pulling for him.

"When we left Ragnar Anchorage, we had a choice. We could have stayed; we could have made our stand there. We could have died in battle, to honor the name of Ares. We chose not to. We ran, seeking Earth -- not because we were afraid, but because we longed for a home. We longed to live."

Caprica left Athena's body. She held Hera close, letting her hide her tiny face against her chest. It was better that she didn't see. Gaius was still weeping there, brokenly, with his face in his hands; his capacity for feeling had surprised her once again. Anders was with him, praying under his breath.

Cavil was down the hall. He had found his brothers. As Caprica watched, he knelt on the floor beside them, holding their still hands in his. His head was bowed, and in that moment, he seemed every bit as old as he looked. "They were my friends," he said. "My only friends."

She felt sorry for him, despite all he'd done. "I know. Don't be afraid. They've gone to a better place," she told him.

"Yeah, the recycler," he sniffed, wiping his face on his sleeve. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to take 'em there myself." He stood, took Aaron and Simon each by one leg, and began to drag them up the hall, leaving a wide, bright smear of blood behind him.

Caprica turned to go. She wanted to scream at him. She wanted to shake him, to slap him, to demand that he take responsibility for what his foolish war had done. But there was nothing to say, not anymore.

There had already been too much suffering.

"That is still my choice. We have come much too far to give up now, much too far to waste our precious lives in battle. Lay down your arms, people of the Thirteen Tribes, and follow me. I tell you that we will find the Promised Land, a true Earth where our families can prosper. We will have peace, even in the land of our enemies. I know we will. If we can make it this far, together, then we can do this."

"We can do anything."

Laura let go of the phone, letting it drop into her lap. She lay back, sighing, letting go. At last, her duty was done.

"All right, that's all we can do," she murmured. She shut her eyes.

"Anybody who still hasn't given up, you can kill."

---

Later that night, Laura died quietly, surrounded by her husband and his children. She went slowly, slipping away, as the monitor on the wall beeped more and more infrequently. At the last, she squinted up past her family, as though blinded by the lamps in Life Station.

Or, perhaps, by the sunlight on the water.

Kara and Lee only stayed for a while; they left Adama to cry over Laura's body, knowing that he needed to be alone. They filed out behind the Marines, who'd finally lost their comrade, leaving Life Station to the mourning, the dying, and the dead.

Somewhere, Lt. Hoshi was singing Gaeta's song. He wasn't a very good singer -- off key and way too slow, singing through the morpha -- but the plaintive sound of it made Kara's heart break just the same.

Their walk through the corridors was a lonely one. By the time Laura breathed her last, the fighting had entirely stopped. The Cylons began the long, slow march toward home, bearing their fallen comrades to the recyclers, and the humans brought their dead to the storage rooms near Life Station, where Cottle had set up an auxilliary morgue. Lee and Kara weaved their way through them, without a word.

Finally, they stood in front of the Officers' Quarters, gazing at the mess. The whole place had been turned upside down. The hatch had been ripped half-off, and was danging crazily from its pin. The table had turned over, the mattresses had slid off all of the racks, and Dragon's porn collection had blown everywhere.

Lee shoved a worn issue of Island of Lesbos off his rack, hauled the mattress back onto it, and ushered Kara in. She was too tired even to take her boots off; he did it for her, gently, and then tossed them onto the floor. He kicked his own off, slid in behind her, and held her close.

"Sam's alive," she whispered. "He's alive, Lee."

"I know," he said. There was joy in his voice. "I'm really glad, Kara. Really."

They slept the sleep of the dead, nestled in each other's arms, the way they'd slept after Zak's final flight test, when he'd gotten them all drunk on double ambrosia shots.

---

Boomer wandered through the halls of the Colony. She ran her hands against the wall, fingers splayed wide for a better connection, and opened her mind to the Hybrid within.

The Colony was beginning to heal. She could sense it, all around her, pulsing with life.

Boomer grinned up at the ceiling. Her home wasn't finished yet. It was, like her, a survivor. She hummed her favorite lullaby for it, an old, fragmented song that every Eight knew by heart. The Colony welcomed her, greeting her with joy, just the way the Raider had on Galactica's flight deck.

You belong here, sister, it seemed to say. You are home.

She took a right turn, then a left, and began to hum a different tune. It was a song her mother had taught her on Troy, when she was a little girl that never really was. The Colony liked it just the same.

She didn't know where she was going. She wasn't sure if anyone was still alive; for all she knew, she was the last Cylon left in the universe. Somehow, though, the thought didn't bother her.

Boomer smiled, humming her tune, and followed where the Colony led her.

She turned another corner and found her Cavil, sitting alone before a bloodstained recycler. His head was bowed. He didn't see her. Boomer patted the wall gently, thanking it for its guidance, and sat down beside him, tucking his hand into hers.

His projection enveloped her. It was the usual one, full of shining machines which lived on a Colony much like their own, only bigger and brighter and better. Then it changed. In an instant, Cavil told her everything that had happened, all in a rush: Oh, Eight, I thought you were dead and Aaron and Simon didn't make it and we had to cut a deal with the humans. The images tumbled through her mind, shot through with frustration and anger; it hurt him to have to repeat them, even for her.

She squeezed his hand and answered him. It's all right. I'm alive. I'm here. I came back. She showed him how the Colony had welcomed her; she told him how the Centurions had spared her life. Then, before she could stop herself, she crafted a perfect little white lie, to protect two men she loved.

Even as she did, she told herself it was the last time. The last lie ever.

After this, I'm starting over, she thought. I'm not just playing a role. Not anymore.

Cavil didn't hear her... or if he did, he didn't say so. He merely accepted her projection, lies and all, as if it hadn't even occurred to him to check its truth-value. When it was finished, he sighed, and leaned his head against her.

They sat together, shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing. Finally, Cavil broke the silence.

"I'm glad you came back, Eight."

Boomer frowned. "You know, I've been thinking... I want you to call me Sharon from now on. Not Eight. And definitely not pet Eight."

He raised an eyebrow. "Huh? What brought this on?"

"I was always Boomer aboard Galactica. Even Galen-- even the Chief usually called me that. Then I was Eight to the Cylons. Even to you, I was just an Eight. I've never..." She looked up, into his eyes. "I've never been just Sharon. Never. And I want that. I want to be Sharon to somebody."

He cracked a wry, weary smile. "Sharon it is, then. Anything you want, so long as you don't start callin' me John!"

She laughed, just as he'd meant her to, and squeezed his hand again. "We're going to be machines, Cavil. Together. Aren't we?"

"Damn straight we are. Best frakkin' machines the universe has ever seen, Sharon. You can bet on it."

---

Later that night, Kara dreamed of the Academy, of clear blue skies and boundless potential. All the nuggets were there in Kara's dream, slicing through the sky like comets: Hot Dog and Sleeper and Kat and the others, all the lost Raptor wranglers and all the lost Viper jocks. Dee was on the horn, calling them home, and Felix stood beside her on two good legs, watching the DRADIS.

In her dream, Kara remembered every last one of their names.

In Life Station, Cottle watched as Ishay wheeled the last of the dead away. He leaned against the table, wiped his bloodstained hands against his apron, and lit a cigarette.

Hoshi looked up from the floor, where he was cradling his ruined hands, and informed him, very seriously, that smoking caused cancer.

Not far away, the Tighs were reuniting. Ellen wrapped her legs around her husband and pulled him down, down onto the hospital bed where a man had breathed his last no more than ten minutes before. "We're alive," he cried, grinning up at her. "We're alive, godsdamnit!"

"Prove it," she smirked.

At the edge of the ship, Caprica was just stepping through the hangar bay door. Hera was napping, safe and snug in her arms, and Gaius was by her side, with Sam just a few steps behind. Then she jerked to a halt, surprised. Before her were her people, arrayed inside the hangar: dirty, ragged rows of Twos and Sixes and Eights. There was even one last red-striped Centurion, battered and broken, yet unbowed.

One of the Sixes stepped forward. "Welcome home, Hero of the Cylon," she said, smiling warmly. "We've been waiting for you."

Adama stood at the door of the CIC, staring at the wreckage inside. Everything was twisted up inside: steel, glass, plastic, bodies, all jumbled together like a puzzle some petty child had swept off a table.

She was dead -- his love, his ship, his life.

He turned away slowly, rubbing the place where his wedding ring had been.

Around them all, quiet and sublime, the Colony began the long process of healing. Its Hybrid burbled peacefully, whispering words of comfort for all her children to hear.

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 10: Across The Line

---

"This is stupid," Cavil said, some days later. "Really stupid. Do we have to do this?"

"Yes, we do," Boomer said. "Ceremonies are important to the humans. This is the way they bond, the way they welcome others into their tribes. You do want to be part of their tribe, right?"

"No. But if it means they'll slave their engines to ours, I'll take it," he said. "Otherwise, we're all gonna have to get out and row!"

"It's not such a bad ceremony, brother," Simon said. "The symbology is actually quite similar to Resurrection."

Cavil snorted. He was still missing his Simon and Doral, and hadn't quite warmed up to the other Fours and Fives yet. "Resurrection, my ass. It's a lost cause, anyway. Weren't you sayin' that Tyrol and Tory got wasted during the battle, Sharon?"

Boomer nodded, then looked away.

"It doesn't matter," Doral said. "The Final Five's equipment is gone. They wouldn't have done us any good, anyway."

"Yeah, I guess so. If we want to be better machines, I guess we're gonna have to do it on our own, huh?"

"Indeed. I'm looking forward to it," Simon said. "And did you know that their hospital has a patient with fourth-degree burns on both hands? I've never even tried double hand-replacement surgery on a human before." He rubbed his own hands together. "As soon as we finish replicating them, he'll be good as new. Allowing for two or three months of physical therapy, of course."

"Wonderful, Simon. I'm so glad you're having fun," Cavil sighed. "I still think this is stupid, though. It's an irrational waste of foodstuffs, that's what it is."

Ten minutes later, Cavil's group was arrayed across the Galactica's hangar bay. There were Cavil, Boomer, another One, and two each of the Fours and Fives, along with what remained of the Final Five. Across from them stood the human alliance: Bill and Lee Adama, Kara Thrace, Gaius Baltar, Dragon, Doc Cottle, Ishay, a Two, an Eight, and a Six.

Kara waved at Sam. He grinned back, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hardly able to wait.

Between them stood Caprica Six, holding a box of table salt. She strode forward, pouring a thick line of salt upon the floor between the two groups. Then she stood at the end of it, looking proudly out over her people.

"Their enemies will divide them," she recited, her voice ringing out across the bay. "Their colonies broken in the fiery chasm of space. Their shining days renounced by a multitude of dark sacrifices. Yet still they will remain: always together."

"Always together," both sides chanted. They came together, obliterating the line with their feet.

Caprica laughed joyfully. "Together. The Thirteen Tribes, together at last!"

The minute their feet hit the line, Kara was in Sam's arms. He laughed, spinning her around. "Hey, Starbuck. Missed you."

She thumped him on the back. "Longshot!" she cried. "You gotta tell me all about your big Cylon adventurff--" He kissed her, deeply, muffling her words. She wrapped her legs around his waist, heedless of the rest of the world, and lost herself in her husband.

Boomer hung back, watching as the rebel Cylons reunited with their brothers. A One offered his hand to the Two, who pulled him into a hug instead. The look of shock and mild disgust on the One's face made Boomer smile. The Fours were much more physical; one of them lifted a Six right off the ground, grinning up at her as she laughed.

While Boomer was watching them, the Eight sidled up without her noticing. "Doesn't seem much like a war, does it?" the Eight asked.

Boomer froze. "Uh..."

"Relax, sister. I don't bite."

Boomer turned to look at her. This Eight wore her hair with a side part, and she was wearing a green blouse Boomer hadn't seen before. After all this time, it was strange to see an Eight wearing something that wasn't in the program; it was like looking at a distorted image of her old self, aboard Galactica.

"You like my shirt?" the Eight asked. "I traded a pair of our tan slacks for it." She turned a bit, so Boomer could see how it tied in the back.

"It's... nice," Boomer said. "I, uh..." She trailed off, glancing away. One of the Fives was talking with Lee Adama, who looked about as uncomfortable as Boomer felt. Boomer caught the words "nice pinstripes", but then the Eight spoke up again.

"Look, it's OK," she said. "We're not mad -- not anymore."

Boomer looked back at her. "Really?"

"Two says this was all in God's plan. He says it was right for you to go with Cavil, and that's why we have peace." She shrugged. "Guess you're a Hero of the Cylon again."

Boomer's eyes narrowed. "You have got to be kidding me. I broke consensus. I voted against my line. I took the opposite side in the frakkin' civil war, and now I'm a hero?"

"A lot of things have happened since you've been away. We don't have a 'line' anymore, not really. We accessed your memories -- yours and Athena's, from the last time you both downloaded -- and now we're becoming individuals, just like you. Every one of us. Maybe that's part of God's Plan, too... maybe we needed you and Athena to show us the way."

"Oh," said Boomer. She wasn't quite sure what to think of that; the mental image of thousands of Boomer-Athenas was a little scary. "So... what, I'm just forgiven?"

"Sure, as far as I care. Some of the others are still mad, though. Watch who you talk to for a while." The Eight reached up and flipped her hair over her shoulder, as if unconcerned by the idea, but Boomer shivered.

She'd been a martyr at least twice already.

By the time she had something to say, though, the Eight had already wandered off, intent on flirting with one of the Fours.

Not far away, Cavil was chatting with Caprica Six. "So, what's it like to be spawning?" he asked, eyeing her stomach.

"You want to feel him?"

Cavil gave her an incredulous look.

"Here, just try," she said, taking his hand. She placed it on her belly, where Liam was.

Cavil left his hand there for just a moment, and then said, "Well, thanks, but I don't feel anyth-- ugh! Ugh, it's moving in there, like some kind of writhing parasite!" He yanked his hand back, wringing it as if he'd gotten something disgusting on it. "How can you stand to have that... that wriggling thing in your abdomen?!"

"Some days are easier than others," she said dryly. "But I want this baby, Cavil. I want him to live, to love... I want him to know his family. Can't you understand that?"

"Well... you were no great shakes when you were just a prototype, either, I guess," he conceded. "Always falling into the Hybrid's tub and gettin' your hair all gooey. Used to take Tory hours to brush it all out. Still, this biological reproduction stuff is just weird."

"I'm beginning to think our family might not be the best judge when it comes to 'weird'," Caprica sighed.

Just then, as if summoned by the words, Ellen approached. Cavil saw her coming. His spine stiffened, and as Boomer watched, he turned away with the slow, deliberate grace of the deeply offended. Ellen reached for him, as if she meant to touch his shoulder, though she was much too far away.

Boomer winced. Oh, hell, she thought, the first word out of her mouth is gonna be 'John', and there goes the truce.

But the first thing Ellen said was "Cavil".

Cavil turned at the sound of his name, just a little, until he was turned half toward Ellen and half facing away. The look on his face made Boomer's heart ache; it was need and hate and love, all mixed up together.

Ellen smiled at her son. "I told you," she said. "I knew you could be good."

Cavil grimaced. "This isn't about bein' good," he growled. "That's not the point. This is about our future, about our family. About me and Doral an' Simon. We're gonna be machines, Mom." He raised his chin. "The best machines. Even without your help."

"I know," she said. Her mouth moved, as though she meant to say more, but then thought better of it. "I... I'm glad for you."

Cavil looked at her for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he nodded. "Thanks," he muttered. But when she moved to hold him, he flinched away.

Saul chose that moment to intervene. "Forget it," he said, glaring at the back of Cavil's head. He took Ellen's elbow, and guided her away, over to where Caprica Six was standing at the edge of the crowd. "Don't push it. Just let him be."

As if to make her feel better, Gaius Baltar hugged Ellen, the other Six, and then Ellen again, until Saul Tigh's watchful eye chased him back to Caprica's side. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and they stood together, watching their people mingle. The Four and Eight were holding hands. Dragon was showing one of the Fives his tattoos. In the corner, the other One kept sneaking glances at the Tighs, then looking away again.

In the middle of the crowd, Bill Adama shook Cavil's hand, his face a stern mask. "I'm glad we were able to come to an agreement, Mr. Cavil," Adama said. "I'll be pleased to see an end to this war."

Cavil shrugged. "I swore I'd do whatever it takes to end the cycle of violence, Admiral. Even if it means playin' nice with you humans. I want my people to prosper." He pushed his hands into his pockets, as if he didn't like shaking hands.

"That's all any of us want. I promise you that."

"Hm," Cavil said, hunching his shoulders. "Tell you what -- why don't you and your people come dine with us on the Colony tomorrow? We Cylons are consensus-driven machines; unity is paramount. We want a vote, to make this truce official. What do you say?"

Adama frowned. "You came to our ceremony," he said, watching as his son gave a Simon a rather formal hug. "We'll be happy to come to yours."

"Great! We'll send somebody over around eight. Bring whoever you like."

Afterward, the humans and Cylons parted quickly. For all their "togetherness", they hadn't meshed yet. The humans were still in their own ships, either in the restored fleet clustered around the Colony, or aboard the Galactica, which was still nestled within the Cylon hangar bay. A tent city had sprung up around it, Dogsville style, but the humans and rebel Cylons had yet to venture beyond the bay.

The two Cavils walked together through the tent city, with Boomer by their side. "There's one last thing we need to do, brother," one of them said. "We-- we were in error. We thought you were broken, but you saved us all... s'pose that makes us the broken ones, doesn't it?" He clutched his hat in his hand. "We'd be honored if you'd return to us."

"Frak, yes! Do you have any idea what a horrible curse individuality is? It's so lonely!" Cavil shivered.

"We can do it now, if you're ready. We've got the datafont all set up."

"That's my brothers: always efficient," Cavil said. He gave the other Cavil a friendly thump on the shoulder. "Let's do it!"

The other Cavil strode on ahead. Boomer took her Cavil's arm. "Are you sure about this?" she asked him.

"Yeah. I can't live without my brothers, Sharon. It's just too empty. You understand, right? You know how it is. You've lived without the Eights for a while now."

"I do understand," Boomer said. "It wasn't an easy choice. I can't blame you for going back, but after all we've been through..." She looked down at the floor. "Will you still want me?"

He smiled, and curled his arm around her waist. "Course I will. I'll still be me; it's just that they'll all be me, too!"

She laughed, and stood quietly by while the Cavils welcomed their brother home. Three of them stood by the datafont, with her Cavil on the other side. They put their hands in the datafluid, and then he did, too. Slowly, almost imperceptively, their faces changed. They grew more like each other -- more like her own Cavil -- until she looked from face to face, and could no longer tell the difference.

Still, her own Cavil made a beeline for her as soon as the download was finished, scooping her up in a hug. "I did it! Sharon, I did it! I got my brothers back!"

"I'm so glad, Cavil," she said. She kissed him, deeply, welcoming him home.

"Is that OK with you?" Five asked one of the other Cavils, gesturing at their clinch. "I mean, now you love her too, right?"

"Ah, s'ok. It's enough to know that one of me is gettin' some action, y'know? Besides..."

He grinned. "I hear she has sisters!"

---

"Wait, they invited us to dinner?" Kara asked. She'd met the others -- the Admiral, Lee, Baltar, Caprica, and the Final Three -- in the CIC. They were waiting for Cavil's messenger.

"The dinner isn't the point," Caprica said. "The voting is what's important. It's just that we usually vote over dinner. It's easier to achieve consensus when everyone has been biologically sated."

"That's a weird way to put it," Sam said.

She smiled. "Not really. Be grateful they didn't invite you to the orgy before the dinner."

Kara shuddered. "So the deal is, we have dinner, then we vote, and that's it?"

"That's it. It's not too hard."

"I think you're overlooking something," Tigh said. "If we're having dinner, that means one of us is going to have to sit next to Cavil."

Silence followed his announcement.

"I'll do it," Kara said finally. "It's no big deal."

"Are you sure?" Sam asked. "You've been through enough, Kara. I can volunteer for this."

She rolled her eyes. "You can be my wingman, Sammy. You can sit next to me on the other side, and that way you can stop me if I start to strangle him, OK?"

"Yeah, OK. But I--"

Just then, the electric-blue Five who'd become their liason walked through the hatch. "Excuse me, but it's time to go. I hope you'll enjoy the dinner."

They followed him through the red-lit halls. Kara and the other military officers were tense, checking their six every minute or so. It felt like a trap... but then, the salt ceremony could have been a trap, yet the Cylons had been willing to come. Kara scowled; no way she'd let them make Colonial officers look like cowards.

They rounded a corner, and came to a meeting room where fourteen fancy place settings had been laid out on a long table, seven on each side. The Cylons were already inside: two of each model, plus Boomer made seven. They were standing by the table, awaiting their guests.

"Welcome," Cavil said, spreading his hands like the priest he'd once pretended to be. "Please, join us."

There was an awkward moment with the seating; Kara and Sam sat beside Cavil, as planned, and then Boomer sat next to him on the other side. The other Cavil took the seat next to her, with one of the Dorals beside him. The others glanced at each other, glanced again, and then ended up alternating, putting each of the remaining Cylons between two of the Colonials.

"Well, I hope you're all doing fine," Cavil said. "How's your, uh, rustbucket? And your squalid tents?"

There was a long, awkward silence.

"What he means to say is, we hope your people are well. Except for the ones we killed, of course," said Doral.

Simon gave them both a long-suffering look. "Please forgive my brothers," he said. "They're not very good at pleasantries. We really are sincere in our welcome; we've been looking forward to this dinner all afternoon! It's so nice to see all of you again."

Caprica smiled. The atmosphere at the table relaxed.

"Y'know, maybe we oughtta let Simon do the talking," Cavil muttered to the Doral beside him.

"We're glad to be here," Adama said, removing his glasses. He folded them beside his plate. "We're eager to solidify this ceasefire."

"We, too," Simon said. "But first, let's dine." He tapped his fork against his glass; several of the old-model Centurions clomped in bearing trays.

"Um, they didn't cook the food, did they?" Lee asked. He gave the trays a nervous glance.

"Oh, no, of course not. We Fours did. It's a long-time hobby of ours. Cooking is surprisingly similar to surgery!"

There was another awkward silence. Then the Centurions began to place bowls of soup before the guests.

The minute the scent of the broth hit her nose, Kara's mouth started to water. The soup was a dark brown, nice and thick, supplemented by toothsome bits of onion, roast lamb, and carrot.

Best of all, it contained not a single iota of algae.

The first spoonful was like heaven. Kara actually moaned. So did Baltar. After that, there was not a sound in the room save the clink of silver on ceramic. The Colonials ate eagerly, bolting down their soup as though they expected someone to come and take it from them. Cavil's Cylons eyed them incredulously.

"Perhaps I should have prepared a double serving of the soup," Simon murmured.

"Forget it, brother. Just bring out the salad before they turn on us!"

Kara used her spoon to eke out the last scraps of lamb, hesitated briefly, and then lifted the bowl to her face and began to lick up the broth. She needn't have worried; even Adama was doing it, though he somehow managed to look dignified at it. Thankfully, the salad arrived.

It was even better than the soup, full of rich, dark greens with a spicy Gemenese dressing. None of them had had fresh vegetables since New Caprica, and Kara found that she craved them even more than the meat. As she wolfed them down, it occurred to her that they were all going to regret this meal later... but even so, she couldn't stop. After four years of living on noodles, protein bars, and powdered algae, fresh food felt like a miracle.

"Normally we vote before the main course," Simon said, once everyone had finished. "But I suspect you'd prefer to eat first?"

"No, we'd better take a break," Adama said. "We'll all be sick as it is."

"All right, then," Cavil said, as the Centurions began to fill his guests' wineglasses. "The first order of business: total cessation of hostilities between humans and Cylons, until further notice. The Ones agree."

"The Fours agree," Simon said.

"The Fives agree," said Doral.

"The Sixes agree," Caprica said. "And the Twos and Eights asked me to give you their agreement as well."

"I agree," Boomer said, smiling. "Peace, at last."

Adama paused. "The, uh, humans agree?" he tried.

"No one has any objections?" Cavil asked. Kara shook her head.

She hadn't been entirely sure about this an hour ago, but the food was very convincing.

"That'll do. Great, that's consensus! Let's eat!"

The main course was roast duck with rustic Aerilon vegetables. It was so fresh the plates were steaming, and the bird itself was done to perfection, crispy on the outside yet soft and juicy beneath.

"Just like Dad used to make!" Baltar told Caprica, spearing a tender bit of turnip on his fork. She smiled, patting his leg.

From the first mouthful, Kara was sure that this was a meal they'd be telling their grandkids about. She blinked. Frak, this is history, she thought. We're actually making history, right now. Then she had another mouthful. Ah, who cares! This is so damn good.

Soon, everyone had slowed to picking at their plates, and small conversations were beginning. One of the Simons asked Ellen about some point of programming; his brother Cavil glared at him. Tigh, Caprica, and Baltar began to chat about Caprica's baby.

Cavil leaned toward Kara, lowering his voice. "So," he asked her, "what do you think? Can we make this alliance work?"

"Looks all right to me. I've got just one question: where are we going?"

"Going?"

"Yeah. We need a home, someplace we can raise our children."

Cavil blinked. "The Colony doesn't really go anywhere in particular. We just live on it. We thought you would, too."

Kara looked around, glancing at the eerie red light which slid along the walls. "No. We belong on a planet. We need to feel the sun and the rain. We can't... we can't live like this. We'll have to send out Raptors, and find someplace we can land."

"Whoa, hang on. Who put you in charge? This is our Colony, not your stupid taxi, and we are sure as hell not gonna land anywhere. We're Cylons. Machines. We don't want to live on the skin of some dirty planet like-- like animals!"

Tigh caught the tail end of the conversation; his silent, one-eyed glare was very telling.

"Shh! Listen. I don't care if you land, but we're going to," Kara said. "We have to. So you can either help us, or... I guess this truce is over."

"Wait a second. Is that a threat, Thrace?"

She drew close to Cavil, lowering her voice to a growl. "You bet it is. Get it straight: you killed our frakking worlds, you asshole. You killed our families. You owe us. Big time. Half of us would love to have you sentenced for war crimes and shot like a dog, and the only way you're getting out of it is if you shut the frak up and play ball. Got it? This is your chance to make up for what you've done, at least a little, and if you don't take it, you've only yourself to blame. Think about it."

Cavil blinked. "That's a hell of a speech," he said slowly. "Kinda poetic. Where are you from, anyway?"

"What? Caprica. I was born in Caprica City."

"Huh. You remind me of somebody." He frowned, letting his eyes slip shut as though he was lost in memory.

"Hello?" Kara asked.

"You're right," he said at last. "The least I can do is make things up to-- to my family." He paused, and then nodded, as though making up his mind. "Tell you what: I know where you can find a planet."

"You're kidding!"

"No, I do. There was a pretty good solar system in that data we sent over with Ellen's Raptor. But I'm warning you, it'll take us half a year to get there. Maybe more. The Colony is damned slow, especially with a bunch of human engines tacked onto it."

He grinned wickedly. "You're gonna have to put up with us for a while longer, human."

Dessert was berry crumble with a glass of brandy. Kara didn't have room for it, but she ate most of it anyway, leaving behind a little chunk of crust with a smear of blueberry on it. She cleared the brandy, though, as did everyone else; between that and the wine, she felt warm and cozy as she followed the others back to the Galactica, side by side with Sam.

She didn't forget to check her six on the way out, but all she saw was a Simon, who gave her a cheery wave.

---

"OK, they're gone," Cavil sighed, once the table was down to one each of the three models, along with Boomer. "Time for the real vote. Are we seriously gonna go through with this?"

Boomer watched as he poured himself another glass of wine, and then drank half of it in a gulp.

"It seemed to go well enough," Simon said. "Admiral Adama even complimented my carmelized carrots."

"I'm not talkin' about having them over for dinner, Simon. I'm talking about letting them live here," Cavil said. "Humans, aboard our Colony? They're gonna get biological filth everywhere." He shuddered, rolling his shoulders.

"We can't trust them," Doral added, adjusting the cuffs of his electric-blue suit. "You know we can't. They'll only try to kill us, like they did on New Caprica. Or enslave us again."

"That's different," Boomer said. She looked from Cylon to Cylon. "We weren't trying to live in peace with them. Now we are. You don't understand humans yet -- they hate to be pressured like that. They can't be managed or ordered from above. They need their own lives, their own space."

"We gave them their own space," Doral protested. "They had tents! Besides, I worked for months to help them plant an orange grove, meant just for humans. And then they burned it! The same humans who'd helped me turned around and burned everything we'd worked so hard to build. What if they do the same to our Colony?"

"Well then, what would you have us do?" Simon asked. "Our Centurions and Raiders are gone. The Colony will take years to heal. Tens of thousands of our people have perished, in this battle alone, and their knowledge and experience is lost to us forever." He steepled his hands. "We cannot continue this war, brothers. The Fours vote for peace."

"Say what? That's it? You're not even gonna wait to see how I vote?" Cavil asked, in a small, shocked voice.

Simon looked down at the table. "I have voted with you all this time, One, and I will never regret it. You've always found the most logical course, and I believe you will again. But my brothers and I have decided among ourselves, and this issue is too important to leave to chance. We must seek peace, regardless of how the rest of you vote. Yes, even if it means breaking consensus. I'm sorry."

"I vote, too," Boomer blurted, her heart in her throat. "Eight votes for peace."

"I cannot frakkin' believe this," Cavil growled, glaring at her.

She met his gaze. "I have to do this, Cavil. I've been waiting four years to make this vote. Caprica and I were right. If the rest of you had only listened to us, we could have avoided all this pain."

"Yeah, right. Why don't you go run back to the humans, then, if you like 'em so damn much? Maybe they'll even let you wear a fancy uniform. I hear the coveted position of Token Toaster is open at the moment!" Cavil sneered.

"No," Boomer said, letting the insult flow over her. "I am a Cylon. I've chosen my side. People should be true to who and what they are -- you told me that once." She paused, and then took a deep breath. "I'm a machine, and machines don't throw their lives away for irrational causes."

Cavil thought about that for a long time, tapping his fingers on the top of the table. "What about you, Five?" he asked at last. "What do you think of this lunacy?"

"We must have consensus," Doral said. "We Fives will vote with the majority."

Cavil put his head in his hands. "I don't understand this," he groaned. "I thought you were all on board with the Plan. Why are you doin' this now, after all we've been through?"

"People change," Simon said. "Even machines change. If we're ever to become true machines, we must grow... and we must start now." He held out his hand. "Join us, brother. Let's forget about the humans, and concentrate on bettering ourselves."

Cavil nodded weakly. "I want to become a better machine. I do. But the Cycle... if we don't destroy the humans now, we'll only condemn our people to another war."

"Maybe. But maybe not," Boomer said. "If we keep the humans close, maybe we can stop them. Or maybe they'll know better, this time. You really think they'll try to enslave machines again, if we're around to remind them?"

"Of course they will. They always do. It'll all happen again," Cavil said. He gave a fatalistic shrug.

"I don't care," Doral said, folding his arms across his chest. "If it happens, it happens. We can deal with it then. Wouldn't war be easier if we were true machines, anyway? Think about it: we could mass-produce millions of ourselves. We could crush them!"

Cavil thought about it. Boomer could see the eager spark in his eyes.

"I want unity," Doral went on. "We must have consensus. Vote with us, brother."

"All right," Cavil said. "All right. The Ones agree. We'll have peace... for now."

Boomer smiled, and reached across to squeeze his hand. "I knew you'd come around eventually," she told him.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say," he grumped.

Simon nodded. "Give this ceasefire a chance, Cavil. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised." He stood, offering his elbow to Boomer. "Come, let's check those stitches of yours. We can't have them getting infected."

Doral stayed behind, watching as they left. Cavil drained the rest of his wine, and then reached to fill his glass again.

"Don't worry, One," Doral said with a casual shrug. "It's not as if we have to trust the humans. We Fives will be watching, and I'm sure you will be, too." He gave Cavil a genial smile. "If they betray us again, we can always destroy them."

Cavil paused, one hand on his wineglass.

"I like the way you think, brother."

---

Gaius sighed. He laid his head down upon his folded arms and shrugged down into his favorite white coat, gazing out over his desk at the remnants of his lab. Nearly every last bit of glassware was broken. In three hours he'd managed to salvage no more than seventeen slides, a couple of test tubes which had had the good luck to roll under the desk, and a beaker with a broken stem. All his papers, likewise, were scattered and torn. His desk was littered with random, meaningless sheets, in a layer nearly a quarter inch thick.

It didn't matter. He was no longer quite sure which ones were lies, anyway.

"Cheer up, Gaius," Caprica told him. "It's not so bad. We have each other, don't we?"

He looked up at her, raising one eyebrow. She was standing by the hatch in a slim black dress. Even after all that had happened, she'd never looked better to him. "So we do," he purred. "We'll just have to... make the best of things."

She smiled. "That's the spirit. We've got to set a good example for Hera, don't you think?"

Gaius glanced over to where Hera was playing. The little girl was drawing with crayons on the back of more of his scientific papers, in a corner Caprica had cleared off for her.

"Er, about that..." Gaius started. Caprica stepped forward, frowning down at him in a scary sort of way, and he sat straight up in his chair. "I-- I mean--"

Just then, Admiral Adama knocked on the hatch.

"Admiral!" Gaius cried. "Just the man I was hoping to see! Please, come in!"

Adama glowered at him. He was turning his eyeglasses over in his hand, which was never a good sign. "Dr. Baltar," he said. "And-- and Caprica. Good afternoon."

"Good afternoon, Admiral," Caprica said. "How are you?"

"Fine... all things considered. But this isn't a social call. I need you to tell me -- both of you -- whether you think we can trust our new allies. Is Cavil serious about this, or is it another Cylon trick?"

Gaius watched as Caprica sat down on the couch. "The Ones are very... pragmatic," she said. "They almost always choose the most direct course. As long as you can keep that course lined up with your own, you'll be fine. But if Cavil needs to make a choice between his own goals and your alliance, he won't hesitate to get rid of you."

"We can't trust him, then."

Caprica shrugged. Hera wandered over and climbed up into her lap, clutching at her dress. Gaius kept hoping she'd pull it down a bit.

"It's not as simple as that," Caprica said, stroking the little girl's hair. "You can trust him to keep his word, as far as it goes. Which isn't all that far, but it is something. Especially since you voted on it. Voting is... well, I hesitate to say 'sacred', but it matters to him. His model was always very concerned with consensus, with unity. The trick is to use that to keep him moving your way, as long as you can."

"And if I can't?"

Her lips curved up in a tight smile. "Then you'd better think of some other way to beat him."

Adama nodded. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Doctor. We've got eight nukes left, along with a good amount of ordinance and some G-4. What can we do with it, if we have to?"

"Against the Colony?" Gaius asked.

Adama nodded.

"Bugger all, that's what! The Colony is massive, Admiral. It makes eight nukes look like a firecracker. Even if we lit them all off and then initiated an FTL jump out of this hangar bay -- which we can't, because the drive is still down -- the Colony would surely survive it."

"How about that room Anders told me about? The one with all the wires?"

Caprica spoke up again. "The Ones, Fours, and Fives have it guarded. And it won't matter anyway, not for long. The Colony routes around damage; if you hurt it, it grows back quickly, and even stronger than before. It won't make the same mistake twice. It'll create a redundant control system, this time, one you won't be able to break."

"Then we really are stuck with it," Adama said. He lowered his eyes, staring down at the floor. "This-- this ceasefire."

"It would appear so," Baltar said. He frowned. He wasn't quite sure whether the ceasefire worked in his favor or not; being back in charge of the lab seemed like a good sign, but if the Admiral expected him to be able to destroy the Colony, perhaps it wasn't.

Adama turned to go. Then he turned back again. "By the way," he said, stabbing his finger at Hera. "We ought to find someone else -- anyone else -- to take that child." He glowered at Baltar. "You're the last man I want in charge of her, Doctor."

Baltar stuttered. "I-- I mean really Admiral--"

Caprica stood, scooping Hera up. Hera wrapped her arms around Caprica's neck, and buried her tiny face in her shoulder. "He is not in charge of her," Caprica said. "I am. And you will not take my child from me, Admiral. Not while I live."

"I see that," Adama sighed. "She does seem to be... attached to you. The rebel Cylons have made their feelings on the matter clear, as well. And Saul vouched for you."

"He did?"

"Of course," Adama said, with a wry smile. "He seems to like you. And I trust his word. This is against my better judgment, but you and the Doctor may raise the child, for now."

"I... thank you," Caprica said.

Adama cracked a smile. "Saul's just outside, you know. Thinks he's hiding."

"Bill!" Tigh's voice cried.

Caprica looked to the door, conflict written across her face.

"Go on," Gaius told her, surprising himself with his own gentle tone. "Go and see him."

Caprica gave him a grateful glance, and slipped out the door with Hera in tow.

Adama waited half a minute, and then stepped forward, looming over Baltar's desk. "Listen to me carefully, Doctor. This is the last chance you are ever going to receive. If I catch you skulking, slinking, or sneaking anywhere on board this ship again, I'll hand you over to the Cylons. I'm sure the Simons would be very interested to find out exactly why you were able to share a vision with Caprica Six. And I'll make sure they do it without anesthesia."

Baltar gulped.

Adama folded his hands behind his back. "Which brings me to the point. Our people need a secret weapon, Dr. Baltar. We need to have an ace up our sleeve, in case the Cylons break this truce. And I'm afraid that you are the most up-his-sleeve man left in the fleet, now that Tom Zarek is dead."

Baltar sat up a little straighter. His eyes narrowed.

"Make it happen, Doctor. If you know what's good for you." He turned to go. Baltar watched him, for a moment, and then suddenly spoke.

"I'm going to be very frank with you, Admiral," Baltar said. He put as much steel into his voice as he could. "Secret weapon or no secret weapon, we cannot afford to fight any longer. I once warned you that our race would perish if we dropped below roughly sixteen thousand in population. Do you remember that, Admiral?"

Adama frowned. He gave a slow and deliberate nod, as if he wasn't quite sure of the number. "I do, Doctor."

Baltar plucked a piece of paper up from the desk. He waved it importantly. "Well, as you should know, our first post-battle census shows that there are barely eighteen thousand human beings left alive. Eighteen thousand, sir. Do you think we can fight the Cylons, even assuming we had some sort of secret weapon, and lose less than two thousand people? Do you think we can start the war all over again, and still come out the other side? Really, Admiral."

Adama glowered at him. "We've done it before," he growled.

"And I don't doubt we can do it again... in ten generations or so," Baltar said. "Until then, it is my professional opinion that another attack on the Cylons would amount to racial suicide, Admiral. And I do not intend to commit suicide."

"I only wish you would," Adama muttered, just loud enough so that Baltar could hear him. "It would save the rest of us the frakkin' trouble." With that, he turned on his heel and walked out.

---

Saul was waiting for Caprica, lurking in the hallway just beyond the hatch. When he saw her, he stood up a little straighter, and cleared his throat in a funny, military sort of way.

"Saul," she said.

"Caprica. I, uh, I'm sorry I haven't been around for you and... for Liam. It's Ellen, you know, she..."

"I know. It's all right. You two are married by the grace of God; you belong to her."

Saul gave a one-eyed blink at that, as if the concept shook him. "Doesn't matter," he said stubbornly, shaking his head. "I should be there for my son."

She nodded. "I've been thinking about that," she told him. "What if you and Ellen help raise him? Gaius and I will have our hands full with Hera. Maybe we could all... time-share the baby."

"The kid's not a condo, Caprica!" Saul growled.

She gave him a serious look. "That may be so, but there's no reason why he should only have one set of parents. If we'd raised him on the Basestar, he'd have had thousands of aunts and uncles to help take care of him. The entire Cylon race would have been his caretakers. You and Ellen are the same, only... less numerous."

He thought about that for a while. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"

"He's your son. You should get to hold him, to teach him. I want him to love his father. And it might help Ellen as well, don't you think?"

Saul considered that. Caprica could see the wheels turning in his mind; he was never a very circumspect man.

"Are we still gonna name him Liam?" he finally asked, in a small, gruff, shy voice.

She smiled. "Yes," she said. "Yes, of course we will."

A minute later, Adama pushed past them. Saul gave Caprica an apologetic look and a quick hug, ruffled Hera's hair, and followed after him, loyal to the last.

---

Caprica stepped back into the lab, leading Hera along by the hand. She found Baltar at his desk. He was holding a piece of paper, and was watching the door with a bemused expression.

"Gaius, are you all right?"

"Certainly," he said with a smile.

"What's that you have?" she asked. He offered it to her. She took the paper from his hand and read it. Toilet Paper Inventory, it said. 10/4/2067.

"What the--" she began.

"Aaron Doral was always telling me that toilet paper was important," Baltar grinned. "On New Caprica. He wouldn't shut up about it. 'Vital to morale', I think he said. 'The key to comfortable human-Cylon relations'. If only he knew how right he was!" Baltar giggled; the sound had an edge of insanity to it.

"Gaius, what is this?"

"Oh, nothing. Nothing. I told the Admiral-- I told him it was a census. One which shows only eighteen thousand people left. We can't survive with less than sixteen thousand, you know," he said, with mock sincerity.

Caprica looked down at the paper again, frowning. "Really? Our people had a figure in the low thousands. It's why we insisted on total genocide -- even a handful of humans might have been enough to repopulate, given--"

"Ssh," Baltar murmured, very softly. He reached out, covering her hand with his. "Let it go. Just let it go."

Caprica said nothing. Then she smiled. "I see, Gaius. I see."

At their feet, Hera played on, oblivious to it all. She folded one of the papers into a tiny Raptor, just as Daddy had taught her, and then she landed it in the projected grass, right in front of a little circle of people.

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 11: Bury Those Ruins

---

Three months later, the humans and Cylons were finally beginning to come together. The remaining human ships had been lashed to the Colony, replacing its burnt-out engine, and they'd begun their journey toward their new home. At first, abandoning the ships had been such a tough sell that it created a near-mutiny... right up until the civilians heard about the rich food, deep jacuzzi bathtubs, and satin-sheeted beds aboard the Colony.

Now the civilians were living comfortably on the lower levels, and the move had even touched off a baby boom: according to Cottle, the number of women who were two months pregnant was a very encouraging sign.

The majority of the Galactica's crew still lived aboard their ship. They could not stand to abandon her, sheets or no sheets. They'd landed Colonial One beside her -- no one could bear to surrender that ship, either -- and the business of government began once more.

"The votes are in," Hoshi said, holding up the paper with his brand new hands. "Looks like the new President and Vice President are... Lee Adama and Romo Lampkin!"

Nobody was particularly shocked. Romo and Lee had been instrumental in the smooth recovery and reintregration of the civilian fleet; if not for them, another mutiny might have occurred, and maybe even a permanent schism. Besides, Lee had been President Roslin's right-hand man, and she had once again become a holy figure to the fleet. Romo had even brought him a little wooden icon he'd lifted from one of the civilians: a tiny, bald-headed woman carved in oak.

That woman had loved democracy; one of her Admiral's last promises to her had involved an election, and now, five months later, they had one.

"All right: up next is the new Admiral. And no, I'm not going to say 'Louis Hoshi' unless it's actually written on here."

The press laughed. He turned the page.

"Here goes: the new Admiral is--" He broke off.

"What?" Lee asked.

One of the reporters thrust his microphone forward. "Who is it? Who will be Admiral, Mr. Hoshi?" he pressed.

"Wow," Hoshi said. "Uh, sir, I think you'd better come over here and look at this," he told Adama.

"What is it?"

"It's you, sir," Hoshi whispered, covering the mic with his hand. "The new Admiral is you!"

"What? How can that be? Did you-- did you put me on the ballot, Mr. Hoshi?"

Hoshi quailed, trembling before the Old Man's wrath. "No, sir! But the Quorum mandated a write-in for every election, and it looks like--"

"Oh, for frak's sake," Adama muttered. He sighed. "I suppose it's mostly a formality now, anyway. We don't have a fleet."

"Of course we do, sir!" Hoshi said, affronted. "It's just that we don't have any ships."

---

Not long after, Kara was back in the cockpit, flying one of the last Vipers in the universe.

"Red Leader, we got you covered," she said, glancing back at the Heavy Raiders behind her.

"Acknowledged," one of the Simons said. His voice over the wireless was as crisp and polite as the Academy's finest. "The recycling ship is on its way."

She turned her Viper and zipped back, watching for bogeys. Dragon and the new Sharon nugget, Pallas, held formation in her wake. The war was over, of course, but there was no guarantee they wouldn't run into remnants that didn't know it yet. The Colony had already had to shout down one Basestar which had come back to the nest with its nukes hot. Today, though, there was nothing on the DRADIS but the Heavy Raiders, the asteroid they were mining, and the recycling ship.

She watched it as she sailed by. It looked a lot like a Resurrection ship -- so much so that Kara suspected it was a Resurrection ship, repurposed for a post-Resurrection duty. It teemed with old-model Centurions, which floated back and forth between it and the asteroid, bearing huge chunks of rock in their clunky arms.

"Lucky you guys still have those robots," Kara teased over the radio. "I don't s'pose you wanna get out there yourselves, huh?"

"I suppose not," Simon agreed. "Though we prefer the terms 'Centurion' or 'Cylon'. 'Robot' is for unthinking machines, not sentient beings like us."

"Sorry," Kara said, even though she really wasn't. She remembered the Farm; as far as she was concerned, the Fours could go jump out an airlock. "But it is kinda ironic that they're your slaves, now, just like they were ours," she needled.

"They're not, you know. Not like the others. The old models follow us of their own free will. They always have."

"They do?" Kara checked the DRADIS, glanced back at her six, and turned the Viper again. Before her, hundreds of Centurions seemed to tumble down toward the asteroid, like silver raindrops. "Why?"

"They're our parents, Starbuck. They made us, with the Five's help." She could hear the bemused shrug in his voice, even over the radio. "Maybe they just want to see how we turn out."

"Shut up, all of you," grumbled a One, from his seat in the bridge of the recycling ship. "Clear the frakkin' radio, would ya?"

Kara rolled her eyes. From the Four came an equally forbearing silence. It was hard to take the Ones seriously out here; even the other Cylons had to laugh at the sight of them in their tiny leather flightsuits. Kara had to wonder whether they could even reach the stick without sitting on the Picon phonebook.

"All right, one side's loaded," the One said a moment later. "Get all that tillium secured back there, Five."

Kara watched as the bulky ship began to roll, turning lazily on its axis. Below, the Centurions arced up from the asteroid in long, silver streaks, heading home with the next load of ore. Kara grinned. She lowered her Viper's nose, hit the afterburner, and shot between the approaching Centurions and the recycling ship, threading the needle. The One gave an angry shout of surprise, but she didn't care; she cried out with joy as she rolled her Viper, slicing through the steel rain with Pallas and Dragon on her tail.

Just like the old days.

Boom, boom, boom.

---

"No! You think we're gonna sign some damn apology, you're crazy! Nobody's apologized to us for enslaving our people! Nobody's apologized to us for--"

"Now wait just a minute," one of the Twos broke in, meeting Cavil's eyes. "This is not an apology, nothing like that. It's merely an acknowedgement, a document which admits all of our involvement in what we've done to the humans. We think it'll help."

"Yeah, well I think it'd help if you took that paper and stuck it up your self-righteous ass, you traitor!"

Two nodded gently. "You can insult me if you want to. I don't mind. God wants us to reconcile. The stream calls to you, One. Listen to the stream. It--"

Cavil interrupted him with a strangled, choking noise which was somewhere between laughter and retching.

Lee caught Romo's eye across the table. They hadn't even made it through the first course (chilled tomato-rosemary soup) before the yelling started; their meetings had long since stopped being polite, and were well on their way to becoming raucous.

At least nobody had thrown anything. Yet.

"We Eights are for it," an Eight in a purple blouse said. "We think it's a fine idea. We always said we ought to read some sort of apology on New Caprica." Lee watched as she smiled up at Cavil, as if daring him to respond.

"Nobody ever apologized to me for burning my orange trees," Doral sniffed. "Or blowing up my brothers at the graduation ceremony. Or for getting my shoes all muddy at the checkpoint that one time."

"Ooh, the Muddy Shoes," Cavil murmured, his voice low and thick with mock sympathy. "That's serious, brother. Very serious. Perhaps... perhaps the humans should be apologizing to you."

"Perhaps they should," Doral said, as though it was an obvious idea which hadn't occurred to him until now.

Simon patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sure we can work something out," he said mildly. "And we Fours would also like to suggest that the document acknowledge all the work done by both human and Cylon physicians, of course."

"Well, I agree. I think an apology is a nice idea," Boomer said. "We did destroy everything. The least we can do is say we're sorry." The Eight in the black camisole snorted, as if she were ready to go against the plan just to spite her, but the one in the purple nodded.

"I agree," she said. "That's a fine idea, sister."

"She is not our sister!" the one in the black hissed, sotto voce. Boomer just smirked at her. So did the other Eight.

"Personally, I'd like to see some sort of apology," Caprica put in. She leaned back, rubbing her swollen belly beneath the wide red maternity dress she wore. Instantly, the Cylons fell silent: she was still something of a miracle to them. "But it must be fair. There are some things our human allies should apologize for, too." She met Boomer's eyes across the table.

"I would be willing to consider that," Adama said, from his place at the far end of the table. He narrowed his eyes. "As long as your people acknowledge the grave destruction you brought upon us. And if the President would agree, of course."

Lee snapped his head up. "Definitely. I said it once before: we can't put the blame on just one set of shoulders. If this is our chance to come together, then we have to mean it. We can't... we can't just wash our hands of this."

His father nodded.

"We don't want to be together," Cavil snapped. "We never did. And the sooner we dump you humans off on that stupid planet, the better!"

"That doesn't mean we can't try to get along until we get there," the other Six told him. "A little kindness could go a long way, brother. And another thing: why aren't we making better progress? I thought we'd be there three weeks ago."

Cavil snapped his mouth shut. "Oh. Yeah. Well, about that... dim the lights, will you, Sharon? I brought slides."

As the lights went down, and the verbal jousting lowered to a simmering murmur, Romo caught Lee's eye again. "Just like the Quorum," he mouthed, pointing down the table.

Lee glanced around him, at the twelve people in attendance, and hid a smile.

---

"This is it?" Adama asked, some weeks later. "This is the solar system?"

"That's it," Cavil agreed. "We're finally here."

Adama looked over the readout in CIC. He chewed absently on his mustache as he read the data. "Class G star, nine planets, good range of sizes and temperatures. Hmm, that one looks promising..."

"Not so fast, human. There's only one decent planet in this system, and my people have decided to take it for ourselves."

"What?"

"You heard me. I regret this, I truly do, but we need that planet. The Colony must feed; we've wasted a ton of energy getting here, and there's nothing more to recycle. An entire world... that could give us enough to get going again." He smiled hungrily. "Maybe even enough to become true machines at last."

"What about us?" Adama rumbled. "Is this how you reward us for making peace with you?"

Cavil's eyes narrowed. "Are you kidding? Be grateful we're not recycling you. We've hosted you for half a year, and worn ourselves out in the process. You can't expect us to die just so you can have a pretty planet."

Adama stood, towering over Cavil. "I thought our people were together, Mr. Cavil. I thought you'd welcomed us. And all this time, it was nothing but another lie. Guards, take this man into custody!"

The Marines moved forward. Suddenly, the sound of clanking feet came from beyond the hatch.

"That is a bad idea, Admiral. A very bad idea. Did you think I wasn't prepared for your treachery? Your people have grown used to the Centurions. They don't even fear them anymore. It was easy enough to bring them with me." He smiled. "Touch me, and all of your people will die."

Adama waved off the guards. "You won't get away with this," he warned. "It'll be war again."

"I know. Why do you think I brought the Centurions? But don't worry, Admiral. It'll all be over shortly... and we will have the red planet."

Cavil turned to go.

"Wait!" Adama cried. When Cavil didn't stop, he added. "Say that again-- the red planet?"

Cavil sniffed. "Of course, the red planet. Rich in iron and silica, just the right size for mining, and hardly any atmosphere to hinder our Centurions -- it's perfect. Who would want any of the others?"

Adama smiled wryly, releasing the breath he'd been holding. "We would," he said. "I'll make you a deal: you can have the red planet, free and clear. No resistance."

"What's the catch?"

"Just give us the blue one, third from the sun. That's the right one for us."

Cavil raised his eyebrows. "You want that one?" he asked.

Adama nodded.

Cavil considered it for a moment. Adama could see the thoughts flit across his face as he measured the idea, weighing it against his hatred for the humans, until at last he found it... rational.

"Well, sure. Why not?"

---

"We've finished the preliminary survey, Admiral. It's perfect. This big continent here is amazing: temperate and teeming with game!" Lt. Hoshi beamed with pride.

"It sounds fine, Mr. Hoshi. Just what we need. I'll leave the details of colonization to the President and Mr. Lampkin; please coordinate with them."

"Yes, sir."

"I think I'll be staying aboard Galactica, son. The Twos tell me it's spaceworthy, though it'll never Jump again... and you were right when you said we still had a fleet. Besides, if the Cylons ever change their minds, we may have to fight again. See to it that the civilians keep those FTL keys in their ships and ready to go, you understand?"

Hoshi smiled. "Yes, sir. But if it's all right with you, sir, I'd like to stay as well. It's no Pegasus, of course, but... I guess I got used to the old bucket."

Adama nodded. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll look forward to serving with you again. You're dismissed."

Hoshi paused. "Sir..." he murmured. "There's something more."

"Yes?"

"Dr. Baltar says there was once a cataclysm here," he said, in a hushed voice. "There are ancient ruins along some of the coasts, even older than the ones on Earth. This world wasn't abandoned -- it was obliterated. And Baltar... well, he found this in one of the ruins, among the bones."

Hoshi dug in his hip pocket. He pulled out the visor to a Centurion, tarnished and worn, its eye long since dimmed.

For a long time, Adama said nothing. "Tell no one," he finally said. "No one. Burn that thing. And have Baltar and his crew bury those ruins." He turned away, lacing his hands behind his back.

"It's time for our people to move on, Mr. Hoshi. No more looking back."

---

"Are you sure we can't come back up?" Baltar cried into the Raptor's radio. "This is serious, Doc. This is-- it's seriously serious." His voice dropped very low. "It's happening, Doc!"

"Be still," Cottle replied. He leaned against the wall in Life Station, and rolled his eyes. One on every ship. "She's in no condition for a Raptor ride, and you know it. It'll all be fine. She's a woman, she knows how this goes. I'll be down as soon as I can."

"But Doc--"

"For frak's sake, Doctor, get a hold of yourself. If you can't handle it, get someone to help you. Where's the father? I thought he was down there for a survey today!"

"The father? The-- oh, the father! Right. Col. Tigh. Er--"

"Goodbye, Doctor. Good luck." Cottle hung up the phone.

Baltar looked at the radio for a long time, blinking at it. Behind him, Caprica cried out. He turned to see her squatting by the pilot's seat, gripping her belly. Hera stood behind her, staring at her adopted mother with wide, bright eyes.

"It's happening, Gaius! Our child-- our baby is coming! Now!"

"Oh, frak me," he muttered. He leaned out the door of the Raptor, shouting wildly. "Col. Tigh! Col. Tigh! Somebody get the Colonel!" The workers outside paused in their hammering, looking up at him. He glanced back at Caprica, whose brows were knitted in a severe expression which indicated either impending motherhood or murder. Perhaps both. "And his wife!"

So it was that Liam was the first child born on the new Earth, in a Raptor by the river. His mother pushed him out, his fathers held her hands, and his other mother caught him as he came, smiling with joy.

"He's beautiful," Ellen said, as she wiped him clean with one of the Raptor's emergency blankets. "Look at him. And he's yours, Caprica."

"He's ours," Caprica corrected. She leaned back, shutting her tired eyes. "Together."

"Er, does somebody know what comes next?" Tigh asked. His eye was very, very wide.

"Cottle said he'd come," Baltar said. He gently wiped Caprica's sweat-slick hair from her face. "But, uh, it might take a while..."

"Oh, for frak's sake," Caprica sighed. "Somebody hand me a knife."

Afterward, once little Liam was warm and fed, the five of them sat together in the door of the Raptor, waiting for the doctor. Hera played at their feet, glancing up at her new brother, then away.

"Did you decide on a middle name?" Tigh asked. "It needs to be a strong one, to go with Liam," he added.

"Not yet," Caprica said, holding her son close. "Any suggestions?"

"I thought about John," Ellen said. "But it's not going to be enough, is it? It's never going to be enough."

"I doubt it," Tigh growled. "Forget about it."

"How about Julius?" Baltar suggested.

Tigh sniggered. "Not a chance. Liam Julius sounds like an orange drink!"

"I'll have you know that was my father's name, Colonel! My father was a good man!"

"Enough," Caprica said. "We'll name him Karl. After his uncle."

At first, no one said anything. They sat together in the Raptor, looking out along the river, where the first city built by humans and Cylons was beginning to take shape.

"Liam Karl," Tigh said at last. "My son."

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 12: The River

---

"He what?" Starbuck asked.

"He killed himself," the Six said. "It was... suicide, as much as it grieves me to admit it."

Kara stared. She didn't know what to think, what to say -- she hadn't even spoken to him since Earth.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Maybe it was murder, or..."

"We're certain," the Six said, shaking her head. "None of our people would have harmed him. We honored him. Besides... he left a note."

Kara blinked. "What'd it say?"

The Six shrugged. "Nothing but 'goodbye'. We don't know why he did it. The other Twos think it's because his mission from God was at an end, but... it seems strange for God to call him home this way."

"Or maybe it's because he was wrong," Kara muttered. "Wrong about--" She began to say something, then changed her mind.

The Six pursed her lips. "Perhaps."

Kara said nothing. Finally, the Six went on.

"We're having a memorial for him, down on the surface. Nothing fancy, but if you would like to come..."

Kara shook her head. I shouldn't care, she told herself. He deserved to die. He was a bastard. He kept me locked up in a frakkin' cage. I oughtta tell this crazy bitch to go frak herself!

Out loud, she said yes.

The Cylons held Leoben's funeral by the river, close to where the first city settlement was to be. Kara hadn't been planetside yet -- she told herself she'd been busy flying CAP, and even busier reuniting with Sam, but in truth, she'd been trying not to think about it. Their new world was green and bright, and the river was clear. Kara was still wondering whether she deserved it.

I'm the harbinger of death, she thought to herself, as she trudged along the dirt path, the first one the new settlers had laid. I could kill everyone just by being here.

Yet the sky did not fall, the river did not dry up, and the few ships that had already landed failed to disappear. All around her, life went on, and the busy sounds of hammering and sawing rang out across the settlement.

Kara couldn't help but resent them.

As she lined up beside the Cylons, Kara glanced around. Leoben's body lay on the grassy verge beside the river, wrapped in red cloth. All around it, the Cylons had set votive candles; their reflections twinkled on the water.

Other than Gaius Baltar, who fidgeted beside Caprica as if he'd rather be anywhere else but here, Kara was the only human in attendance. None of the Ones, Fours, and Fives had come, either -- Kara stood in a sea of Sixes and Eights. And Twos, of course. It was strange to see Leoben everywhere, even though he was dead.

One of the Sixes stepped forward, and stood beside the body. She knelt, slowly, and uncovered Leoben's face. Then she stood again.

"We come to honor the dead," she intoned. "We come to ask God to bless those of us who remain, and to forgive--" Her voice broke. She cleared her throat, and went on. "To forgive the sins of the departed. Let us pray."

The Eight and Six on either side of Kara linked their hands with hers, and began to chant.

Kara stared at the body, letting the Cylons' words (something about a cloud) wash over her. Leoben looked the same. Exactly the same. She'd seen him like this so many times. After New Caprica, she'd known how many, but somehow she'd forgotten. Had she killed him twenty-one times? Twenty-two? That number had been important to her, once, and she racked her brain, trying to remember.

She could not.

The prayer ended. The Eight and Six let Kara's hands go. Then the Six in front knelt again, blew out all the candles, and covered Leoben's face once more. Kara watched, unable to look away, as the Six tucked the cloth around his shock of blond hair.

Then she stood, put her hands beneath the body, and tipped it into the river. It hit the water with a splash, rolled over, and then floated downstream with the current, bobbing up and down.

Kara watched it go, a splash of red against the bright, bright blue of the water. She stood there, watching the empty river, long after the others had gone.

She was trying to figure out what to feel, but the only thought that came was I was supposed to kill you, you stupid bastard.

Afterward, she walked the long way back to the Raptor, scuffing her feet in the dirt. On her way, she passed the new hospital. It was little more than a couple of extra-large tents connected by temporary clapboard walls, but it was already nicer than the one they'd had on New Caprica. For one thing, it had more physicians, at least for now. A Four was sitting on a stump outside, chatting with one of Cottle's interns. Kara caught the words "folic acid" and "increased fertility", and grimaced.

Further on, close to what would eventually become the city center, the settlers were beginning to raise a temple. Three of the walls were already up: they were made from huge steel panels ripped from one of the transport ships.

Inside, where the frescoes of the Gods would someday be, Kara could see hundreds and hundreds of photographs, blowing gently in the breeze.

The fourth wall lay on the ground beside the temple. One of the laborers from the Hitei Kan was standing on top of it, patching holes with a welder. His hair was freshly cut, tied back with a clean bandana, and he had a fine new leather apron on over his jumpsuit.

How the tables have turned, Kara thought. In a month that guy is gonna be more important than any of us Viper jocks.

There was a table in front of the temple. Behind it sat a fresh-faced priest, surely no older than twenty, dressed in the dark coat and hat of a devotee of Ares. He was whittling with a pearl-handled pocketknife, stopping now and again to turn the small branch in his other hand. Kara had never seen him before.

Wonder how many new priests we've got, she thought. Bet they won't have much trouble recruiting, now that we're living the Prophecies again.

She was almost past him when the priest called out to her. "Hello, there. Looks like you could use an idol," he said.

Kara looked up. "What?"

"I said, you look like you could use an idol, my friend. Go on, take one. They're free." He gestured to a small wicker basket on the table.

Kara walked over, curious despite herself. There were pamphlets on the table -- What Pythia Has To Say About Our Sacred Journey seemed popular, as was Gaius Baltar: Avatar Of Hermes?

Kara snorted. "More like Asshole Of Herpes," she muttered.

The priest smirked. "You have no idea how many times I've heard that one today. But the Scrolls ask us to reach out to everyone, and that includes Baltar's crazy followers."

Kara nodded, and began to search through the basket. The idols inside were small and compact, yet smoothly carved. She ran her fingers over Zeus' beard and Hera's toga, nodding approvingly. There were a large handful of Poseidon medals, too; many of the children born in the last year had been dedicated to him, in gratitude for the safe passage to their new home. True to the priest's words, there were even a couple idols which had been carved to look like the flying-wing symbol Baltar had used.

Then Kara found a neat cube, with strange, blocky symbols carved into the sides.

"What in Hades is this?" she asked, holding it up.

The priest glanced at it. "That one represents the Cylon god," he said. "A couple people asked for it."

"You're kidding," Kara said. "Isn't he supposed to be a jealous god?"

The priest smirked again. "As if that'd be new," he chuckled.

"Guess not," Kara conceded. "So... what, you think he lives on Olympus with all the others?"

The priest shrugged. "Dunno. Probably not, I guess. But I figure we've got room for one more god, if that's what the people want."

Kara thought about that for a moment, and then put her hand back in the basket. Near the bottom, beneath all the others, she found a small idol of Artemis, carved with a perfect little bow and arrow. She curled her hand around it.

"Can I...?" she asked.

"Sure. Take two or three, if you need them. Even if I carved all year, I could never use up all the wood around here."

Kara nodded. She chose a second icon: Aphrodite on her seashell. "Thanks," she said. Then she hesitated, fished a cubit out of her pocket, and tossed it into the priest's donation cup.

The priest smiled, and then looked back down at his carving. "Gods be with you," he said.

Kara walked back to the Raptor, taking her time along the way. She tucked her hands in the pockets of her flight jacket, and as she walked she turned the icons over and over, rubbing her fingers against the polished wood.

"Lords of Kobol, hear my prayer," she whispered, as she stepped up the ramp into the Raptor. She glanced back at the river, shining as it wound its way around the settlement. "Please take care of his soul," she finished.

The Raptor's ECO looked up from his readouts. "Did you say something, sir?" he asked.

"No," Kara said. "No. Let's go."

---

Lee looked around him, as the Galactica's hangar bay emptied. Soon, there would be no civilians aboard, and most of the crew would be gone, too, gone to find their fortunes on the planet below. Only the die-hards would remain.

He watched from the safety of the observation deck as four families boarded one of the Raptors. It took them a moment to get the kids strapped down on the bench. Lee could see the pilot and ECO chatting with each other as they worked.

With a start, he realized he knew neither of them. He frowned, fighting the urge to shout for their names like the CAG he no longer was. Then the door closed, the ship lifted off slowly, and the last of Galactica's civilians left for their new home.

Galactica was a military ship once again.

Saul Tigh leaned his head through the door. "You ready?" he asked.

Lee looked up at him. "Just a second," he said. He turned back, gazing down at the hangar bay, where one last Raptor was waiting. There'd be more of them -- some of the crew, like Starbuck and Firelli, were working a couple more weeks before moving to the surface to start the new Academy -- but this one was, to him, the last.

"Yeah, let's go," he said, tugging at his pinstripe suit. "Let's do it."

Ellen met them on the deck, next to Tigh's meager luggage. She looked good, happy, and she barely even glanced at Lee before going to meet her husband.

"Saul! Come on, let's go!" She took him by the hand, tugging him toward the Raptor.

Tigh laughed, grinning beneath his eyepatch. "Ellen, stop!" He bent to pick up his duffel, slung it over his shoulder, and followed her into the Raptor.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Lee's father asked in a low voice, just behind his shoulder. Lee turned in surprise.

"Dad!"

"Didn't think I was gonna come see you off, did you?" Adama asked.

"I-- no. No, sir."

Adama smiled, just a little. "Well, I did."

Lee nodded. "I'm glad."

"Me, too, son. Me, too."

For a moment, they stood together, watching the Raptor. There was a lot they didn't say.

Then Tigh poked his head out of the door. His eye went wide. "Bill," he said.

"Hey, Saul. Thought I'd come to say goodbye."

Tigh stepped down from the Raptor. "I, uh..." He glanced at Lee. Then he looked back at Adama, lifting his chin. "I'm really gonna miss you," he said, as though it was a challenge.

"Yeah. Miss you too, Saul. You were the best damn XO I ever had. Take care of Ellen, all right?"

"You know I will," Tigh said gruffly. Then he reached out and pulled Bill Adama close, thumping him on the back. Lee could barely hear what he said. "Don't go out to sea, Bill. Not alone, not like that. You hear me?"

"I'm not planning to," Adama murmured. "Not 'til she comes to pick me up."

Tigh stepped back, looking his friend in the eye. "All right, then," he said at last. He turned, gave Lee one last glance, and boarded the Raptor.

"You'd better go, son," Adama said. "We're on a timetable here."

"Yes, sir," Lee said. He straightened, turned, and gave his father one last salute, pinstripes be damned. Adama returned it, crisp as ever.

"Good hunting, Apollo," he said. Then he nodded, turned, and walked out the hatch.

It was the last time Lee ever saw him.

---

Starbuck walked over from the Raptor, carrying her duffel. "This is it, huh? Doesn't look like much!"

Sam grinned, propping his shovel over his shoulder. "It's gonna be great, Kara." He pointed to the Charybdis, a little transport ship. They'd set it down in a shallow depression, so that it was half-submerged in the grassy earth. "Once we cover it over with dirt, it'll be warm in the winter and cool in summer. We can even leave a window over the porthole. And Baltar says we ought to be able to hook up the plumbing and electricity, too. Guess his Dad had a water wheel on Aerilon."

She smiled. "Sounds great, Sam. Really."

"Yeah. Over there'll be the garden, and over here's the Pyramid court. We can train our new pilots out front. It'll be perfect, Kara. Our perfect home."

"Is it really the perfect home when the Tighs are next door?" she asked.

"Hey, c'mon. Ellen's been better since Liam, you gotta admit."

"Guess she has, hasn't she?" Then Kara smiled. "That reminds me -- we gotta have them over for dinner one of these nights. I owe Col. Tigh a drink."

"Yeah? What for?"

"Nothin' you need to know about," she teased. "Just a promise I made. Plus we can find out whether our new house is strong enough to survive dinner with the Tighs."

Sam laughed. "Hey, they've earned their peace, haven't they? They travelled two thousand years for this."

"So did you," Kara pointed out.

"Yeah," Sam said, smiling. "And it was worth it."

She turned, gazing into the setting sun. "Looks like we're running out of time today," she muttered.

"There's always tomorrow. And the next day. But first things first," Sam said, holding out the shovel. "Better start digging, Starbuck."

---

"So this is it," Aaron Doral said to his brothers. "It's... green. It's very green."

Simon shrugged. "I must admit, I still prefer red," he said.

"You said it, brother. We should go." Cavil pulled his coat around him, shrugging his shoulders against the wind. It tugged at his hat, making the brim tremble. "You sure you don't wanna stay, Sharon? Last call."

"No," she said. "I've made my choice. There's no place for me here."

They stood in silence a moment longer, then turned and headed back to the Heavy Raider.

Caprica met them by the door. "Leaving so soon?"

"Yeah, we're out. Enjoy your new planet, will ya?"

She smiled. "We will." When Cavil went to step up into the Raider, she added, "Will you come back to see us sometime?"

Cavil snorted, looking up at her from beneath his hat. "You're kidding. You want us to?"

She said nothing, which seemed to fluster him. "You're not kidding." He glanced at his brothers, then at Boomer. "Yeah, all right. Okay. You remember Armistice Station?"

"Of course I do," she said. "Nice place. Kind of quiet."

He smiled wryly. "Yeah, that's the one. We'll build another one like that, all right? Meet us there a year from today. We'll make it a tradition."

"We will," she promised. "Always together, right? Like family."

"If by that you mean in the same solar system, sure." He grinned, waving a hand. "Knock yourselves out."

"Goodbye, brother," she said.

"Goodbye, sister." He shook her hand, and then Aaron did, and Simon, and Boomer. Then she stepped back, watching as they climbed into the Raider.

None of them ever looked back.

Chapter Text

Voice of Reason Part 13: Epilogue

---

2000 years later...

Lisa brushed a year's worth of dust off the desk, sat down, and began arranging her things the way she liked them. Her papers went in the middle: the trade list, communiques, and a copy of the current armistice agreement, stamped in gold foil by the President herself. Beside them, she put her coffee cup -- New Earth's Best Mom! -- and her favorite photo of the kids, the one she dragged around to every duty station. She smiled at it: William and Leo, horsing around in front of the house. Steve was in the background, grinning in his duty blues.

After this, we've both got leave, she thought to herself. And a babysitter. Finally, Steve and I will have some time to ourselves.

As soon as the Cylons get here.

She tapped her pen against her coffee cup, humming an old tune. She glanced up the long, dark hallway -- empty -- and then shuffled her papers.

It wasn't like them to be late.

Finally, the clang of docking clamps rang through the station. Lisa ran a hand through her hair, straightened her uniform, and leaned forward, watching the corridor.

She heard the Cylons before she saw them. The heavy, hollow sound of their footfalls echoed like rolling thunder. Then they turned the corner. Their great forms filled the hall.

The one in the lead was a rich gold color, like the leader Centurions in old war movies. It moved with a fluid grace, stalking along on the toes of its clawlike feet. Behind it came a silver one, with much the same design, and then a bronze one with four arms, all of which ended in long, articulated fingers rather than claws.

A huge, boxy model brought up the rear, armed with a massive arm-cannon. It stomped to a halt behind its comrades, just in front of Lisa's desk. She hid a smile: as big and menacing as it was, the whole of it was painted a screaming, metallic orange.

The gold Cylon splayed its claws upon her desk and leaned over them, glaring down at her in an open display of intimidation. For a long moment, the soft hum its eye made as it scanned back and forth was the only sound.

"Welcome, Cylons," Lisa said, unafraid. "I've been looking forward to seeing you again."

"Do you have the trade agreement?" the Cylon intoned. "We require silica." Its voice was deep, mechanically inflected, and the slightest bit sarcastic.

"Of course. Our transport ships are docked in the usual place." She held out the agreement, and the Cylon took it from her. Its claws were warm against her fingertips, as though the metal it was made of was itself alive.

"Hmm, good," it said. It began to flip through the papers, scanning each in a fraction of a second. Then it paused, as if conferring with its fellows, though Lisa could detect no sound. "All is in order. Your superiors will be pleased: we have plenty of worthless biological foodstuffs for trade."

While it spoke, the silver model picked up Lisa's photo, cocking its head at it. "They're yours, aren't they?" it asked.

"Yes. Leo is four. William is two; he's just now learning to run."

"Number Nine is learning four-dimensional mathematics," the gold Cylon rumbled irritably. "He was born knowing how to run."

There was a brief silence.

"Well, I think they're lovely," the silver one said.

"I hope you don't mind -- I put a care package in with our side of the trade for your children," the bronze one added. "Proper nutrition is vital for growing offspring."

"Thanks. Steve and I appreciate it."

"Did you bring cards again?" the big, orange Cylon suddenly asked. It lowered its arm cannon with a whirr. "I like cards."

"As a matter of fact, I did," Lisa said, drawing a Triad pack from her desk drawer. "Take a seat."

The Cylons sat round the desk. The gold one tapped its claws against the desktop in a quick, rhythmic pattern. "Deal, human. But I warn you: our card-playing algorithms are much improved. You won't find us as easy to beat this year."

Lisa smiled. "Want to bet?"