BSG fan fic "Junk"
This is my first Battlestar Galactica fan fic.
Title: Junk
Rating: K+
Word Count: 900
Summary: A short look into Adama's mind as he surveys his old Viper.
It was a simple training exercise-a botched landing-that finally did the old bird in. The pilot had come in too hot, panicked, and sent the antique Viper careening into a bulkhead. Starbuck explained all this to me in clipped, angry expletives as I slowly circled the ship, surveying the damage. The guilty nugget stood behind his flight instructor, round face red and bowed in shame. Tyrol was quiet; he seemed to be in mourning. The rest of the deck gang kept their distance, perhaps unnerved by the presence of their commander on the fighter deck or the ridiculous solemnity of the impromptu gathering.
The problem was obvious: the fighter’s starboard wing was a crumpled mess, her engine torn nearly free of the couplings, the delicate wiring beneath fried into goo by the resulting friction. I skimmed my fingers lightly across the dented bow, paced down the deceptively normal-looking port side, and paused with my fingers almost-but not quite-brushing the name and title that Tyrol’s gang hadn’t had the heart to paint over.
Lt. William Adama
“Husker”
I almost smiled.
“Commander?” Tyrol wants my attention. “What are your orders?”
I didn’t answer right away. Instead I studied the ship, noting countless dings and scorch marks that hadn’t been there when the deck gang had proudly unveiled her just one month before. I remembered the dozens of dents-no longer visible-that I’d put into her myself in years of patrols, dozens of missions.
The nugget shuffled his feet nervously.
I remembered Tyrol’s face when he first showed her to me, gloating pride shining through military discipline as he described her overhaul, gave me that plaque of the boys posing in front of my ship. I remembered Zak’s lopsided grin and Lee’s mussed hair preserved forever in the aged photograph.
Starbuck seemed to guess some or all of what I was thinking. She cleared her throat and the anger faded from her voice. “I talked to Seelix. She thinks she can sort out most of the avionics, given enough time. And at the rate these nuggets are crashing, we should have more spare parts any day now. We could put her in the storage bay for a couple weeks. See what comes up.”
I shake my head absently. “That’d be costly. And there’re better ships waiting for those parts.” Kara doesn’t respond, giving me another moment to muse over the fallen bird.
Of course, Lee had never cared for the old ship. I knew how much it had irked him to fly under his dad’s name for the decommissioning ceremony. Some small part of me-the part frustrated by his long absence and silent blame-had taken pleasure in his discomfort.
But then, of course, the attack had happened.
As Galactica’s new CAG, Lee had returned to his beloved Mark VII as soon as the knuckledraggers could remove the networking software. The Mark II relic, severely damaged in the battle over Ragnar, was quietly stowed in the back of the hangar bay until Tyrol could patch it up enough for use by Starbuck’s nuggets.
Tyrol finally spoke up, his voice halting. “We were . . . thinking we could keep the hull intact. For sentimental value.”
I turned away from the Viper to spit him with a glare. “We are at war, Chief Tyrol. We don’t have time to be sentimental.”
I had railed against decommissioning the Galactica, and not just because she was my first ship. It had always seemed ridiculous to me-this notion of taking a warship and stripping its ammo, replacing its pilots with teachers, and letting it float around like some frakkin’ mockery of a real Battlestar. I was a soldier. War was my life and when war broke out I was only too eager to tear down the cardboard history displays, cannibalize the information kiosks, and put my crew to work.
Now, though, it seemed like there should be some way to remember. This bird had flown so many missions. To tear her apart and salvage the pieces seemed almost sacrilege.
Kara stepped to my side. Her voice was low. “What do you think, sir?” I could only shake my head.
Lee had hated this ship. It had enraged him to be flying an old bucket of bolts while the other pilots roared by in shining Mark VII’s. Mark VII’s that had all been reduced to expanding balls of flame in the lonely space between worlds.
“Forty birds left Galactica.” My voice is hoarse, but only Starbuck can hear. “And out of forty Vipers, she’s the only one that came back.”
“She was damn good at her job, sir.” Kara’s eyes are full of understanding.
I turn to Tyrol, my voice militarily brisk. “Strip it for parts. Cut the hull into pieces in case we need to patch one of the others.”
Ignoring the chorus of “yessir,” I turn back to the ship, resisting the crazy, superstitious desire to run my hand over the grimy nameplate and whisper “thank you.” I’m running a warship now-possibly the only warship the human race has left to its name. I don’t have time to keep a play-by-play, to take a souvenir from every frakkin’ battle. The historians-if there are any left when this is over-will be on their own.
Still, it seems like someone ought to remember.
“She’s just a piece of junk anyway.” I mutter.
That ship saved my son.