Those Who Lift Each Other, Chapter 4, part 1
Title: Those Who Lift Each Other, Chapter 4: What's the Frequency, Kenneth?
Author: lls_mutant
Fandom: Glee/Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: R, for adult themes and violence
Pairing(s): BSG: canon pairings, plus Gaeta/Baltar. Glee: Burt/Carole and Tina/Mike. Cross-fandom: Puck/Ellen, Kurt/Baltar, Santana/various pilots, Sam/Rya Kibby.
Warning(s): War-related violence, abortion issues, BSG-canon suicide, torture, PTSD, character deaths. (Character deaths are both canon BSG deaths and Glee deaths.)
Fic Summary: When the Cylons attacked, the kids of New Directions were on board the Cybele, on their way to the All-Colony Show Choir Competition. Now they're members of the Fleet, being chased by the Cylons and trying to deal with the day-to-day aspects of a life after the worlds end.
Chapter Summary: Roslin's announcement that she's the dying leader of the Pythian prophecies shakes the Fleet. Artie's not sure what he believes, until it's time to put it to the test.
Notes: This is a 16 part story. Each chapter is from the POV of a Glee character, working through the BSG canon. BSG canon does not change; this ends up being a "average people in the Fleet" story. More information can be found here. Also, huge thanks to kappamaki33, who is betaing this monster.
Chapter Notes: The BSG characters that are featured in Chapter 4 can be found here if you'd like an introduction/refresher. There are only three new ones this time, and several that are big that we've seen before. I did change the chapter name, just because this suited much better. And sorry about this being in three parts- I don't know that it's really that much longer, but LJ was being grumpy.
Info Post | Chapter 1 (Will) | Chapter 2 (Brittany) | Chapter 3 (Puck)
The control room in the Cybele was really starting to feel like home. It wasn't a big one, not like some of the other ships, but there was enough room to maneuver a wheelchair through. It was a clunky looking room, with an island in the center. The radio was mercifully low enough that Artie could get to it with ease, and one of these days someone was finally going to teach him all the steps for an FTL jump. If the worlds were going to end, he was going to get at least one dream filled, damn it.
"Good morning, Artie," Captain Xu said, smiling at him from her post. "What's on your agenda for the day?"
"I've got to go over to Cloud 9. Meeting." It still felt weird to say he had a meeting. Meetings were something his parents did. But it was kind of cool.
"Tough life, huh?" Captain Xu teased him.
"Can't complain," Artie said. "Anything new come in overnight?" he asked as he began swiveling the dial on the comm unit.
"Nothing interesting. The Gemenon Traveler is sending out some paper, and the meat comes in from the Kimba Hita today."
"No Cylons?"
"No Cylons. Been a few days since that boarding party hit Galactica." Captain Xu sighed. "Wish I could believe we're rid of them."
"Yeah. No chance of that happening," Artie said. He picked up the clipboard and Captain Xu turned back to her own work as he began going through the call log. There were the advertised messages about meat and paper, but also a slightly more interesting one concerning a meeting about organizing a protest to have the Vice President lead the government while Roslin was in prison. There was another bulletin from Galactica re-emphasizing that Laura Roslin and Lee Adama were fugitives, and that if spotted, the Galactica should be contacted immediately. Artie bit his lip at that one, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he stated at the neatly typed words.
He checked his watch. Four-fifty. Say what you would about Galactica, they ran on a schedule. Artie grinned and slipped on the headphones, turning the wireless to the right channel.
"Galactica, this is Cybele."
"Right on time, Cybele." Mercedes' voice was distorted with the static, but it still sounded enough like her. Artie smiled to hear it, just like he did every morning at this time. "How have you been?"
"Good. Can't really complain." He glanced over at Captain Xu, but she either wasn't listening or didn't care. "How's life over there?"
"Puck's still insufferable," Mercedes said. "If he makes me call him Private Puckerman, Cylon Slayer one more time, I swear I'm going to punch his Marine ass."
"It does have a nice ring to it," Artie said wistfully.
"Yeah, but the way he talks, you'd think no one ever survived a battle before."
"I think I'd be the same way after taking down a couple of Cylons." Artie wasn't a little jealous that Puck had that opportunity. Not at all. No.
Mercedes heard it. "Don't let him fool you. Most of the time he's sitting on his ass doing guard duty or doing drills. It's not like he's single-handedly saving the world."
"Right." Artie sighed. "Any word on the Commander's recovery?"
"Dualla says he should be coming back in a day or two," Mercedes said. "Until then, we've still got Colonel Tigh. But you heard the Cylon was shot, right?"
"Yeah." Artie tried to sound casual, but he shivered. The fact that a Cylon could look enough like a human to be in the military for two years and then gun down the Commander was absolutely frightening, although he wasn't going to say that out loud. But he was glad someone had shot the thing.
"Hey," Mercedes said, "is it true that more people are accusing each other of being Cylons since they found out there was another one on Galactica?"
"Don't know about other ships, but Coach Sylvester nearly had Mr. Schuester out the airlock again two days ago, until Dr. O'Neill stepped in. But now that I think about it, I'm not sure she even tried to convince anyone he was a Cylon. I think it had to do with his hair. But some people thought that's what she was doing."
"Sounds exciting."
"It would be if she hadn't done it four times before this. I think Dr. O'Neill is getting bored." He smiled as Mercedes laughed, and then remembered the other thing he meant to tell her. "Oh, and in other news, Sam has a girlfriend."
"Really?" Mercedes and Sam had dated briefly, but their breakup had easily been the most drama-free breakup New Directions had ever seen, and they just seemed to be even better friends since. "Who's he seeing?"
"A girl he met over on the Daru Mozu. Her name's Rya."
"Good for him." Mercedes sounded genuinely happy for him.
"Mercedes?" Artie began, wishing he didn't sound so damned tentative.
"Mm?"
"Have they found the Pres- Ms. Roslin?"
There was a short, heavy silence on the other end, and then Mercedes said, "I have a call coming in on another channel."
"Mercedes, I-"
"I'll talk to you about this later, Artie. But I really do have duty." And just like that, she cut off. Artie sighed and pulled the headphones off.
"Are you okay?" Captain Xu asked him.
"Fine," Artie said, with what he hoped was a bright smile and knew probably wasn't. Of all the people in New Directions, Mercedes was the one he really wanted to talk to about Roslin and what was going on. What Roslin had said, about being the dying leader that the Pythian prophecies said would lead the people to Earth. Mercedes knew the Scrolls, and she'd be able to explain her beliefs to him a lot better than anyone else, without looking down on him for the lack of scriptural knowledge that any Gemenese person was supposed to have. This was the first time he'd had the guts to ask, and Mercedes hadn't been able to answer. Or hadn't wanted to answer - he had no idea if she'd cut him off or really did have to get back to work.
"Captian Xu?"
"Yes, Artie?"
"Everyone says that Roslin-"
"President Roslin, Artie."
"President Roslin must be on the move, so the Galactica can't find her. What should I do if she contacts us?"
Captain Xu looked up eagerly. "Has she?" she asked, leaning forward.
"No. No, not that I know of."
"Oh." Captain Xu looked a little disappointed. "Well, if she contacts us, you tell her that the Cybele is at her service, Artie. Whatever we can do to help the President, we will do it."
Artie nodded and looked back down at his notes. It was a theoretical case, and the odds of it happening were probably pretty slim. The Cybele didn't strike him as a ship with a lot of good hiding places- it was too crowded and too small, and traffic in and out would be easy to monitor. But what he'd really wanted to know was what Captain Xu would say.
What he really wanted to know was what he would say. He looked at the wireless. What if Roslin called up right now? What would he say? "Sorry, ma'am, I really like you and I think you're a good President, but I can't put this ship at risk"? "Do you really think you're the dying leader?" "Please, come aboard, I might secretly think you're a lunatic but everyone else on board thinks you're right"? The truth was, he had no idea. He'd probably tell her to come on board, just because that's what Captain Xu told him to say. Great reason. But then, saying no would be turning the rightful President of the Colonies over to the military, and Artie wasn't sure he liked that idea, either.
Fortunately, the wireless remained quiet, and no former or current Presidents hailed him, pleading for sanctuary from a military that was a crazed mess after a Cylon infiltrator had put two slugs in the Commander's chest. The day continued as normal.
He turned back to his clipboard, looking at the schedule he'd put together for himself for the day. He had the Cloud 9 trip, which would be a lot of dealing with people and then having adults try to explain to him how to install systems until they finally caught on that he knew his way around a radio better than a lot of them did. He flipped a page and a slip of paper caught his eye. He didn't remember it being there last night, but he definitely recognized the handwriting.
A.A-
I need to talk to you. Cloud 9, the Starlight Lounge, 7:00 tonight. And please, I'm begging you, don't wear a sweater vest.
-K.H.
Really, Artie thought with a sigh, why bother with just initials if Kurt was going to be so obvious about exactly who he was? And what was so important that Kurt had to meet with him at the Starlight Lounge, instead of just talking about it back here on the Cybele, and that Kurt would leave a note instead of just saying 'hey, meet me wherever'?
It was a mystery, but at the same time, it was an interesting one. The day might actually be looking up.
***
"How many kids are we expecting today?" Mike asked Tina as he spread peanut butter on his toast.
"The same number as always," Tina said. "Why would it be different?"
Mike shrugged. "Some of the parents don't seem to want their kids out of reach with the whole martial law thing."
"That's kind of ridiculous, isn't it?" Artie asked, stirring his oatmeal. "I mean, I know that there was the Gideon, but the soldiers aren't just wandering on the ships shooting people."
"Well, no one expected them to actually shoot on the Gideon, either," Tina pointed out. She sighed. "I wish the Galactica would just acknowledge President Roslin when Adama's back in command."
"You know that won't happen," Artie said. "He's the one who took her out in the first place."
"For what, though?" Tina said. "All they ever said was 'an abuse of power' and interfering with the military. And after what they did on the Gideon, maybe the military needs to be interfered with."
Artie opened his mouth to answer, but then realized that Tina was right. They didn't know what Roslin had done. All they had was the speech Adama had given and a lot of "no comments" and "classifieds." Strange how the military held such authority he'd never even thought to ask that before.
Quinn approached their table. "Artie." She had her arms crossed and her best now glare in place. Artie leaned back away from her.
"What did I do wrong?"
"It's been fifty-six days."
"Oh." Of course. He sighed. "Let me finish my breakfast first."
"Fifty-six days?" Mike asked, looking from one to the other. "You guys aren't…"
"You're not pregnant again, are you?" Tina asked suspiciously.
"Hardly," Quinn snapped. "Like that would happen."
"Hey. No need to sound like it's that impossible," Artie said, offended. "I am sitting right here."
"Sorry," Quinn said, but she didn't smile. Artie didn’t really blame her. "It's been fifty-six days since we both last gave blood."
"Oh." Mike shrugged.
Quinn narrowed her eyes. "Have you given blood since the attacks?"
"Well, sure."
"Since right after?"
Mike looked guilty. "No. But I keep meaning to, and they said we have to space it out, and…" he deflated under Quinn's icy glare. "I will," he said in a small voice.
"At least you have a choice," Artie muttered.
Tina looked shocked. "Wait. You don't?"
Artie shrugged. "We're both type O. It's required for us."
"Why just type O?" Tina asked.
"Type O is a universal donor," Quinn explained. "That way they don't have to use a ton of storage to have reserves."
Artie gave up on the last remnants of his breakfast. "All right," he said. "Let's go." Quinn was immediately on her feet, swinging behind him and taking control of his wheelchair. Artie fixed Tina and Mike with a glare. "You guys should give, too," he said darkly. "If nothing else, just so I have company in this."
"You do have company," Quinn reminded him as she rolled him away. "Me."
"Right." Because you'll even speak to me during the whole thing, Artie thought sourly.
It wasn't that he minded giving blood. In fact, left to his own devices, he would have been first in line. He was all too aware that it was only because other people gave blood that he hadn't died during the hours after the crash when he was a kid. He could never pay back those exact people, but he could pay back the world in general. The gods in general? He rubbed his forehead, well aware that if he followed this line of thought, a headache was more than likely to set in.
When they got down to the infirmary, Simon was waiting for them. He had blood packs at the ready, and patted the table. "Up you go," he said, and then moved to help Artie up onto a table. "You ready for this?"
"Does it matter?" Artie asked glumly. "It's not like I have a choice."
"Well, technically you do, but your choice involves jail time," Simon said, sounding a little too cheerful. Artie lay down on the table, and Simon stepped back to let Quinn come in and start swabbing his arm clean.
"I know. And it's not like I wouldn't do it," Artie explained. "I just don't like being told to. It makes me feel like a giant incubator or petri dish or something."
Simon laughed a little. "It's just a pint of blood."
"Yes. But it's my blood." Artie frowned, looking away as Quinn tied the restricting band around his bicep and started feeling for the vein. "Who made the rule, anyway? The Commander or the President?"
"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" Simon asked. "I think the order came first from the Galactica, but the President agreed to it. Does it matter?"
"It matters when they say that the people aren't getting representation," Quinn said, picking up a needle. Artie stared at her, because this wasn't the Quinn Fabray that was the head cheerleader. This was the angry pregnant girl, upset with the world. She caught him staring and lifted her chin. "I don't exactly like the idea of the military treating me like a farm," she said defiantly.
"Preach." Artie winced as Quinn put the needle into his arm. To her credit, she got it on the first try, and as he relaxed, his blood started filling the bag. Quinn made a face and then hoisted herself up on the other table.
"Well, what are you going to do?" Simon asked rhetorically, cleaning Quinn's arm. "When it's not a real democracy- when everyone doesn't have a vote- abuses of power and taking advantage of the weaker will happen."
"Wait! That's it!" Quinn started to sit up, but Simon grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back down. Quinn obeyed, but her eyes were still sharp and intense. "We could withhold the blood from this collection until democracy has been restored."
"Quinn, they shot people on the Gideon for holding back coffee!" Artie protested. "What do you think they'll do to us if we hold back blood?" The idea was cold. He knew Quinn was capable of a lot, but this surprised him.
Quinn twisted on her bed to look at him. "Are you afraid, Artie?"
"Well, yes. What part of 'they shot people over coffee' isn't getting through to you?"
"Which was a disaster. They've issued statements to that effect." Quinn's eyes narrowed calculatingly. "I thought you always wanted to be a badass. Like Puck."
"And if we hold back the blood, Puck could be one of the people that dies."
"That's not all that likely."
"I know." Artie sighed.
"Do you really believe in martial law?"
"Do you really believe that much in democracy?" Artie shot back. "Because back in Lima, I seem to remember you preferring McKinley in something of a totalitarian state. At least as long as you were on top."
"Do you two talk like this all the time?" Simon asked. He'd been watching their argument, looking back and forth between them. "Because I thought high school students weren't supposed to care this much."
"In case you've missed it, we're not high school students anymore," Quinn said bitterly. "And I care. It's not just survival. It's survival of the soul. You know what Laura Roslin is."
"I know her true nature, yes," Simon said evenly.
"Well? We hold back the blood, call the other ships in on it, and Adama will have no choice but to reinstate Roslin."
"Quinn," Simon said with a sigh, "I appreciate your feelings on this. But you're forgetting one thing: the blood supply is in the hand of doctors. And while some of them may agree with you about Roslin, a lot of them will not withhold medical supplies in a time of crisis. They may refuse to send the blood over now, but Adama and Tigh will know that they'll cave in a time of crisis. Do no harm."
"When the stakes are this high, sometimes you have to cause a little harm to serve a greater good. Besides, isn't their oath to protect the people of the Colonies?" She had a point. But the idea of going up against the military like that, that sort of confrontation…. He hadn't been on the Gideon, but Artie had a pretty vivid imagination. It definitely wasn't something he wanted on the Cybele. "We can't just sit by anymore. Not when so much is at stake," Quinn insisted. She narrowed her eyes and sat up. "Don't stick that needle in me," she ordered. She came over and stood over Artie. "Are you with me?"
"Quinn, I…."
"Are you with me?"
Quinn Fabray was standing over him as he lay on a medical table, a host of scalpels, needles, and other pointy metal things at her disposal. And she looked very, very capable of using them. Artie swallowed hard. "Sure," he said. "I'm with you."
"It's not right, Quinn," Simon said as Quinn removed the needle from Artie's arm.
"You're right. But what they're doing isn't right either," Quinn said. "And we're going to make them understand that." Her jaw was set and her eyes were icy, and Artie was suddenly very, very glad he'd agreed to her demands, even if withholding blood didn't feel entirely right to him, either. But with the look on Quinn's face, he wasn't going to say that.
***
Withholding blood. It seemed like a small thing, and at the same time, it didn't. The chances weren't high that someone was going to die, but the simple fact was that someone could die. And when someone died, it wouldn't be Commander Adama or Colonel Tigh. It would be a private like Puck, or a Raptor pilot, or a deckhand who got caught in an accident. Someone who might not agree with martial law. Someone like Mercedes, who even though she wouldn't talk about it, Artie knew she truly believed in Roslin and hated what was happening.
Puck always said he chickened out too much to be a badass. It bugged the hell out of Artie when Puck said things like that, even if he secretly suspected that Puck was right. It wasn't who he wanted to be.
Of course, right now he wasn't sure who he did want to be, or who he agreed with. Everything was a jumble of martial law and prophecies, ethics and questions and standards. And it didn't matter anyway, because none of it was in his hands. Just as well. But it was still heavy on his mind as he made his way to the docking bay. When he got there, Rachel was standing with a notebook and a pen tucked against her body, wearing a plaid skirt, knee high socks, and a sweater. The notebook had kittens on the front.
"You know," he said, taking in her outfit, "there really is something to dressing the part."
"I know," Rachel said, not getting the point at all. "And I am trying to convey youthful innocence, hope, and optimism in a dark and trying time."
"You think that's what people want to hear right now?" Artie asked doubtfully.
"Of course," Rachel insisted. "It makes them feel happy. Content."
"Which is why you've gotten so many assignments."
"I've been given stories," Rachel said primly. "That piece I did about the flowers on the Zephyr got excellent ratings."
"Because those are poppies, Rachel," Artie said dryly, staring at her. "They can be used to make opium."
Rachel straightened up and stepped onto the shuttle with as much dignity as she could muster. "You can take a pessimistic view, but I prefer to think of it as what will be my first break into post-apocalyptic journalism. When I write my memoirs, I'll certainly be mentioning it."
"Rachel…."
"What?"
Artie thought about arguing that publishing wasn't exactly a booming business and that there may never be a day to write memoirs, but then sighed and decided it was pointless. Besides, who knew what Earth would be like? The thought kind if startled him, really. That Rachel could write memoirs on Earth.
"Rachel?" Artie asked, once they were in the shuttle. "What do you think Earth is going to be like?"
Rachel blinked. "I… I don't know," she said. "I hadn't really thought about it, I guess."
"Why not? That's where we're going."
"I don't know. Do you really think we'll find it?"
"The Pythian prophecy-"
"One of my dads believed that Pythia was a prophet," Rachel interrupted. "Well, he followed Zeus, anyway. But Papa followed Mithras, and he was the one that took me to services. Pythia didn't exactly figure in."
"So you aren't exactly buying into the whole Dying Leader thing?" Artie asked.
"I appreciate the drama of her announcement, and I concede that appealing to the faith of people is an effective way to get their attention and sympathy."
"So… that's a no, then?"
"It could be true, I guess. It would be like in Rueful Dynasty, when Mia Kopolos's character had visions of the future." Rachel warmed to her subject. "In fact, if Ms. Roslin wanted, I could discuss those particular passages with her. The emotion that Mia used to convey her divinity would be very useful to the President in convincing people that she truly is the Dying Leader. If she really is," she added hastily. "You know, there's this beautiful solo, too. One that's exactly in my range…."
Was there a reason he'd even asked Rachel about this whole thing? Had he honestly expected an answer he could make sense of? Artie rolled his eyes and looked out the window of the shuttle.
"You know," Rachel continued, sighing wistfully, "it's such a shame we had to give up the idea of the television show. Have you seen some of what passes for entertainment?"
Artie had. There were two shows being put on. The writing was pretty bad and the acting anywhere from reasonable to absolutely horrendous, and they had all the production values of a McKinley production. "I'm surprised you haven't tried out for a part," he said.
Rachel flushed, but then tossed her hair over her shoulder. "So far there haven't been any parts that have been appropriate for my age and appearance," she said. "All of my extensive talent is useless when the director specifies he's looking for a large man. Although I did suggest the part be rewritten to better utilize his resources. He refused."
"Imagine that."
"Besides, it's not the same without New Directions," Rachel continued, ignoring Artie's sarcasm. "There's something special about the entire team."
"That's… awfully nice of you."
"You're all the perfect complement to my voice."
"Right." But he couldn't be mad- not really. After three years of glee, you just got used to Rachel. In a way, it was kind of a relief Rachel was still so focused on her talent and ambition. It was a constant in a world gone mad. Although when Rachel Berry was your touchstone for sanity, it was a sure sign that the world was at an end.
***
The concept of a broadcasting station had started back as early as a few days after the Fleet was formed. It made sense to base it from a luxury liner, as those ships already had a system in place for entertaining guests. The first one had been based on the Zephyr, but someone pointed out the cheerful fact that any ship could be blown up at any time, and stations had also been started on Cloud 9 and the Pyxis. But the systems had only been configured to broadcast within each ship. Expanding the range to the other ships was not a one-step task.
Artie had been active in the AV club back in Lima, and his father, an electrical engineer, had enthusiastically encouraged his interest. He'd been planning on going to college on Virgon and getting a degree in electrical engineering or game engineering himself. It had been an extremely depressing day the day he realized that, if the Cylons had never attacked, he'd be leaving for Virgon and starting at VTI.
But there hadn't been time to be depressed for more than the day, because Artie had work to do. A lot of work to do. So much that he supposed he should feel a little guilty that the worlds had ended and he found himself not only being useful, but doing work he liked, but he just couldn't summon any guilt up. As far as he was concerned, the universe owed him one, and this was a hell of a lot more believable than a hot girl landing in his lap again. He was useful- hell, he was actually kind of important- and he was connected to the Fleet. He was often the first to find things out, like when Adama was shot and that they'd found another Cylon, and there was something kind of awesome about that.
He couldn't help but be jealous on the rare occasions he saw Puck. If life had been different… well, if life had been different he wouldn't be here in the first place, because the attacks never would have happened. But they had, and if his life had been different, he could be out there, getting revenge for what he'd lost, protecting the people he cared about. But that was only when he was actually with Puck. When he wasn't, he forgot about dreams that weren't ever going to happen anyway and focused on what he could do, which was a lot. Although, damn, it would be nice to be a real hero.
But not everyone could be a hero. Hell, he couldn't even stand up to Quinn and tell her he was uncomfortable with the idea of withholding blood, although he couldn't articulate why he couldn't tell her that. But at the same time, not everyone could fix a wireless. Artie figured he'd better focus on what he could do rather than what he couldn't.
***
The Starlight Lounge was exactly the kind of place Kurt would want to meet someone. Artie rolled in, looking around. It was high class, with a well-stocked bar, fancy tables, and lighting that made the place seem full of possibilities. It looked rich, cultured, and just a little trashy all at the same time. Pure Kurt. Artie was half surprised that Kurt wasn't sitting on one of the high stools, legs crossed as he sipped some martini type drink.
Instead, Kurt was sitting in a booth, appearing a little uncomfortable as he fidgeted with the menu. He looked up when Artie approached and smiled, but his smile was off. "Are you all right?" Artie asked, instead of saying hello.
"What? Oh, of course." Kurt laughed a little; a high, thin laugh that made it clear he was lying. "Thanks for meeting me."
"I couldn't resist," Artie said. "I have to know- what's with all the secrecy?"
"Secrecy?"
"The note, the initials, meeting on Cloud 9 instead of on the Cybele… you did realize you were being secretive, right?"
"I, er… right." Kurt shook himself and put his confidence back on. "I guess I was. But I have something I needed to talk to you about that… well… I didn't really want all of the ears of New Directions pressed to the door."
"I'm listening."
Before Kurt could say anything, the waiter came over to take their order. Artie suspected the menu was nowhere near as elaborate as it had once been, but it was still nicer than anything they had on the Cybele. Kurt was completely gracious as he ordered, all airs and pretenses of culture, but when the waiter left, the pretense came down a little.
It came back up when an older woman in a suit stopped by their table. Kurt immediately jumped up, a strange combination of exaggerated manners and condescension. It made Artie wonder if Kurt felt as strange about being thrown into working with adults as he did. He'd never ask, but he suspected Kurt did feel the same way, especially as Kurt sat back down with a look of relief when the woman left.
"I was wondering," Kurt finally said, fingering the scarf around his neck, "if there was any chance you could get a recording device."
"A recording device?" Artie asked, oddly disappointed. "That’s it? What's so secret about that?"
"Who said there was anything secret?"
"You just did!"
"No I didn't! I told you-"
"Not in so many words, but you've been acting like it. What could possibly be so secret about- wait a minute. What are you recording?"
"A speech," Kurt said. "Nothing illicit. I don't need some seedy hidden camera or anything like that. I just need something that can record a speech and be broadcast with a good fidelity."
"Broadcast? Why don't you just go to the stations?"
"Sometimes the stations aren't the channel you want to use. Especially when certain military officials keep eavesdropping." Kurt was trying to play it cool, but he looked flat out guilty.
"Wait," Artie said, the whole thing unfolding in front of him. "You know where Roslin is."
"No I don't!" Kurt widened his eyes in innocence.
"Maybe you don't, but Tom Zarek does."
Kurt drew himself up. "Why would Laura Roslin go to Tom Zarek? She can't stand him. Everyone knows that."
"Yeah, but he's been pretty outspoken against martial law," Artie pointed out. "Not that anyone ever had doubts about his position. Come on, Kurt. I do have a brain." Kurt looked uncomfortable, and Artie sighed. "Relax. I'm not going to say anything."
"You're not?"
"Kurt, if I can figure out that Zarek might know where Roslin is, don't you think Colonel Tigh can, too? He's probably already at the top of their suspect list. I'm kind of surprised they haven't been asking you questions yet."
"Because apparently when Mr. Zarek arranged for democratic elections," Kurt emphasized the last words with a glare, "he held a gun to Captain Adama's head. Captain Adama is with President Roslin. And while Roslin might conceivably turn to Zarek, Adama wouldn't." Kurt sat back and glared at Artie, arms crossed and looking for all the world like he was taking on Mr. Schuester.
"And the fact Zarek held a gun to someone's head doesn't bug you at all?"
"Please. Like there weren't guns on him, too." The way Kurt said that made Artie wonder just how different Zarek's version of that day was from the one that he'd heard, and how different either of those was from reality. This conversation wasn't going well, and Artie wasn't sure how the hell to save it.
The waiter arrived and put their plates down in front of them. Artie noticed with a little surprise that they'd both ordered the same pasta dish. It was a small thing, but it made him smile.
"Not quite Breadstix, huh?"
Kurt stared at him for a minute, and then relaxed and smiled a little. "You know," he said slowly, "Finn was right. Their actual breadsticks really did suck."
"The rest of their food was pretty good though."
"If by pretty good you mean standard Gemenese-Canceron fare with no thought or creativity, yes." Kurt sighed. "But I'd give just about anything to eat there again. It was fantastic comfort food."
"We're a long way from there, though." Artie poked the pasta with his fork.
"I know." Kurt sighed. He tapped his fork against the plate and leaned his chin on his hand, deep in thought. Artie concentrated on the food.
"So what are you going to do?" Kurt asked suddenly. "If you're not going to give us the recording device, that is."
"I never said I wasn't," Artie said. Kurt stopped, fork halfway up and his mouth open. "You just want it for a speech, right?"
"Right."
"Let me think about it," Artie said. Kurt eyed him suspiciously for a long moment, and then nodded. Artie picked up his fork and realized his hands were cold and sweaty. Because getting that recording device? That meant unequivocal support for Roslin. And holy shit- it hinged on him. He put his fork back down, shocked to the core. He was being asked to help Roslin… do whatever she was doing. That kind of chance- that kind of decision- had just been dropped in his lap without any warning.
"Are you okay?" Kurt asked.
"Fine," Artie said, and his voice sounded far away in his own ears.
This was a time to be a hero, if he believed in Roslin. Or a time to be a whistle-blower, if he believed in the military. He looked at Kurt and knew immediately he couldn't do the second. So what did that mean about the first?
"So," Kurt said, trying to break the silence. "Has Rachel tried to get on the wireless stations with her songs yet?" He was deliberately casual, almost flirtatious… normal Kurt changing the subject.
"It's funny you mention that," Artie said, snapping out of it. "Rachel was talking about the show again, but with all the work…." He trailed off, smiling. Kurt raised an interested eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"If I got you that recording device," Artie began, "would we be able to use it? After Roslin is done with it?"
"We?"
The idea came to him fully formed. "New Directions. Look. The television show didn't work out, right? But that took choreography and costumes and a lot of effort." Kurt nodded. "But the wireless stations- the ones that are just radio- they're up and looking for entertainment. For the most part, they're just using sound files that people had on personal devices during the attacks, or in their quarters for the ships that survived. There's nothing new. But there could be."
"But we-"
"If we just do songs for the wireless, we don't have to have choreography," Artie explained. "We don't have to have costumes. We just have to have the music. It would take a lot less time, and if we gave the music to the others on the Galactica, we could do like we did for the Colonial Day party and have them rehearse their parts ahead of time before we put it all together."
It was funny how excited that thought made him. But then, Artie had never been one of the ones that saw theater and music as his career- just as something that he loved to do on the side. The idea of having that back was incredibly appealing. Kurt looked lost in the thought, until suddenly his eyes sharpened and he smiled at someone over Artie's shoulder. Artie glanced back fully expecting to see some other political figure. But the guy who was approaching only looked a couple of years older than them, with curly hair, a very young face, and a shirt that Artie kind of liked but he was sure was making Kurt cringe. It took a minute, but Artie finally placed his face as Billy Keikeya.
Kurt made the introductions, considerably more relaxed than he had been with the official earlier. "Billy, this is Artie Abrams. He's on the Colonial Communications Commission based out of Cloud 9. Billy is President Roslin's aide. He and I weather Quorum meetings together," Kurt explained. "Do you mind if he joins us?"
Artie gestured to the empty seat. "Please do."
"Thanks," Billy said, slipping into their booth. He looked tired. "But I guess I'm not President Roslin's aide anymore. Even once martial law is lifted, I'm sure that the Commander won't reconsider putting her back in office."
"What makes you say that?" Kurt asked.
"I have my sources," Billy said glumly.
"I'm surprised you're not with her," Kurt said.
Billy shrugged. "I had my choice."
"Can I ask you something?" Artie said. Billy nodded. "Why didn't you go with her? I'm not asking to be rude," he hastily amended, putting his hands up, "I just… I'm trying to figure some things out for myself."
Billy leaned forward on his elbows. "I'm an atheist," he said finally. "I believe that President Roslin is dying- I'd never doubt her word on that. And I certainly think she's an excellent leader. But divine intervention, saying that it's divine intervention when people are so desperate to believe that they'll believe anything…." His face twisted. "That's why I didn't go with her. That's the only reason I didn't go with her."
"But it does fit," Artie said. "I guess." An excellent leader. Something about that sentence tugged at him.
Billy shrugged. "The words are pretty vague. I understand that there are a few theologians in the Fleet that have studied it more extensively, but the idea that the person who is currently leading us has cancer… the odds against it are high, but not astronomically so."
Kurt looked interested. "Did you read the piece in the Fleet News today? It baffles me how anyone could even begin to believe it. It simply makes no sense."
"No, it makes sense," Billy corrected him. "You just have to believe that it has significance. Which I don't."
"Anyone who does is a delusional moron," Kurt muttered.
"You know," Billy said dryly. "I work for that 'delusional moron.'"
Kurt at least had the grace to flush. "I'm sorry," he muttered stiffly.
Billy looked beaten. "Don't worry. You're hardly the first one to say it. You're just the first one that I can snap back at."
The two of them continued talking, moving on to something about the Quorum meeting that day. Not that there was a Quorum legally, Artie thought sourly, but apparently they were still meeting. There was something comforting about that. Really comforting, actually. He half-tuned out their conversation and thought again about the recording device.
An excellent leader, Billy had said. Artie realized that, if you'd asked him before Roslin had made her statement that she was the dying leader, he would agree with this whole-heartedly. She'd kept the Fleet together, she'd unified them, guided them, stood up to the military when she needed to and made hard decisions that kept people alive. Like leaving the ships without FTL drives after the Fleet first firmed. Like shooting down the Olympic Carrier; he'd read that story and known he could never have made that call, even though it was absolutely the right one. Like admitting elections needed to take place, like choosing a Vice President, like preserving people's rights. Like supporting the mandate that all Type O donors needed to give a pint of blood every fifty-six days. That was why Quinn's blood strike bothered him. Because as repellent as it was, Roslin was right. She was right a lot. Did the fact that he didn't agree with her religiously negate the fact that she was one of the reasons this Fleet was still alive?
No.
It would be risky, if he did this. If he was caught, it could even be seen as aiding and abetting a fugitive. He could be looking at jail time for this. And that was… really kind of cool. Puck would definitely do it. If Puck wasn't on Galactica, he would help, too. Because getting a recording device wasn't necessarily going to be easy. But if he got help, and if he fudged the paperwork a little and called in a favor from-
Holy shit. He was really going to do this.
On to Part 2
Author: lls_mutant
Fandom: Glee/Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Rating: R, for adult themes and violence
Pairing(s): BSG: canon pairings, plus Gaeta/Baltar. Glee: Burt/Carole and Tina/Mike. Cross-fandom: Puck/Ellen, Kurt/Baltar, Santana/various pilots, Sam/Rya Kibby.
Warning(s): War-related violence, abortion issues, BSG-canon suicide, torture, PTSD, character deaths. (Character deaths are both canon BSG deaths and Glee deaths.)
Fic Summary: When the Cylons attacked, the kids of New Directions were on board the Cybele, on their way to the All-Colony Show Choir Competition. Now they're members of the Fleet, being chased by the Cylons and trying to deal with the day-to-day aspects of a life after the worlds end.
Chapter Summary: Roslin's announcement that she's the dying leader of the Pythian prophecies shakes the Fleet. Artie's not sure what he believes, until it's time to put it to the test.
Notes: This is a 16 part story. Each chapter is from the POV of a Glee character, working through the BSG canon. BSG canon does not change; this ends up being a "average people in the Fleet" story. More information can be found here. Also, huge thanks to kappamaki33, who is betaing this monster.
Chapter Notes: The BSG characters that are featured in Chapter 4 can be found here if you'd like an introduction/refresher. There are only three new ones this time, and several that are big that we've seen before. I did change the chapter name, just because this suited much better. And sorry about this being in three parts- I don't know that it's really that much longer, but LJ was being grumpy.
Info Post | Chapter 1 (Will) | Chapter 2 (Brittany) | Chapter 3 (Puck)
The control room in the Cybele was really starting to feel like home. It wasn't a big one, not like some of the other ships, but there was enough room to maneuver a wheelchair through. It was a clunky looking room, with an island in the center. The radio was mercifully low enough that Artie could get to it with ease, and one of these days someone was finally going to teach him all the steps for an FTL jump. If the worlds were going to end, he was going to get at least one dream filled, damn it.
"Good morning, Artie," Captain Xu said, smiling at him from her post. "What's on your agenda for the day?"
"I've got to go over to Cloud 9. Meeting." It still felt weird to say he had a meeting. Meetings were something his parents did. But it was kind of cool.
"Tough life, huh?" Captain Xu teased him.
"Can't complain," Artie said. "Anything new come in overnight?" he asked as he began swiveling the dial on the comm unit.
"Nothing interesting. The Gemenon Traveler is sending out some paper, and the meat comes in from the Kimba Hita today."
"No Cylons?"
"No Cylons. Been a few days since that boarding party hit Galactica." Captain Xu sighed. "Wish I could believe we're rid of them."
"Yeah. No chance of that happening," Artie said. He picked up the clipboard and Captain Xu turned back to her own work as he began going through the call log. There were the advertised messages about meat and paper, but also a slightly more interesting one concerning a meeting about organizing a protest to have the Vice President lead the government while Roslin was in prison. There was another bulletin from Galactica re-emphasizing that Laura Roslin and Lee Adama were fugitives, and that if spotted, the Galactica should be contacted immediately. Artie bit his lip at that one, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he stated at the neatly typed words.
He checked his watch. Four-fifty. Say what you would about Galactica, they ran on a schedule. Artie grinned and slipped on the headphones, turning the wireless to the right channel.
"Galactica, this is Cybele."
"Right on time, Cybele." Mercedes' voice was distorted with the static, but it still sounded enough like her. Artie smiled to hear it, just like he did every morning at this time. "How have you been?"
"Good. Can't really complain." He glanced over at Captain Xu, but she either wasn't listening or didn't care. "How's life over there?"
"Puck's still insufferable," Mercedes said. "If he makes me call him Private Puckerman, Cylon Slayer one more time, I swear I'm going to punch his Marine ass."
"It does have a nice ring to it," Artie said wistfully.
"Yeah, but the way he talks, you'd think no one ever survived a battle before."
"I think I'd be the same way after taking down a couple of Cylons." Artie wasn't a little jealous that Puck had that opportunity. Not at all. No.
Mercedes heard it. "Don't let him fool you. Most of the time he's sitting on his ass doing guard duty or doing drills. It's not like he's single-handedly saving the world."
"Right." Artie sighed. "Any word on the Commander's recovery?"
"Dualla says he should be coming back in a day or two," Mercedes said. "Until then, we've still got Colonel Tigh. But you heard the Cylon was shot, right?"
"Yeah." Artie tried to sound casual, but he shivered. The fact that a Cylon could look enough like a human to be in the military for two years and then gun down the Commander was absolutely frightening, although he wasn't going to say that out loud. But he was glad someone had shot the thing.
"Hey," Mercedes said, "is it true that more people are accusing each other of being Cylons since they found out there was another one on Galactica?"
"Don't know about other ships, but Coach Sylvester nearly had Mr. Schuester out the airlock again two days ago, until Dr. O'Neill stepped in. But now that I think about it, I'm not sure she even tried to convince anyone he was a Cylon. I think it had to do with his hair. But some people thought that's what she was doing."
"Sounds exciting."
"It would be if she hadn't done it four times before this. I think Dr. O'Neill is getting bored." He smiled as Mercedes laughed, and then remembered the other thing he meant to tell her. "Oh, and in other news, Sam has a girlfriend."
"Really?" Mercedes and Sam had dated briefly, but their breakup had easily been the most drama-free breakup New Directions had ever seen, and they just seemed to be even better friends since. "Who's he seeing?"
"A girl he met over on the Daru Mozu. Her name's Rya."
"Good for him." Mercedes sounded genuinely happy for him.
"Mercedes?" Artie began, wishing he didn't sound so damned tentative.
"Mm?"
"Have they found the Pres- Ms. Roslin?"
There was a short, heavy silence on the other end, and then Mercedes said, "I have a call coming in on another channel."
"Mercedes, I-"
"I'll talk to you about this later, Artie. But I really do have duty." And just like that, she cut off. Artie sighed and pulled the headphones off.
"Are you okay?" Captain Xu asked him.
"Fine," Artie said, with what he hoped was a bright smile and knew probably wasn't. Of all the people in New Directions, Mercedes was the one he really wanted to talk to about Roslin and what was going on. What Roslin had said, about being the dying leader that the Pythian prophecies said would lead the people to Earth. Mercedes knew the Scrolls, and she'd be able to explain her beliefs to him a lot better than anyone else, without looking down on him for the lack of scriptural knowledge that any Gemenese person was supposed to have. This was the first time he'd had the guts to ask, and Mercedes hadn't been able to answer. Or hadn't wanted to answer - he had no idea if she'd cut him off or really did have to get back to work.
"Captian Xu?"
"Yes, Artie?"
"Everyone says that Roslin-"
"President Roslin, Artie."
"President Roslin must be on the move, so the Galactica can't find her. What should I do if she contacts us?"
Captain Xu looked up eagerly. "Has she?" she asked, leaning forward.
"No. No, not that I know of."
"Oh." Captain Xu looked a little disappointed. "Well, if she contacts us, you tell her that the Cybele is at her service, Artie. Whatever we can do to help the President, we will do it."
Artie nodded and looked back down at his notes. It was a theoretical case, and the odds of it happening were probably pretty slim. The Cybele didn't strike him as a ship with a lot of good hiding places- it was too crowded and too small, and traffic in and out would be easy to monitor. But what he'd really wanted to know was what Captain Xu would say.
What he really wanted to know was what he would say. He looked at the wireless. What if Roslin called up right now? What would he say? "Sorry, ma'am, I really like you and I think you're a good President, but I can't put this ship at risk"? "Do you really think you're the dying leader?" "Please, come aboard, I might secretly think you're a lunatic but everyone else on board thinks you're right"? The truth was, he had no idea. He'd probably tell her to come on board, just because that's what Captain Xu told him to say. Great reason. But then, saying no would be turning the rightful President of the Colonies over to the military, and Artie wasn't sure he liked that idea, either.
Fortunately, the wireless remained quiet, and no former or current Presidents hailed him, pleading for sanctuary from a military that was a crazed mess after a Cylon infiltrator had put two slugs in the Commander's chest. The day continued as normal.
He turned back to his clipboard, looking at the schedule he'd put together for himself for the day. He had the Cloud 9 trip, which would be a lot of dealing with people and then having adults try to explain to him how to install systems until they finally caught on that he knew his way around a radio better than a lot of them did. He flipped a page and a slip of paper caught his eye. He didn't remember it being there last night, but he definitely recognized the handwriting.
A.A-
I need to talk to you. Cloud 9, the Starlight Lounge, 7:00 tonight. And please, I'm begging you, don't wear a sweater vest.
-K.H.
Really, Artie thought with a sigh, why bother with just initials if Kurt was going to be so obvious about exactly who he was? And what was so important that Kurt had to meet with him at the Starlight Lounge, instead of just talking about it back here on the Cybele, and that Kurt would leave a note instead of just saying 'hey, meet me wherever'?
It was a mystery, but at the same time, it was an interesting one. The day might actually be looking up.
***
"How many kids are we expecting today?" Mike asked Tina as he spread peanut butter on his toast.
"The same number as always," Tina said. "Why would it be different?"
Mike shrugged. "Some of the parents don't seem to want their kids out of reach with the whole martial law thing."
"That's kind of ridiculous, isn't it?" Artie asked, stirring his oatmeal. "I mean, I know that there was the Gideon, but the soldiers aren't just wandering on the ships shooting people."
"Well, no one expected them to actually shoot on the Gideon, either," Tina pointed out. She sighed. "I wish the Galactica would just acknowledge President Roslin when Adama's back in command."
"You know that won't happen," Artie said. "He's the one who took her out in the first place."
"For what, though?" Tina said. "All they ever said was 'an abuse of power' and interfering with the military. And after what they did on the Gideon, maybe the military needs to be interfered with."
Artie opened his mouth to answer, but then realized that Tina was right. They didn't know what Roslin had done. All they had was the speech Adama had given and a lot of "no comments" and "classifieds." Strange how the military held such authority he'd never even thought to ask that before.
Quinn approached their table. "Artie." She had her arms crossed and her best now glare in place. Artie leaned back away from her.
"What did I do wrong?"
"It's been fifty-six days."
"Oh." Of course. He sighed. "Let me finish my breakfast first."
"Fifty-six days?" Mike asked, looking from one to the other. "You guys aren't…"
"You're not pregnant again, are you?" Tina asked suspiciously.
"Hardly," Quinn snapped. "Like that would happen."
"Hey. No need to sound like it's that impossible," Artie said, offended. "I am sitting right here."
"Sorry," Quinn said, but she didn't smile. Artie didn’t really blame her. "It's been fifty-six days since we both last gave blood."
"Oh." Mike shrugged.
Quinn narrowed her eyes. "Have you given blood since the attacks?"
"Well, sure."
"Since right after?"
Mike looked guilty. "No. But I keep meaning to, and they said we have to space it out, and…" he deflated under Quinn's icy glare. "I will," he said in a small voice.
"At least you have a choice," Artie muttered.
Tina looked shocked. "Wait. You don't?"
Artie shrugged. "We're both type O. It's required for us."
"Why just type O?" Tina asked.
"Type O is a universal donor," Quinn explained. "That way they don't have to use a ton of storage to have reserves."
Artie gave up on the last remnants of his breakfast. "All right," he said. "Let's go." Quinn was immediately on her feet, swinging behind him and taking control of his wheelchair. Artie fixed Tina and Mike with a glare. "You guys should give, too," he said darkly. "If nothing else, just so I have company in this."
"You do have company," Quinn reminded him as she rolled him away. "Me."
"Right." Because you'll even speak to me during the whole thing, Artie thought sourly.
It wasn't that he minded giving blood. In fact, left to his own devices, he would have been first in line. He was all too aware that it was only because other people gave blood that he hadn't died during the hours after the crash when he was a kid. He could never pay back those exact people, but he could pay back the world in general. The gods in general? He rubbed his forehead, well aware that if he followed this line of thought, a headache was more than likely to set in.
When they got down to the infirmary, Simon was waiting for them. He had blood packs at the ready, and patted the table. "Up you go," he said, and then moved to help Artie up onto a table. "You ready for this?"
"Does it matter?" Artie asked glumly. "It's not like I have a choice."
"Well, technically you do, but your choice involves jail time," Simon said, sounding a little too cheerful. Artie lay down on the table, and Simon stepped back to let Quinn come in and start swabbing his arm clean.
"I know. And it's not like I wouldn't do it," Artie explained. "I just don't like being told to. It makes me feel like a giant incubator or petri dish or something."
Simon laughed a little. "It's just a pint of blood."
"Yes. But it's my blood." Artie frowned, looking away as Quinn tied the restricting band around his bicep and started feeling for the vein. "Who made the rule, anyway? The Commander or the President?"
"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" Simon asked. "I think the order came first from the Galactica, but the President agreed to it. Does it matter?"
"It matters when they say that the people aren't getting representation," Quinn said, picking up a needle. Artie stared at her, because this wasn't the Quinn Fabray that was the head cheerleader. This was the angry pregnant girl, upset with the world. She caught him staring and lifted her chin. "I don't exactly like the idea of the military treating me like a farm," she said defiantly.
"Preach." Artie winced as Quinn put the needle into his arm. To her credit, she got it on the first try, and as he relaxed, his blood started filling the bag. Quinn made a face and then hoisted herself up on the other table.
"Well, what are you going to do?" Simon asked rhetorically, cleaning Quinn's arm. "When it's not a real democracy- when everyone doesn't have a vote- abuses of power and taking advantage of the weaker will happen."
"Wait! That's it!" Quinn started to sit up, but Simon grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back down. Quinn obeyed, but her eyes were still sharp and intense. "We could withhold the blood from this collection until democracy has been restored."
"Quinn, they shot people on the Gideon for holding back coffee!" Artie protested. "What do you think they'll do to us if we hold back blood?" The idea was cold. He knew Quinn was capable of a lot, but this surprised him.
Quinn twisted on her bed to look at him. "Are you afraid, Artie?"
"Well, yes. What part of 'they shot people over coffee' isn't getting through to you?"
"Which was a disaster. They've issued statements to that effect." Quinn's eyes narrowed calculatingly. "I thought you always wanted to be a badass. Like Puck."
"And if we hold back the blood, Puck could be one of the people that dies."
"That's not all that likely."
"I know." Artie sighed.
"Do you really believe in martial law?"
"Do you really believe that much in democracy?" Artie shot back. "Because back in Lima, I seem to remember you preferring McKinley in something of a totalitarian state. At least as long as you were on top."
"Do you two talk like this all the time?" Simon asked. He'd been watching their argument, looking back and forth between them. "Because I thought high school students weren't supposed to care this much."
"In case you've missed it, we're not high school students anymore," Quinn said bitterly. "And I care. It's not just survival. It's survival of the soul. You know what Laura Roslin is."
"I know her true nature, yes," Simon said evenly.
"Well? We hold back the blood, call the other ships in on it, and Adama will have no choice but to reinstate Roslin."
"Quinn," Simon said with a sigh, "I appreciate your feelings on this. But you're forgetting one thing: the blood supply is in the hand of doctors. And while some of them may agree with you about Roslin, a lot of them will not withhold medical supplies in a time of crisis. They may refuse to send the blood over now, but Adama and Tigh will know that they'll cave in a time of crisis. Do no harm."
"When the stakes are this high, sometimes you have to cause a little harm to serve a greater good. Besides, isn't their oath to protect the people of the Colonies?" She had a point. But the idea of going up against the military like that, that sort of confrontation…. He hadn't been on the Gideon, but Artie had a pretty vivid imagination. It definitely wasn't something he wanted on the Cybele. "We can't just sit by anymore. Not when so much is at stake," Quinn insisted. She narrowed her eyes and sat up. "Don't stick that needle in me," she ordered. She came over and stood over Artie. "Are you with me?"
"Quinn, I…."
"Are you with me?"
Quinn Fabray was standing over him as he lay on a medical table, a host of scalpels, needles, and other pointy metal things at her disposal. And she looked very, very capable of using them. Artie swallowed hard. "Sure," he said. "I'm with you."
"It's not right, Quinn," Simon said as Quinn removed the needle from Artie's arm.
"You're right. But what they're doing isn't right either," Quinn said. "And we're going to make them understand that." Her jaw was set and her eyes were icy, and Artie was suddenly very, very glad he'd agreed to her demands, even if withholding blood didn't feel entirely right to him, either. But with the look on Quinn's face, he wasn't going to say that.
***
Withholding blood. It seemed like a small thing, and at the same time, it didn't. The chances weren't high that someone was going to die, but the simple fact was that someone could die. And when someone died, it wouldn't be Commander Adama or Colonel Tigh. It would be a private like Puck, or a Raptor pilot, or a deckhand who got caught in an accident. Someone who might not agree with martial law. Someone like Mercedes, who even though she wouldn't talk about it, Artie knew she truly believed in Roslin and hated what was happening.
Puck always said he chickened out too much to be a badass. It bugged the hell out of Artie when Puck said things like that, even if he secretly suspected that Puck was right. It wasn't who he wanted to be.
Of course, right now he wasn't sure who he did want to be, or who he agreed with. Everything was a jumble of martial law and prophecies, ethics and questions and standards. And it didn't matter anyway, because none of it was in his hands. Just as well. But it was still heavy on his mind as he made his way to the docking bay. When he got there, Rachel was standing with a notebook and a pen tucked against her body, wearing a plaid skirt, knee high socks, and a sweater. The notebook had kittens on the front.
"You know," he said, taking in her outfit, "there really is something to dressing the part."
"I know," Rachel said, not getting the point at all. "And I am trying to convey youthful innocence, hope, and optimism in a dark and trying time."
"You think that's what people want to hear right now?" Artie asked doubtfully.
"Of course," Rachel insisted. "It makes them feel happy. Content."
"Which is why you've gotten so many assignments."
"I've been given stories," Rachel said primly. "That piece I did about the flowers on the Zephyr got excellent ratings."
"Because those are poppies, Rachel," Artie said dryly, staring at her. "They can be used to make opium."
Rachel straightened up and stepped onto the shuttle with as much dignity as she could muster. "You can take a pessimistic view, but I prefer to think of it as what will be my first break into post-apocalyptic journalism. When I write my memoirs, I'll certainly be mentioning it."
"Rachel…."
"What?"
Artie thought about arguing that publishing wasn't exactly a booming business and that there may never be a day to write memoirs, but then sighed and decided it was pointless. Besides, who knew what Earth would be like? The thought kind if startled him, really. That Rachel could write memoirs on Earth.
"Rachel?" Artie asked, once they were in the shuttle. "What do you think Earth is going to be like?"
Rachel blinked. "I… I don't know," she said. "I hadn't really thought about it, I guess."
"Why not? That's where we're going."
"I don't know. Do you really think we'll find it?"
"The Pythian prophecy-"
"One of my dads believed that Pythia was a prophet," Rachel interrupted. "Well, he followed Zeus, anyway. But Papa followed Mithras, and he was the one that took me to services. Pythia didn't exactly figure in."
"So you aren't exactly buying into the whole Dying Leader thing?" Artie asked.
"I appreciate the drama of her announcement, and I concede that appealing to the faith of people is an effective way to get their attention and sympathy."
"So… that's a no, then?"
"It could be true, I guess. It would be like in Rueful Dynasty, when Mia Kopolos's character had visions of the future." Rachel warmed to her subject. "In fact, if Ms. Roslin wanted, I could discuss those particular passages with her. The emotion that Mia used to convey her divinity would be very useful to the President in convincing people that she truly is the Dying Leader. If she really is," she added hastily. "You know, there's this beautiful solo, too. One that's exactly in my range…."
Was there a reason he'd even asked Rachel about this whole thing? Had he honestly expected an answer he could make sense of? Artie rolled his eyes and looked out the window of the shuttle.
"You know," Rachel continued, sighing wistfully, "it's such a shame we had to give up the idea of the television show. Have you seen some of what passes for entertainment?"
Artie had. There were two shows being put on. The writing was pretty bad and the acting anywhere from reasonable to absolutely horrendous, and they had all the production values of a McKinley production. "I'm surprised you haven't tried out for a part," he said.
Rachel flushed, but then tossed her hair over her shoulder. "So far there haven't been any parts that have been appropriate for my age and appearance," she said. "All of my extensive talent is useless when the director specifies he's looking for a large man. Although I did suggest the part be rewritten to better utilize his resources. He refused."
"Imagine that."
"Besides, it's not the same without New Directions," Rachel continued, ignoring Artie's sarcasm. "There's something special about the entire team."
"That's… awfully nice of you."
"You're all the perfect complement to my voice."
"Right." But he couldn't be mad- not really. After three years of glee, you just got used to Rachel. In a way, it was kind of a relief Rachel was still so focused on her talent and ambition. It was a constant in a world gone mad. Although when Rachel Berry was your touchstone for sanity, it was a sure sign that the world was at an end.
***
The concept of a broadcasting station had started back as early as a few days after the Fleet was formed. It made sense to base it from a luxury liner, as those ships already had a system in place for entertaining guests. The first one had been based on the Zephyr, but someone pointed out the cheerful fact that any ship could be blown up at any time, and stations had also been started on Cloud 9 and the Pyxis. But the systems had only been configured to broadcast within each ship. Expanding the range to the other ships was not a one-step task.
Artie had been active in the AV club back in Lima, and his father, an electrical engineer, had enthusiastically encouraged his interest. He'd been planning on going to college on Virgon and getting a degree in electrical engineering or game engineering himself. It had been an extremely depressing day the day he realized that, if the Cylons had never attacked, he'd be leaving for Virgon and starting at VTI.
But there hadn't been time to be depressed for more than the day, because Artie had work to do. A lot of work to do. So much that he supposed he should feel a little guilty that the worlds had ended and he found himself not only being useful, but doing work he liked, but he just couldn't summon any guilt up. As far as he was concerned, the universe owed him one, and this was a hell of a lot more believable than a hot girl landing in his lap again. He was useful- hell, he was actually kind of important- and he was connected to the Fleet. He was often the first to find things out, like when Adama was shot and that they'd found another Cylon, and there was something kind of awesome about that.
He couldn't help but be jealous on the rare occasions he saw Puck. If life had been different… well, if life had been different he wouldn't be here in the first place, because the attacks never would have happened. But they had, and if his life had been different, he could be out there, getting revenge for what he'd lost, protecting the people he cared about. But that was only when he was actually with Puck. When he wasn't, he forgot about dreams that weren't ever going to happen anyway and focused on what he could do, which was a lot. Although, damn, it would be nice to be a real hero.
But not everyone could be a hero. Hell, he couldn't even stand up to Quinn and tell her he was uncomfortable with the idea of withholding blood, although he couldn't articulate why he couldn't tell her that. But at the same time, not everyone could fix a wireless. Artie figured he'd better focus on what he could do rather than what he couldn't.
***
The Starlight Lounge was exactly the kind of place Kurt would want to meet someone. Artie rolled in, looking around. It was high class, with a well-stocked bar, fancy tables, and lighting that made the place seem full of possibilities. It looked rich, cultured, and just a little trashy all at the same time. Pure Kurt. Artie was half surprised that Kurt wasn't sitting on one of the high stools, legs crossed as he sipped some martini type drink.
Instead, Kurt was sitting in a booth, appearing a little uncomfortable as he fidgeted with the menu. He looked up when Artie approached and smiled, but his smile was off. "Are you all right?" Artie asked, instead of saying hello.
"What? Oh, of course." Kurt laughed a little; a high, thin laugh that made it clear he was lying. "Thanks for meeting me."
"I couldn't resist," Artie said. "I have to know- what's with all the secrecy?"
"Secrecy?"
"The note, the initials, meeting on Cloud 9 instead of on the Cybele… you did realize you were being secretive, right?"
"I, er… right." Kurt shook himself and put his confidence back on. "I guess I was. But I have something I needed to talk to you about that… well… I didn't really want all of the ears of New Directions pressed to the door."
"I'm listening."
Before Kurt could say anything, the waiter came over to take their order. Artie suspected the menu was nowhere near as elaborate as it had once been, but it was still nicer than anything they had on the Cybele. Kurt was completely gracious as he ordered, all airs and pretenses of culture, but when the waiter left, the pretense came down a little.
It came back up when an older woman in a suit stopped by their table. Kurt immediately jumped up, a strange combination of exaggerated manners and condescension. It made Artie wonder if Kurt felt as strange about being thrown into working with adults as he did. He'd never ask, but he suspected Kurt did feel the same way, especially as Kurt sat back down with a look of relief when the woman left.
"I was wondering," Kurt finally said, fingering the scarf around his neck, "if there was any chance you could get a recording device."
"A recording device?" Artie asked, oddly disappointed. "That’s it? What's so secret about that?"
"Who said there was anything secret?"
"You just did!"
"No I didn't! I told you-"
"Not in so many words, but you've been acting like it. What could possibly be so secret about- wait a minute. What are you recording?"
"A speech," Kurt said. "Nothing illicit. I don't need some seedy hidden camera or anything like that. I just need something that can record a speech and be broadcast with a good fidelity."
"Broadcast? Why don't you just go to the stations?"
"Sometimes the stations aren't the channel you want to use. Especially when certain military officials keep eavesdropping." Kurt was trying to play it cool, but he looked flat out guilty.
"Wait," Artie said, the whole thing unfolding in front of him. "You know where Roslin is."
"No I don't!" Kurt widened his eyes in innocence.
"Maybe you don't, but Tom Zarek does."
Kurt drew himself up. "Why would Laura Roslin go to Tom Zarek? She can't stand him. Everyone knows that."
"Yeah, but he's been pretty outspoken against martial law," Artie pointed out. "Not that anyone ever had doubts about his position. Come on, Kurt. I do have a brain." Kurt looked uncomfortable, and Artie sighed. "Relax. I'm not going to say anything."
"You're not?"
"Kurt, if I can figure out that Zarek might know where Roslin is, don't you think Colonel Tigh can, too? He's probably already at the top of their suspect list. I'm kind of surprised they haven't been asking you questions yet."
"Because apparently when Mr. Zarek arranged for democratic elections," Kurt emphasized the last words with a glare, "he held a gun to Captain Adama's head. Captain Adama is with President Roslin. And while Roslin might conceivably turn to Zarek, Adama wouldn't." Kurt sat back and glared at Artie, arms crossed and looking for all the world like he was taking on Mr. Schuester.
"And the fact Zarek held a gun to someone's head doesn't bug you at all?"
"Please. Like there weren't guns on him, too." The way Kurt said that made Artie wonder just how different Zarek's version of that day was from the one that he'd heard, and how different either of those was from reality. This conversation wasn't going well, and Artie wasn't sure how the hell to save it.
The waiter arrived and put their plates down in front of them. Artie noticed with a little surprise that they'd both ordered the same pasta dish. It was a small thing, but it made him smile.
"Not quite Breadstix, huh?"
Kurt stared at him for a minute, and then relaxed and smiled a little. "You know," he said slowly, "Finn was right. Their actual breadsticks really did suck."
"The rest of their food was pretty good though."
"If by pretty good you mean standard Gemenese-Canceron fare with no thought or creativity, yes." Kurt sighed. "But I'd give just about anything to eat there again. It was fantastic comfort food."
"We're a long way from there, though." Artie poked the pasta with his fork.
"I know." Kurt sighed. He tapped his fork against the plate and leaned his chin on his hand, deep in thought. Artie concentrated on the food.
"So what are you going to do?" Kurt asked suddenly. "If you're not going to give us the recording device, that is."
"I never said I wasn't," Artie said. Kurt stopped, fork halfway up and his mouth open. "You just want it for a speech, right?"
"Right."
"Let me think about it," Artie said. Kurt eyed him suspiciously for a long moment, and then nodded. Artie picked up his fork and realized his hands were cold and sweaty. Because getting that recording device? That meant unequivocal support for Roslin. And holy shit- it hinged on him. He put his fork back down, shocked to the core. He was being asked to help Roslin… do whatever she was doing. That kind of chance- that kind of decision- had just been dropped in his lap without any warning.
"Are you okay?" Kurt asked.
"Fine," Artie said, and his voice sounded far away in his own ears.
This was a time to be a hero, if he believed in Roslin. Or a time to be a whistle-blower, if he believed in the military. He looked at Kurt and knew immediately he couldn't do the second. So what did that mean about the first?
"So," Kurt said, trying to break the silence. "Has Rachel tried to get on the wireless stations with her songs yet?" He was deliberately casual, almost flirtatious… normal Kurt changing the subject.
"It's funny you mention that," Artie said, snapping out of it. "Rachel was talking about the show again, but with all the work…." He trailed off, smiling. Kurt raised an interested eyebrow.
"Oh?"
"If I got you that recording device," Artie began, "would we be able to use it? After Roslin is done with it?"
"We?"
The idea came to him fully formed. "New Directions. Look. The television show didn't work out, right? But that took choreography and costumes and a lot of effort." Kurt nodded. "But the wireless stations- the ones that are just radio- they're up and looking for entertainment. For the most part, they're just using sound files that people had on personal devices during the attacks, or in their quarters for the ships that survived. There's nothing new. But there could be."
"But we-"
"If we just do songs for the wireless, we don't have to have choreography," Artie explained. "We don't have to have costumes. We just have to have the music. It would take a lot less time, and if we gave the music to the others on the Galactica, we could do like we did for the Colonial Day party and have them rehearse their parts ahead of time before we put it all together."
It was funny how excited that thought made him. But then, Artie had never been one of the ones that saw theater and music as his career- just as something that he loved to do on the side. The idea of having that back was incredibly appealing. Kurt looked lost in the thought, until suddenly his eyes sharpened and he smiled at someone over Artie's shoulder. Artie glanced back fully expecting to see some other political figure. But the guy who was approaching only looked a couple of years older than them, with curly hair, a very young face, and a shirt that Artie kind of liked but he was sure was making Kurt cringe. It took a minute, but Artie finally placed his face as Billy Keikeya.
Kurt made the introductions, considerably more relaxed than he had been with the official earlier. "Billy, this is Artie Abrams. He's on the Colonial Communications Commission based out of Cloud 9. Billy is President Roslin's aide. He and I weather Quorum meetings together," Kurt explained. "Do you mind if he joins us?"
Artie gestured to the empty seat. "Please do."
"Thanks," Billy said, slipping into their booth. He looked tired. "But I guess I'm not President Roslin's aide anymore. Even once martial law is lifted, I'm sure that the Commander won't reconsider putting her back in office."
"What makes you say that?" Kurt asked.
"I have my sources," Billy said glumly.
"I'm surprised you're not with her," Kurt said.
Billy shrugged. "I had my choice."
"Can I ask you something?" Artie said. Billy nodded. "Why didn't you go with her? I'm not asking to be rude," he hastily amended, putting his hands up, "I just… I'm trying to figure some things out for myself."
Billy leaned forward on his elbows. "I'm an atheist," he said finally. "I believe that President Roslin is dying- I'd never doubt her word on that. And I certainly think she's an excellent leader. But divine intervention, saying that it's divine intervention when people are so desperate to believe that they'll believe anything…." His face twisted. "That's why I didn't go with her. That's the only reason I didn't go with her."
"But it does fit," Artie said. "I guess." An excellent leader. Something about that sentence tugged at him.
Billy shrugged. "The words are pretty vague. I understand that there are a few theologians in the Fleet that have studied it more extensively, but the idea that the person who is currently leading us has cancer… the odds against it are high, but not astronomically so."
Kurt looked interested. "Did you read the piece in the Fleet News today? It baffles me how anyone could even begin to believe it. It simply makes no sense."
"No, it makes sense," Billy corrected him. "You just have to believe that it has significance. Which I don't."
"Anyone who does is a delusional moron," Kurt muttered.
"You know," Billy said dryly. "I work for that 'delusional moron.'"
Kurt at least had the grace to flush. "I'm sorry," he muttered stiffly.
Billy looked beaten. "Don't worry. You're hardly the first one to say it. You're just the first one that I can snap back at."
The two of them continued talking, moving on to something about the Quorum meeting that day. Not that there was a Quorum legally, Artie thought sourly, but apparently they were still meeting. There was something comforting about that. Really comforting, actually. He half-tuned out their conversation and thought again about the recording device.
An excellent leader, Billy had said. Artie realized that, if you'd asked him before Roslin had made her statement that she was the dying leader, he would agree with this whole-heartedly. She'd kept the Fleet together, she'd unified them, guided them, stood up to the military when she needed to and made hard decisions that kept people alive. Like leaving the ships without FTL drives after the Fleet first firmed. Like shooting down the Olympic Carrier; he'd read that story and known he could never have made that call, even though it was absolutely the right one. Like admitting elections needed to take place, like choosing a Vice President, like preserving people's rights. Like supporting the mandate that all Type O donors needed to give a pint of blood every fifty-six days. That was why Quinn's blood strike bothered him. Because as repellent as it was, Roslin was right. She was right a lot. Did the fact that he didn't agree with her religiously negate the fact that she was one of the reasons this Fleet was still alive?
No.
It would be risky, if he did this. If he was caught, it could even be seen as aiding and abetting a fugitive. He could be looking at jail time for this. And that was… really kind of cool. Puck would definitely do it. If Puck wasn't on Galactica, he would help, too. Because getting a recording device wasn't necessarily going to be easy. But if he got help, and if he fudged the paperwork a little and called in a favor from-
Holy shit. He was really going to do this.
On to Part 2