OBT Forum

Adama exchanged a glance with Ripley as the delegation from Beowulf filed into the conference room.  He noted that only three of the eleven wore military uniforms—the rest, as she predicted, wore expensive suits.  He kept any expression from his face as he, Commanders Lorne and Jayne, Colonels Tigh, Thorean, and Foeswan, High Justice Lampkin, and the newly sworn in President and Vice-President of the Colonies stood.

He caught Lee’s eye and the President nodded—as did Tom Zarek.  And Caprica as well, who was here representing the Cylons that had joined the Fleet.  Adama scowled at her presence—but Lee had insisted.  After all, this meeting would affect them just as it would the human refugees.

Lieutenant Gorman was the twenty-third man at the table, sitting between the two sides . . . and for such a junior officer he was remarkably composed.  Which is too say, he looked nervous and out of place.  Bishop, sitting at his side, on the other hand, was stoic and at ease.

Adama waited until the guests had all taken their place and he nodded at them.

“Welcome aboard Galactica,” he said.  “I am Admiral Adama—may I introduce you to the President of the Twelve Colonies, Lee Adama?”

Polite nods were exchanged—but the Admiral (and Lee and the rest) caught the slight smirks on the faces of most of the civilians.  Just as Ripley had said, they automatically assumed nepotism was at play.

The uniformed woman nodded her head.  “I am Admiral Hayes of the United America Alliance; this is Admiral Bao of the China-Asian Congress and Commodore Sir Edward Morton of the Three Worlds Empire,” she paused.  “And this is Director James Sinclair of the Interstellar Commerce Commission.”

Adama smiled politely and nodded his head at each of them in turn—and just as Ripley had said they would, they had brought the ICC with them, he thought.

“Please, be seated,” Adama said and everyone sat.  “Are these gentlemen and ladies representatives of your government?”

“No,” spoke one of the civilians.  “We represent a number of corporate interests here in Beowulf—all major players in interstellar markets.”

“Such as Weyland-Yutani,” Adama growled.  “We have already met an executive of that corporation.”

Several of the executives bristled, but one smiled broadly. “Yes . . . where is Carter Burke?  He should be here for this meeting to . . . assist us in processing this event.”

“He is sleeping off an alcohol-fueled bender,” Adama answered in a sour voice.  “We are quite . . . displeased with Mister Burke.”

“Oh?” asked the same executive—his face now set and emotionless.

“Yes.  Are we not going to wait on diplomatic officers from your governments?” Adama asked.

The same executive just smiled.  “Why don’t we get started—these officers will confirm that any arrangements made here today will be binding on the national governments.”

“I see,” Adama answered.  “We had not planned to begin negotiations today—I was going to take you on a tour of my ships and give you a short briefing on the Cylon threat.  Mister President—if the government is prepared to proceed, we can adjust our schedule.”

Lee waved one hand.  “Certainly, Admiral,” and he leaned forward with a smile on his face.  “We are seeking a home—a place where we may rebuild our civilization.  We had hoped to avoid leading the Cylons to you, but we have been unable to slow their relentless pursuit.  Before we discuss that, however, I would like to file, formally and on the record, a complaint about your Carter J. Burke.”

“A complaint, Mister President?” the Weyland-Yutani rep said with a slight smile.  “I am certain that . . . given the difference in language and culture, any misstep by Mister Burke was unintentional.”

“One would hope so,” Lee answered.  “But I am afraid that is not the case here.  Mister Burke has been trying to divide this Fleet in the hopes of gaining exclusive access to our technology—we will not permit such an action.”

All of the CEOs smirked momentarily before their faces blanked.  The Weyland-Yutani rep just smiled.  “A misunderstanding, I am sure.”

“As the President says,” growled Adama, “we hope it was merely a junior executive pushing his authority too far.  I mean, I doubt that he had the authorization to promise this Fleet that he would settle them on Earth.”

“Excuse me?” asked Sinclair—and the corporate execs got rather quiet.

“He assured me,” Tom Zarek said with a smile, “that his corporation could arrange for the ICC quarantine of Earth to be waived—and promised nothing less than the title to a place known as . . .,” Tom paused.

“Tierra del Fuego, wasn’t it, Mister Vice-President?” asked Lee with a smile.

“Thank you, Mister President,” Tom smiled back.  “That was it, Director Sinclair.  In fact, he promised the entire Fleet a new home on Earth if we wanted it—but only in exchange for exclusive rights to all of our technology for Weyland-Yutani.”

“No one breaches ICC quarantine protocols,” Sinclair growled, casting at glance down the table at the Weyland exec.

“That wasn’t the first time he said he could . . . circumvent the ICC,” Admiral Adama added with a smile.  “From the reports I have read on the . . . incident on Acheron, Mister Burke attempted to convey two specimens of the alien species encountered there back to one of my ships for shipment to Earth.”

A deathly silence fell over the table, and the blood drained from the Weyland exec’s face.

Ripley sat forward.  “I was there, Director Sinclair,” she said, “along with Lieutenant Gorman and Bishop and the single survivors of the colony and the four Marines from Sulaco who managed to escape with their lives.  When we protested and told him that he would never get those specimens through ICC quarantine, he brushed aside our concerns and said there were ways.  And since they were worth millions to the Bio-Weapons Division, he ordered us to load them.  We didn’t.  He was rather upset over the entire matter.”

Sinclair glared at the Weyland exec, who swallowed.  “None of this was sanctioned by the company, Director—it was one junior executive exceeding the boundaries of his authority.”

“This matter will be investigated—thoroughly,” Sinclair said, turning his attention back to the Colonials.  “Settlement on Earth is out of the question.”

“We understand,” Lee said with a smile.  “And we are open to trading some of our technology with you in exchange for a world to call our own,” and his voice hardened as he looked at the corporate execs.  “But we are not naïve, nor are we innocent children to be taken advantage of.  Accordingly, to protect our own interests, we have formed our own corporation—Twelve Colonies Limited—with one voting share held by each and every member of this Fleet.  Twelve Colonies Limited owns outright all technology possessed by this Fleet, and only the board of Twelve Colonies Limited, of which I as President am the chief executive officer thereof, may negotiate for any licenses to our intellectual properties.”

“Well, I am certain that this is all quite legal in your home civilization, Mister Adama,” said one of the execs, “our laws only recognize corporations properly filed with the ICC.”

“That was a fact which Madame Ripley and Bishop brought to my attention,” said High Justice Lampkin.  “I have prepared the documents required under your laws, and since you are present here and now, Director Sinclair, as the direct representative of the Interstellar Commerce Commission, I would like to file these documents with you . . . to ensure that Twelve Colonies Limited has all of the rights and responsibilities entitled under the law,” the lawyer smiled and he slid a thick document across the table.

James Sinclair returned that smile and he tapped his fingers on the document.  “There is a . . . significant filing fee, you realize.”

Lampkin nodded.  “We understand that it has been delayed in the past—although the ICC will be owed interest on any delay.  We would be willing to offer to the ICC a royalty on all technology licenses until the fee—and a reasonable rate of interest—is paid in full.”

“I will have my staff look over this document,” Sinclair said, “but as of now, I officially confirm receipt of your filing.  Should there be no errors within the document that would cause it to be voided, we will consider Twelve Colonies Limited a registered corporation under the auspices of the ICC Board.”

And the blood drained from the face of every corporate exec in the room.  In contrast, the three Terran military officers were fighting to keep smiles off their own faces.

“Now, until my staff determines whether or not this document is indeed legal and in the proper format, I believe that we should suspend further negotiations,” Sinclair stood.  “For myself, I would love to take that tour you spoke of, Admiral Adama.”

“Mister President?”  the elder Adama asked of the younger.

“By all means, Admiral.  But I do believe that Lieutenant Gorman and Madame Ripley also have a document—a report on the events that occurred on Acheron; with copies for Admiral Hayes and Director Sinclair both.”

Sinclair’s eyes twinkled as he was handed two more bound reports, and he passed a copy down to Jenna Hayes.  “And Mister Burke’s report?” he asked.

“He hasn’t assembled one, Director,” Ripley said sweetly.

“Ah,” replied Sinclair.  “Shall we begin the tour, Admiral?”

“After you, Director,” Adama answered.

“So, the Thirteenth Tribe sees our oppressed brothers as property,” muttered Cavil after Caprica had returned to her Basestar.  “And will they treat us the same?”

“So far, Adama—both Adamas—have not informed the Thirteenth Tribe of our existence.  I believe that the good Admiral will be speaking with their military leaders and this Sinclair later today on that subject,” Caprica said quietly.  “And speaking with this Bishop,” she shuddered.  “He looks human—but he is very, very different.  Both in temperament and physiology,” she whispered as she remembered the demonstration with the knife that Bishop had made to her.  She shuddered again.

But then she smiled.  “Apparently though, the Thirteenth were just as shocked at our mechanical brethren as I was at their . . . synthetics,” she enunciated the unfamiliar word carefully.  “They seem to accept human-form creations, but not mechanical.”

Cavil snorted.  “Creations?  Try slaves.”

Boomer sighed.  “Look, we are not going to have this argument again—what was their decision?”

“It was as President Adama said,” replied Caprica, “they have given each of us human replicant Cylons one equal share in this Twelve Colonies Limited scheme they have dreamed up to stave off the scavenger corporations.  However,” she said, “two-thirds of any profits generated by our shares are going to . . . be withheld are a token of reparations for our actions against the colonies.”

“Two-thirds?” snarled Cavil.  “What next?  They are going to settle us on this Acheron?”

Caprica shook her head.  “No.  Their offer is fair—and they released the Cavil and D’Anna who they were holding.  As a sign of good faith,” she nodded to two replicants who stepped forward.  “They have gained much information on the Thirteenth Tribe from Bishop, and I believe that you should all pay attention to their words.”

“What of Gina?” asked Boomer.

Caprica sighed.  “I was permitted to see her—she suffers.  As a result of the abuse done to her on Pegasus,” the woman swallowed a lump in her throat.  “She wants to die—to not resurrect.  And I have agreed,” she said to the horrified shock on the faces of her fellow Cylons, “to instruct the Resurrection Hybrid to purge her from the system when her time comes.  She will not be uploaded into a new body.”

“They broke her,” whispered Cavil.  “And you two want us to cooperate with them?”

“What we want no longer matters, John!” snapped Boomer, her scar tissue twisting with her emotion.  “Now, we do what we must to survive.”

“For how long?  We cannot procreate!  Only one of us has managed to conceive or impregnate even a human being—much less ourselves!” Cavil thundered.

And Caprica smiled.  “Actually, the synthetic Bishop believes with the Thirteenth Tribes medical technology, he can correct that . . . defect in our genetic code.  If he can, then we will be able to continue our race—even without Resurrection.”

All nine Cylons in the command center stared at her without a word. 

Cavil was the first to regain his composure.  “Do the humans know?”

“Not yet, John.  It might be . . . awkward.  This revelation can wait until after we forge an agreement to fight the Guardians.”

And one by one the human replicants began to smile and nod their agreement.

Fixed.  Gorman's report probably included that they speak a dialect of Greek . . . so Sinclair, Hayes, and the others have all flash-loaded that language.  It wasn't spelled out though.

And I fixed the double-post.

MA

Thanks for clarifying

“Do me a favor,” Helo said out loud to the pilots in the ready room.  “Clear the compartment—perhaps you can work on getting your berths strack for inspection.”

The astonished pilots stared at Helo and he nodded.  “That is right—inspection at 1100 hours tomorrow.  I’d get cracking on it, people,” the acting CAG said amiably, and slowly the pilots and ECOs stood up and made their way out of the compartment.

Except for one Kara Thrace.  Who instead lifted a flask in a sardonic salute.  “Well, I’m gonna flunk that inspection, Helo.  When did you get such a stickler for the rules and regs?”

Karl Agathon sat down at the table and he flipped over a cup and held it out.  Kara shrugged and she poured some of the potent liquid into it.  And Karl took a sip.  And coughed.  “Needs to age a bit a more,” he gasped.

“It’s raw,” Kara agreed.  “Raw just like the hand that life has dealt me,” she said in a bitter voice.

“So, are you going to become the drunk that you always detested in Tigh?” asked Helo.  “Sitting here on your ass because your boyfriend turned out to be a Cylon?”

“You don’t know wh- . . . ,” Kara began, and then she winced at the look on Helo’s face.

“I don’t know about being in love with a fracking toaster?  Is that what you were going to say, Starbuck?”  He shook his head and took a sip.

“Leave me alone, Karl.  You’re CAG, you can run things, and I’m on the inactive list.  Just leave me the frack alone!”

“Not gonna happen, Captain Thrace.  We’ve let things slide—maybe it’s time, past time, we started getting our own house in order.”

Kara snorted.  “Well good luck with that, Captain Agathon, Sir,” she said in a bitter tone. 

“You know, Starbuck, you are a right bitch when you drink.”

She glared at him and he just glared right back at her.  “You, of all people.  You know what I went through with Sharon—with Athena.  And there on Caprica, you met Sam Anders.  You fell in love with Sam Anders—with that man, Kara.”

“He’s not a MAN!” she bellowed.  “He’s a fracking Cylon!”

“What a load of feldercarb,” Helo said with a snort. 

Kara looked up in surprise.  “Now that’s a word I haven’t heard in a while.  Been slumming with the Taurons?”

“It fits.  Your attitude smells to high heaven and sticks everywhere,” Helo answered.  “He didn’t know he was a Cylon.  He spent his entire life living as a human and never knew he was a Cylon.  He fought the Cylons.  He saved your ungrateful ass from the real Cylons at least twice.”

“Hey, I was grateful—he knew exactly how grateful I was,” she ground her teeth.

“That’s why this is tearing you up, Kara,” said Helo.  “You won’t get past that he is a Cylon—you think I didn’t have the same reaction with Athena?  But I came to realize that I loved her—that she was going to be the mother of my child.  Kara, do you love Sam Anders?”

Starbuck opened her mouth and Karl shook his head and held up one hand.  “Did you love Sam Anders on Caprica when we had to leave him behind, when you promised him that you would come back—not for the resistance, but for HIM?  Is he still the man you fell in love with Kara, and if he is, why the frack are you here drinking alone instead of being in his bed?”

She glared daggers at Helo but Karl just smiled and shook his head.  “That isn’t an answer, Kara.  Let it go.  So what if he is a Cylon?  He’s the only Sam Anders in the universe and the only one that will ever be.  The toaster’s Resurrection Ship doesn’t have another Sam on board so if he dies, he dies forever.  Commander Jayne has sworn him in as an officer over on Scorpia—a Marine officer.  He isn’t coming back if he buys the farm, Kara.  I’d say that makes him about as human as you and me.”  Helo stood.

“Lee’s not here to kick your ass, Starbuck.  And none of these other pilots will take you to task—your job as CAG is here, I’m just filling in and you know it.  Now quit moping, quit feeling sorry for yourself, put down the drink, and admit to yourself that you still love Sam Anders.  And then get that knee rehabilitated and take back over the fighter jocks before they frag my toaster-fracking ass.”

Starbuck burst out in a fit of laughter, and it faded into her crying and Helo knelt down and he held his friend—he held her tight against his chest as she cried and cried and cried.

Episode 17:  Something Wicked This Way Comes

Judith Kerns wiped away the sweat from her forehead as she leaned back on her ankles, her knees still buried in the rich thick soil of her home—so very far away from the overcrowded Earth of her birth.  She gazed over the long rows of green sprouting plants and—despite her aches and pains—she smiled.  The orange glow of the giant star at the heart of the system had finally dipped beneath the horizon of moon which orbited one of her gas giants. 

Named Thedus, the colony of Epsilon Reticuli was one of the furthest outposts of Mankind—and had been for more than a century.  Unlike most such far distant settlements along the frontier, Thedus had proven ripe for transplanted human life—currently the population had just crossed the five million mark, with immigration continuing every single month on the bulk-freighters that Weyland-Yutani dispatched here with the mission of loading the valuable mineral ores mined from the crust.

Although not as plentiful as in the early days, the mines remained profitable enough to ensure that the population of Thedus was well taken care of by the Corporation—and their associated government.  Pretty much, though, the UAA left Weyland-Yutani alone, and the riches of Thedus had ensured that the Companies normal harsh operating procedures were not needed.  Thedus had never rebelled, or stopped the ore shipments, or burnt the Company store—and because of that the managers here used a lighter hand than many.  Judith sighed.  She had certainly lucked out in the lottery for a spot on a colonization flight—with all of the hell-holes mankind had settled, here she air she could breath, water that she could drink, vegetables and tubers able to be digested by humans, and few hostile predators.

It was a paradise, compared to the dirt and grime of Old Earth, so crowded that one could not breath, nor ever see the sky through the clouds heavily laden with acidic rains and soot.  Which didn’t mean she had it easy, Judith thought with a snort.

No, it was hard work here, building a home—but now she had the field laid in.  Her field.  Her land.  Owned by her in full title, with no debt to the Company or any bank or a loan-shark.  It was hers and hers alone.

And she smiled.  At least until she found a husband and had some children.  She brushed the dirt off of her hands and kept on smiling as she stood.  There was a supper tonight at the pavilion in the center of the small community—a covered dish supper where the men and women and children building a new world gathered to give thanks for all that they had.  And to find what they did not have.

She needed to get clean and finish her potato and sausage casserole—and if Edward Blake was there, maybe tonight was the night she could get the dullard to finally pop the question!

A deep whine in the air above her made her frown—no ships were expected today, she thought.  She looked up and saw this unfamiliar shape streaking through the clear sky above—shapes, she realized.  Three of those strange elliptical craft.

She heard a whine behind her and turned around—and gasped as three metallic . . . things . . . stood there holding weapons in their hands.  They were humanoid, but far from human.  And across a screen on their heads where a visor would be for a man or woman, a single red pulsing light slowly bounced from side to side.

She backed away, and then turned to run as one lifted a weapon—she managed to take three steps before something struck her in the back and an electrical shock sent her convulsing to the ground.  But she could still hear, although the language was one that she did not understand.

“Imperious Leader,” one said in a hideous monotone that sounded utterly devoid of emotion.  “We have made contact with the outlying villages.  Shall we begin the Harvest?”

And through the radio that the creature carried, she heard a girlish laugh.  “Yes, Centurion, by all means, Harvest for us their flesh.  Preserve a breeding population for future use—have them transported to my command ship—the rest?  Flay them.”

“By your command,” the Centurion answered and he turned to his companions.  “Take her to the transport—she is of breeding age and will be useful.”

Judith was lifted and she tried to scream, but her muscles were still frozen—and then saw the thousands of these creatures cresting the ridge.

“Begin the Harvest,” the Centurion said and the Cylons advanced on the quiet village below, their metal feet trampling her young crop in their wake.

Admiral Adama frowned as James Alistair Sinclair and a new arrival took a seat in his office.  “You did not inform me that a synthetic was attending this meeting,” the Admiral said in a cold voice—and both Sinclair and the new arrival smiled.

“Admiral, this is no synthetic.  May I present Michael Bishop Weyland the Second, Chief Executive Officer of Weyland-Yutani Corporation?” Sinclair said.

“My body-form was copied for the Hyperdine Model 341-B synthetic, Admiral,” Weyland said with a genial look on his face that nonetheless did not reach his eyes.  “It is my tiny act of hubris in achieving immortality—after a fashion.”

“I see,” Adama said, and the look on his own face was one of extreme disdain.  “What did you want to discuss—in private, Director Sinclair?”

“Yes,” the man from the ICC said simply.  “We have much to discuss, Admiral.  Mister Weyland’s arrival at Beowulf was rather unexpected—but he has raised some legitimate concerns.”

Michael smiled.  “I was already en route to Beowulf—a surprise inspection for my divisions here.”

“Legitimate concerns about . . . what precisely?” asked Adama.

Michael Weyland leaned forward and his smile vanished.  “Your Twelve Worlds Limited is now officially a corporate entity recognized by the ICC—that gives you certain rights, Admiral Adama.  And it also comes with a host of responsibilities.”

“Responsibilities?  How is that the concern of Weyland-Yutani?”

The man smiled thinly again.  “TWL is responsible for leading these . . . Cylons . . . of yours to our worlds, Admiral Adama.  We have already lost contact with settlements—small settlements, to be sure—on Alpha Corvi, Zeta Doradus, Iota Horologii, Zeta Reticuli Prime, and of course Acheron.  Small colonies and outposts, but each one represents a sizeable investment by one or more corporate members of the ICC.”  He smiled again.

“And today, we have received confirmation that your Cylons have landed on Thedus before all contact was lost—that colony is neither small nor is it insignificant.  Five million people live on Thedus, and it is a vital component of Weyland-Yutani’s operations in this sector.”

Adama’s eyes narrowed.  “We are already coordinating to fight the Cylons alongside of your militaries.”

James held up a placating hand.  “For which we are grateful—your information on their tactics and weapons will serve to prevent an even greater loss of life than has already occurred.  However,” and he turned to look at Michael—the still smiling Michael—and sighed, “Mister Weyland has formally lodged an injunction against Twelve Worlds Limited receiving any profit from transactions until full compensatory damages for the losses suffered by Weyland-Yutani and other corporations have been rendered.”

“Excuse me?”

“Simply put, Admiral Adama,” said Michael Weyland as he bared his teeth, “until you pay the total replacement cost of all of our corporate losses to date—and future losses that these Cylons inflict—you will not see one penny of revenue from sales and/or licenses of your technology.  I have not yet filed this motion with the full board of the ICC,” and he nodded at James Sinclair, “nor yet reminded my fellow corporate CEOs that this seldom used financial regulation is available to them.  I will, of course, drop such an injunction if you convince your government to come to an agreement with Weyland-Yutani; an exclusive arrangement with Weyland-Yutani.”

“And if we refuse?”

Michael Weyland laughed.  “What price can you put on more than five million lives, Admiral Adama?  And every single piece of infrastructure, equipment, shipping costs, and improvements to the worlds we have made?  My people have managed to come up with a nice round number doing exactly that—you will be indebted to me for a very, very long time, Admiral Adama.  And the ICC does allow hostile takeovers of corporate entities that hold more debt than assets.”  He stood, and James Sinclair followed. 

“Unfortunately, Admiral, Mister Weyland is within his rights—the ICC will remain neutral in this issue, even as we complete our earlier investigation into the claims made against the late Mister Burke.”

Bill Adama set his jaws and he stood, but before he could speak, Michael Weyland stepped up close to him and poked him in the chest with one finger.

“Just because I am a nice man, Admiral, I give you . . . seventy-two hours to make your decision.  After that?  Well,” and he smiled again.  “after that, I will own you lock, stock, and barrel, Admiral Adama.”

“And if we refuse to be owned?” Adama spat.

“The ICC will not allow you to go to war with another corporate member, Admiral Adama.  And if you desire a home in human space, you will abide by our laws,” Sinclair warned.  “However,” and he exchanged a glance at Weyland, “I will wish you luck in finding a third path, Admiral—even if I cannot assist you.  Good day,” he said politely, and then he turned to leave, followed by Weyland—who paused at the hatch.

“Seventy-two hours, Admiral—the clock is a’ticking.”  And then he was gone.

Adama waited until the hatch shut and then he hurled his glass against the bulkhead.  He drew in a deep breath and forced himself to calm down, and then walked over to a phone, lifting it.  “This is the Admiral.  Get the President and Vice-President over here at once,” he snarled, and then racked it again.

“And I thought Caprican and Picon corporations were bad,” Tom Zarek whispered.  “Frack this—we could keep on running,” and then he winced.

“Except that the civilian fleet will not understand and they will vote both us out of office in just a few weeks when the election arrives,” Lee Adama finished Zarek’s thoughts for him.

Tom snorted.  “You catch on fast, Mister President.”

“He’s always been a quick study,” Admiral Adama said quietly.  “We can’t run—we led the Cylons here and now they have probably added another five million innocent human lives to their scorecard.  Five million, Mister President.  Mister Vice-President.  Lives that would not have been lost if we had chosen a different route,” he shook his head.  “And billions more lie in their path—we cannot run any further and leave these people to fight our war.”

“Agreed,” said Commander Lorne as he leaned forward, “which is why I believe that we should go ahead and give him the schematics for our FTL technology.”

Tom and Lee stared at Mathias, but Adama nodded and then he smiled.  “I think I know what you are suggesting, Commander.”

“Well, that’s good,” snapped Tom Zarek.  “Care to explain to the rest of us just how giving him what he wants is a workable solution?”

Mathias Lorne smiled.  “He’s a shark, Tom.  I know his kind well—so do you.  This takeover and threat is his opening bid.  When it comes down to brass tacks, he’d rather have half a cake than no cake.  So, we sit down in a room with him and Sinclair—rather, you and President and the Admiral sit down in a room with those two—and you hammer out an agreement.  Weyland-Yutani gets exclusive rights to produce our FTL drives.  With no royalties paid to us and we get to purchase those drives for our own ships at cost.  In exchange, we get a prime planet for colonization and keep the rest of our technology to license out for profit.  And Weyland signs off—in front of the ICC—saying we are not financially liable for the actions of the Cylons or the loss of his holdings on Cylon occupied worlds.”

There was a pause.  “Even if he takes the offer, we are literally giving away a major element of our technology for very little in return,” said Lee.

And that was when Ripley—the fifth person present in the room suddenly gasped.  And she grinned.  “Oh, Commander.  Admiral.  Remind me not to play poker with the two of you.”

And Mathias—as well as Bill Adama—grinned right back.

She turned to the President and Vice-President.  “I’ve been immersed in your technology since I arrived here,” she said.  “And one thing has been bugging me to death—you people don’t have fusion power generators do you?”

Lee shook his head, and it was clear that he had no idea where she was going.

“That is what Major Church from Scorpia told me as well, Mister President,” she continued.  “And then she and I started talking about how the devil you folks power these behemoths—and get such outstanding performance from your fighters and shuttles.  We knew you used reaction mass—or we thought you did, but we also thought that your FTLs was powered by fusion generators.  Which you don’t have.”

The light bulb went off in Lee’s head and he began to smile.  “Tylium.”

“Exactly.  We haven’t discovered tylium—and from what my discussions with Doctor Baltar,” she said with a grimace, “and Doctor Sarris seems to indicate, you people only accidently discovered those properties yourself.  It was a fluke of fate that led to your exploiting this otherwise useless mineral.”

“And without tylium,” said Lee, “without the extreme concentration of energy contained in the liquid form of processed and refined tylium, our FTLs simply cannot function.”

Ripley and Mathias nodded.  The Admiral leaned forward.  “We can build fusion plants, Ripley,” he said, “but we have had no need to—tylium provides us with at least as much power as a fusion reactor in a smaller generator than would be possible for fusion.  Albeit with the necessity to have large volumes of fuel tankage on hand.  And every attempt to make FTL work without tylium has been a failure; some element in refined tylium is what makes our FTL function.  But, technically speaking,” he said with a smile, “tylium is not itself part of the FTL drive technology.”

“Weyland has no clue what the composition of refined tylium is,” Mathias added.  “He doesn’t know where it is found, what to look for, how to process the ore, or how to safely extract the refined tylium.  We are the only ones who know that.”

“The Cylons know,” Tom pointed out, and Mathias nodded with a grimace.

Adama frowned and then he nodded.  “The Guardians are not going to be sharing their technology with the people they are planning to harvest—and the Cylons that you struck a treaty with, Mister President,” he said in a tone that made it very clear he didn’t like it, “need us too much to risk losing a safe haven.”

“And if Weyland wants more?” asked Lee.

“Tell him to go frack himself?” suggested Mathias, and the Admiral snorted and Tom just smiled and shook his head.

“Convince him to take the deal, Mister President—that is now your job,” the elder Adama said.  “He thinks he has us in a corner, Lee,” Bill told his son in a quiet voice.  “Let him think that—and lock him into a deal that the ICC will not let him back out of before he realizes it is a trap.”

“I can do that,” said Lee as he nodded.

“I hope so,” Mathias added, “because otherwise we are between a rock and hard place, Mister President, with the slavering jaws of a ravening beast trying to pry us out.”