Fic - BSG - A Solstice Carol
Title: A Solstice Carol
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Character spoilers through 2x10, but this fic is decidedly AU.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Moore, Eick, and other people who aren't me. The story is based on Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol; you'll recognize the lines that are directly lifted.
Summary: On the eve of the winter solstice, Saul Tigh is alone and perfectly content to stay that way, thank you very much. Can a visit from an old friend teach him otherwise? Extremely AU.
Notes: If Christianity can co-opt pagan traditions, I can put them back. All information on Brumalia and the solstice comes from the interweb; all errors are mine. Characters and relationships are arranged to suit the plot, not shipping or BSG canon. Thanks to photosinensis for the beta. This fic is crack that ate my brain, and I sincerely apologize. Happy non-denominational holidays to you.
Stave I: Adama’s Ghost
Adama was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. Signed, sealed, and consigned to the earth he had been, as witnessed by the appropriate officials and chief mourner, which had been Tigh, himself. There could be no question. The old man was as dead as a doornail.
Tigh and Adama had been partners in business for many years, chief owners of a shipping corporation. They were each other’s sole legal and administrative tie, sole trustee, and Tigh was the sole mourner when Adama died. This is a crucial point to understand, you see; the story I am to tell must be founded on the knowledge of Adama being firmly, absolutely, and unquestionably dead.
Though it had been seven years since the event in question, Tigh had never had Adama’s name removed from the sign outside their office in Caprica City, and accordingly, it remained the same on all other documentation and transactions. The business’s name was Adama and Tigh; sometimes people called him Adama, and sometimes Tigh, but Tigh didn’t care so long as they paid their bills.
As for the current owner, the best words to describe him were hard, sharp, and cold. Tigh had to be known in short phrases, not for a lack of understanding on his part, but because they perfectly suited his disposition. There was no dissembling with Tigh; what there was to see and know of him could be perfectly seen and known on one meeting, and one meeting was generally all people wanted to do with him. A solitary figure, he made his way in the world in the most economical way he could, shutting out all the unnecessary and superfluous trimmings of behavior and life, caring only for the day’s profit numbers. The world, in return, was quite content to let him go on as such, and though many an ungracious word had been spoken about him outside (and within) his presence, most people gave him not a second thought if they could help it.
We join this story on an evening that fitted Tigh in temperature but not in spirits - the eve of the winter solstice festival, Brumalia. Winter had come to Caprica, and today in particular was dark, damp, and cold. It was hardly warmer inside Adama and Tigh than outdoors. They had saved a lot of money buying an empty lot, rather than renting space in an upscale steel and glass structure in the newer business district, and simply grounding an out-of-service transport ship. The small cockpit was closed up, but the two storage compartments had been converted into a full office space. They hadn’t bothered with the systems upkeep, aside from communications and electricity; a grounded ship had no need for life support or navigation. One space heater was all that Tigh deemed necessary for the entire office, which was only occupied on a regular basis by two people: Tigh and his clerk, Agathon, who at the moment in question had his lanky frame huddled in the second compartment as well as he could while still appearing diligent to his sharp-eyed employer.
In the late afternoon of an otherwise unremarkable day, the communications console buzzed, and Tigh answered it on the vid-phone. “Adama and Tigh.”
“A blessed Brumalia to you, Uncle!” cried the young man whose face appeared on the screen, exuding an odious degree of cheer.
“Bah!” said Tigh. “Humbug, even.”
To Tigh’s greater ire, his “nephew” laughed, the tinny ringing echoing through the office. “Come on, even you can’t dislike Brumalia! It’s a feast to Bacchus, after all.”
There was a muffled sound from the side room that could either have been a cough or a snort. “Keep that up, and you’ll be back on the job market tomorrow!” shouted Tigh before directing his glare back to the screen.
The young man on the line was not his nephew by blood. Rather, he was his late partner’s surviving son, who had gravitated towards books and scholarship rather than the family business. Adama senior had been estranged from his son for many years, hence Tigh being the sole benefactor of the will. At first, when Lee had started calling and coming around to the office after his father’s death, Tigh had suspected him of wanting a slice of the business, but nothing but well-wishes and invitations had ever resulted - the kid with the merry eyes and wide grin seemed to think that he could give something to Tigh.
“Why feast to gods you don’t believe in?” grunted Tigh. “Better spend the day making your fortune, instead of throwing it away.”
And damn him if Lee didn’t laugh again! “It’s not about the gods; it’s about celebrating the season and being grateful for the friends and family,” he said pointedly, “in your life. So I’ll say it again: Blessed Brumalia to you!”
“If I had my way,” Tigh growled, “every idiot who runs around with ‘Blessed Brumalia’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.”
“A little harsh, don’t you think?”
“Frak Brumalia.” This finally wiped the irrepressible grin from Lee’s face; Tigh, triumphant, turned to his desk. “If that’s all you had to say, get off with you and clear the line.”
“Actually, I was calling to invite you to dinner tomorrow. We’re having some friends, and we’d both love you to join us,” said Lee, more subdued but still, for some reason, sounding as if he expected an affirmative answer.
“Bah,” said Tigh again. “I take it that ‘we’ includes that wife of yours?”
“Of course.”
“Good afternoon,” he said pointedly.
“What, you’re refusing because I’m married, now? You never accepted when I wasn’t!”
“Good afternoon.”
“You and my father were friends, and I know you used to like me.”
“Good afternoon.”
“Fine, have it your way. The offer still stands, but I won’t harass you anymore. Blessed Brumalia, Uncle, and a happy-”
“Good frakking afternoon!” And with that, Tigh cut the connection.
“Brumalia,” he grumbled. “Another pathetic, government-sanctioned excuse for laziness and loss of profit.” Before he could work himself into a truly formidable rage, however, the console buzzed again and Tigh checked the identification tag before answering, dreading a return call.
To his relief, it listed two unknown names: Keikaya and Dualla. The screen showed a pair of callers of Lee’s age but much more businesslike in appearance. The young man spoke first. “Blessed Brumalia! Am I addressing Mr. Adama or Mr. Tigh?”
Tigh snorted. “Mr. Adama has been dead for seven years. If you’re addressing him, you need services beyond what my business provides.”
“Ah - er, yes, of course,” the young man - hardly more than a boy - stuttered. “Our condolences, of course.”
“I don’t need ‘em.”
“Er - right.”
Fortunately for both Tigh’s patience and the boy’s reddening cheeks, his partner cut in. “And we’re sure you’ll want to honor his memory at this season. Mr. Tigh, we represent a non-profit organization dedicated to helping those whose suffering is so much greater than our own. Thousands of people in this city alone, and untold millions on Caprica, have trouble providing basic necessities for themselves and their families.”
She seemed about to go on, but Tigh broke in. “Are there no prisons?”
The woman’s mouth still hung open for the next line in her script as she glanced quickly at her partner. “Yes…yes, there are.”
“And the workhouses?” pressed Tigh. “They haven’t gotten rid of those?”
“They haven’t,” said the young man, who had finally recovered his voice. “That’s part of what our group is working towards. Of course, a movement like this one depends on the generous contributions of local businesses and sponsors. How much can we put you down for this year, sir?”
“Nothing!” barked Tigh.
The two glanced at one another again. “An anonymous donation?” the woman ventured.
“No! Nothing! I can’t afford to waste cubits on people too lazy to earn them on their own.”
“But Mr. Tigh, the number of people who suffer and die each year-”
“If they’re going to die, they’d better do it now and decrease the surplus population. It’s not my problem. Good afternoon!” Ending the call again, he yelled to his employee, “Agathon! You answer anything else that comes in. If it’s not real work, tell them to go away, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s right,” muttered Tigh to himself. “One more ‘Blessed Brumalia’ and whoever says it will be sorry he ever heard the name.”
But the rest of the day was silent, which suited Tigh perfectly. When it came time to close, Agathon hovered near the airlock hatch.
“You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?” grumbled Tigh.
“Yes, sir. If that’s all right, sir,” said his assistant, snugging his hat lower on his forehead.
“I’ll bet you expect full pay for it, too.”
“Sir…it’s only once a year…”
“Hell of an excuse. Fine, all day. But I expect you in early the next day to make up for it.” Agathon promised he would be and left as fast as his long legs could carry him to hurry home to his wife and numerous spawn. Tigh only knew that because Agathon had once tried to tell him about them. He quickly learned that was not an acceptable topic of conversation at work.
Not that there were any acceptable topics with Tigh, unless they had to do with work.
Tigh shut down his own workstation and left the office, which simply meant taking the narrow staircase leading to the living quarters above. The ship had once been Adama’s, his full-time home after his second divorce, and Tigh had taken the rooms up on Adama’s death.
The wind was blowing through the open vent in the bulkhead as he crossed the landing. Appropriately atmospheric, perhaps, but not anything to improve Tigh’s mood. No, that sort of improvement was waiting for him inside, and as he reached to spin the hatch lock, Tigh cracked something approaching a smile at the thought of it. The logo in the wheel’s center was its only ornamentation, done in the classic style of a chimera -
- only it wasn’t.
“What the…”
The chimera was actually shifting before his very eyes! Tigh jerked his hand away. The weak lighting from above wavered in front of him, seeming to shape the image into what looked like a human face - and what’s more, a familiar one. Tigh stepped backwards, for the face was none other than that of his departed partner! As Tigh alternately blinked and rubbed at his eyes, Adama’s ephemeral mouth opened.
“Sauuul!”
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the spectre was gone, returning to the solid, motionless animal face.
Tigh regained his firm grasp on the wheel. “Damn wind,” he grumbled, spinning it sharply and hurrying inside. Not that he was in any way reacting to the wheel’s transformation, mind you. No, it was only the cold draft and the yearn for his own room’s comforts that drew him in so quickly.
In the sitting room, he finally found his relief for the whole unpleasant day with a healthy dose of green liquid medicine poured from the bottle on the shelf. Tigh sank into his armchair in front of the built in false hearth with his drink, resolving to put the whole thing out of his mind.
“What’s to celebrate about a solstice, anyway,” he muttered. “It’s only a name science has given to a fact of physics.”
The drink did its work, and Tigh was just about to turn in when the picture frame on the bulkhead rattled. He jerked and looked over at it - his old flight certificate, framed and mounted with honor - and it stilled momentarily, only to start up again, joined by what little else there was on the walls and the few pieces of furniture.
Tigh jumped up, snatching his glass from the table beside him before it could shake off the edge.
He tried to bring up what vague recollections of earthquake safety procedures he could. Was he supposed to get under a table or by a wall? But the rattling didn’t cease as he thought it should in an earthquake, and the floor beneath him was solid.
As he tried to think of what service to call to handle rattling furniture, another sound slowly overtook it - a clinking, clunking sound, as if someone were dragging a heavy chain in the ship…up the stairs…across the landing…to his very hatch…and as Tigh backed rapidly towards the opposite bulkhead, through the hatch.
It was the face he had seen on the wheel, but with the figure to accompany it. Adama, grey and translucent, strode into the quarters he had occupied in life. There could be no doubt of its being he - his grounded stride, straight back, and steady gaze through the spectacles perched on his nose were all Adama, through and through. But what he carried with him! It was indeed a chain, the very one Tigh had heard, wrapped around the ghostly body and dragging behind him, adorned with lockboxes and ledgers of all shapes and sizes. A patch on his chest bore a dark stain where Adama had once suffered a near-fatal injury.
Tigh’s voice was caught up in his throat until Adama stopped moving. “What do you want?” he finally eked out.
“Much.” Adama’s rough voice was hoarse with disuse.
“Who are you?”
“In life, I was your partner, Bill Adama.” The ghost shuffled over to Tigh’s abandoned chair and settled with a clang as two of his burdens knocked together. He looked at Tigh. “You don’t believe I’m really here.”
“Of course you’re not really here, you’re dead!” Tigh exclaimed, and as he waved his arm, he remembered the glass still in his hand. He brought it forward. “Bad ambrosia on an empty stomach, that’s all you are. I’ll get rid of the bottle tomorrow.”
Adama said nothing, and only continued to stare at Tigh with that familiar, piercing gaze.
“Humbug, I tell you!” Tigh cried. “Humbug!”
At this, the rattling, which had continued underneath the ghost’s appearance, grew to such an enormous roar that Tigh was forced to drop his glass at last and clap his hands over his ears. The hearth, only a decorative fixture, filled with flame, casting Adama’s fearsome shadow on the wall behind him. The image shook so convincingly that Tigh could almost believe another spirit had joined them, and he fell to his knees.
“All right, I believe! Spirit, have mercy on me! Why have you come, and why to me?”
“In life, every person is commanded to walk among their fellow Colonials, to travel between the planets in spirit if not in person. If the spirit doesn’t accompany the body on the journey, it is doomed to do so after death.”
“You traveled, Bill! You piloted ships from Caprica to Sagittaron and everywhere in between. What are the chains that bind you now?” said Tigh, pointing a shaking hand.
“I wear the chain I forged in life. Yes, I made it, every link and bond, and of my own free will. It shouldn’t be so foreign to you, Saul; the one you bear was as long as mine seven years ago, and you’ve been working steadily since to lengthen it further.”
“I don’t understand. I work hard; I make good, honest money. I contribute to the local economy.”
“Money!” roared Adama. “The economy!”
“Yes, dammit, just as you used to do!” Tigh bit back. “Only good business! You can’t tell me it was a fault!”
“Business!” Adama scoffed. “Humankind should have been my business. The Lords of Kobol learned that the hard way, destroying themselves with infighting and selfishness, and I am here tonight to share that lesson with you before it’s too late.”
Tigh lifted his head. Bill continued, “My time here is almost up. You will be visited tonight by three spirits.”
“I think I’ve had all the spirits I need tonight, thanks,” Tigh answered automatically, nodding towards his fallen glass.
“Three spirits, on the hour!” Adama said again. “You have a choice to make, Saul. You can ignore them, continue on as you were, or you can follow them and make a change.”
“What do you think I should do?” Tigh asked.
“I’m gone, Saul; the choice is yours alone.” The ghost rose as if in enormous pain, chains clinking together again. He looked back to Tigh. “Sometimes, you have to roll a hard six.” He made his way across the room to the small porthole, which flung open as he approached. Tigh stood and took a step towards his friend, but Adama held up a hand and looked out the open hole. “Brumalia.”
And then he was gone, out into the cold. Tigh rushed afterwards to see where he had gone, but it was no use; before his eyes, a multitude of spirits flew through the air like Vipers in a show, dancing and weaving among one another. But there was nothing celebratory about their flight, for each one carried a chain like Adama’s, all different in size but equal in weight and pain, judging by their faces. He tried to see if any others were familiar; he thought he caught a glimpse of a rival businesswoman, but Cain’s would-be spectre was out of sight before he could be certain.
The wind gusted again, and Tigh remembered himself and shut the porthole (he hadn’t known it could open at all). He turned back to the room; everything was still. No moving frames, no fire, and the hatch was spun shut as it had always been. Tigh picked up his glass from the floor. “Frakking cheap booze.” He set it down and moved into the bedroom. “Spirits, indeed. Humbug.”
Not sparing another glance towards the frames on the wall or above the mantle, Tigh went straight to bed and fell asleep.
Rating: PG-13 for language
Spoilers: Character spoilers through 2x10, but this fic is decidedly AU.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to Moore, Eick, and other people who aren't me. The story is based on Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol; you'll recognize the lines that are directly lifted.
Summary: On the eve of the winter solstice, Saul Tigh is alone and perfectly content to stay that way, thank you very much. Can a visit from an old friend teach him otherwise? Extremely AU.
Notes: If Christianity can co-opt pagan traditions, I can put them back. All information on Brumalia and the solstice comes from the interweb; all errors are mine. Characters and relationships are arranged to suit the plot, not shipping or BSG canon. Thanks to photosinensis for the beta. This fic is crack that ate my brain, and I sincerely apologize. Happy non-denominational holidays to you.
Stave I: Adama’s Ghost
Adama was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. Signed, sealed, and consigned to the earth he had been, as witnessed by the appropriate officials and chief mourner, which had been Tigh, himself. There could be no question. The old man was as dead as a doornail.
Tigh and Adama had been partners in business for many years, chief owners of a shipping corporation. They were each other’s sole legal and administrative tie, sole trustee, and Tigh was the sole mourner when Adama died. This is a crucial point to understand, you see; the story I am to tell must be founded on the knowledge of Adama being firmly, absolutely, and unquestionably dead.
Though it had been seven years since the event in question, Tigh had never had Adama’s name removed from the sign outside their office in Caprica City, and accordingly, it remained the same on all other documentation and transactions. The business’s name was Adama and Tigh; sometimes people called him Adama, and sometimes Tigh, but Tigh didn’t care so long as they paid their bills.
As for the current owner, the best words to describe him were hard, sharp, and cold. Tigh had to be known in short phrases, not for a lack of understanding on his part, but because they perfectly suited his disposition. There was no dissembling with Tigh; what there was to see and know of him could be perfectly seen and known on one meeting, and one meeting was generally all people wanted to do with him. A solitary figure, he made his way in the world in the most economical way he could, shutting out all the unnecessary and superfluous trimmings of behavior and life, caring only for the day’s profit numbers. The world, in return, was quite content to let him go on as such, and though many an ungracious word had been spoken about him outside (and within) his presence, most people gave him not a second thought if they could help it.
We join this story on an evening that fitted Tigh in temperature but not in spirits - the eve of the winter solstice festival, Brumalia. Winter had come to Caprica, and today in particular was dark, damp, and cold. It was hardly warmer inside Adama and Tigh than outdoors. They had saved a lot of money buying an empty lot, rather than renting space in an upscale steel and glass structure in the newer business district, and simply grounding an out-of-service transport ship. The small cockpit was closed up, but the two storage compartments had been converted into a full office space. They hadn’t bothered with the systems upkeep, aside from communications and electricity; a grounded ship had no need for life support or navigation. One space heater was all that Tigh deemed necessary for the entire office, which was only occupied on a regular basis by two people: Tigh and his clerk, Agathon, who at the moment in question had his lanky frame huddled in the second compartment as well as he could while still appearing diligent to his sharp-eyed employer.
In the late afternoon of an otherwise unremarkable day, the communications console buzzed, and Tigh answered it on the vid-phone. “Adama and Tigh.”
“A blessed Brumalia to you, Uncle!” cried the young man whose face appeared on the screen, exuding an odious degree of cheer.
“Bah!” said Tigh. “Humbug, even.”
To Tigh’s greater ire, his “nephew” laughed, the tinny ringing echoing through the office. “Come on, even you can’t dislike Brumalia! It’s a feast to Bacchus, after all.”
There was a muffled sound from the side room that could either have been a cough or a snort. “Keep that up, and you’ll be back on the job market tomorrow!” shouted Tigh before directing his glare back to the screen.
The young man on the line was not his nephew by blood. Rather, he was his late partner’s surviving son, who had gravitated towards books and scholarship rather than the family business. Adama senior had been estranged from his son for many years, hence Tigh being the sole benefactor of the will. At first, when Lee had started calling and coming around to the office after his father’s death, Tigh had suspected him of wanting a slice of the business, but nothing but well-wishes and invitations had ever resulted - the kid with the merry eyes and wide grin seemed to think that he could give something to Tigh.
“Why feast to gods you don’t believe in?” grunted Tigh. “Better spend the day making your fortune, instead of throwing it away.”
And damn him if Lee didn’t laugh again! “It’s not about the gods; it’s about celebrating the season and being grateful for the friends and family,” he said pointedly, “in your life. So I’ll say it again: Blessed Brumalia to you!”
“If I had my way,” Tigh growled, “every idiot who runs around with ‘Blessed Brumalia’ on his lips should be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart.”
“A little harsh, don’t you think?”
“Frak Brumalia.” This finally wiped the irrepressible grin from Lee’s face; Tigh, triumphant, turned to his desk. “If that’s all you had to say, get off with you and clear the line.”
“Actually, I was calling to invite you to dinner tomorrow. We’re having some friends, and we’d both love you to join us,” said Lee, more subdued but still, for some reason, sounding as if he expected an affirmative answer.
“Bah,” said Tigh again. “I take it that ‘we’ includes that wife of yours?”
“Of course.”
“Good afternoon,” he said pointedly.
“What, you’re refusing because I’m married, now? You never accepted when I wasn’t!”
“Good afternoon.”
“You and my father were friends, and I know you used to like me.”
“Good afternoon.”
“Fine, have it your way. The offer still stands, but I won’t harass you anymore. Blessed Brumalia, Uncle, and a happy-”
“Good frakking afternoon!” And with that, Tigh cut the connection.
“Brumalia,” he grumbled. “Another pathetic, government-sanctioned excuse for laziness and loss of profit.” Before he could work himself into a truly formidable rage, however, the console buzzed again and Tigh checked the identification tag before answering, dreading a return call.
To his relief, it listed two unknown names: Keikaya and Dualla. The screen showed a pair of callers of Lee’s age but much more businesslike in appearance. The young man spoke first. “Blessed Brumalia! Am I addressing Mr. Adama or Mr. Tigh?”
Tigh snorted. “Mr. Adama has been dead for seven years. If you’re addressing him, you need services beyond what my business provides.”
“Ah - er, yes, of course,” the young man - hardly more than a boy - stuttered. “Our condolences, of course.”
“I don’t need ‘em.”
“Er - right.”
Fortunately for both Tigh’s patience and the boy’s reddening cheeks, his partner cut in. “And we’re sure you’ll want to honor his memory at this season. Mr. Tigh, we represent a non-profit organization dedicated to helping those whose suffering is so much greater than our own. Thousands of people in this city alone, and untold millions on Caprica, have trouble providing basic necessities for themselves and their families.”
She seemed about to go on, but Tigh broke in. “Are there no prisons?”
The woman’s mouth still hung open for the next line in her script as she glanced quickly at her partner. “Yes…yes, there are.”
“And the workhouses?” pressed Tigh. “They haven’t gotten rid of those?”
“They haven’t,” said the young man, who had finally recovered his voice. “That’s part of what our group is working towards. Of course, a movement like this one depends on the generous contributions of local businesses and sponsors. How much can we put you down for this year, sir?”
“Nothing!” barked Tigh.
The two glanced at one another again. “An anonymous donation?” the woman ventured.
“No! Nothing! I can’t afford to waste cubits on people too lazy to earn them on their own.”
“But Mr. Tigh, the number of people who suffer and die each year-”
“If they’re going to die, they’d better do it now and decrease the surplus population. It’s not my problem. Good afternoon!” Ending the call again, he yelled to his employee, “Agathon! You answer anything else that comes in. If it’s not real work, tell them to go away, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s right,” muttered Tigh to himself. “One more ‘Blessed Brumalia’ and whoever says it will be sorry he ever heard the name.”
But the rest of the day was silent, which suited Tigh perfectly. When it came time to close, Agathon hovered near the airlock hatch.
“You’ll want all day tomorrow, I suppose?” grumbled Tigh.
“Yes, sir. If that’s all right, sir,” said his assistant, snugging his hat lower on his forehead.
“I’ll bet you expect full pay for it, too.”
“Sir…it’s only once a year…”
“Hell of an excuse. Fine, all day. But I expect you in early the next day to make up for it.” Agathon promised he would be and left as fast as his long legs could carry him to hurry home to his wife and numerous spawn. Tigh only knew that because Agathon had once tried to tell him about them. He quickly learned that was not an acceptable topic of conversation at work.
Not that there were any acceptable topics with Tigh, unless they had to do with work.
Tigh shut down his own workstation and left the office, which simply meant taking the narrow staircase leading to the living quarters above. The ship had once been Adama’s, his full-time home after his second divorce, and Tigh had taken the rooms up on Adama’s death.
The wind was blowing through the open vent in the bulkhead as he crossed the landing. Appropriately atmospheric, perhaps, but not anything to improve Tigh’s mood. No, that sort of improvement was waiting for him inside, and as he reached to spin the hatch lock, Tigh cracked something approaching a smile at the thought of it. The logo in the wheel’s center was its only ornamentation, done in the classic style of a chimera -
- only it wasn’t.
“What the…”
The chimera was actually shifting before his very eyes! Tigh jerked his hand away. The weak lighting from above wavered in front of him, seeming to shape the image into what looked like a human face - and what’s more, a familiar one. Tigh stepped backwards, for the face was none other than that of his departed partner! As Tigh alternately blinked and rubbed at his eyes, Adama’s ephemeral mouth opened.
“Sauuul!”
Then, as quickly as it appeared, the spectre was gone, returning to the solid, motionless animal face.
Tigh regained his firm grasp on the wheel. “Damn wind,” he grumbled, spinning it sharply and hurrying inside. Not that he was in any way reacting to the wheel’s transformation, mind you. No, it was only the cold draft and the yearn for his own room’s comforts that drew him in so quickly.
In the sitting room, he finally found his relief for the whole unpleasant day with a healthy dose of green liquid medicine poured from the bottle on the shelf. Tigh sank into his armchair in front of the built in false hearth with his drink, resolving to put the whole thing out of his mind.
“What’s to celebrate about a solstice, anyway,” he muttered. “It’s only a name science has given to a fact of physics.”
The drink did its work, and Tigh was just about to turn in when the picture frame on the bulkhead rattled. He jerked and looked over at it - his old flight certificate, framed and mounted with honor - and it stilled momentarily, only to start up again, joined by what little else there was on the walls and the few pieces of furniture.
Tigh jumped up, snatching his glass from the table beside him before it could shake off the edge.
He tried to bring up what vague recollections of earthquake safety procedures he could. Was he supposed to get under a table or by a wall? But the rattling didn’t cease as he thought it should in an earthquake, and the floor beneath him was solid.
As he tried to think of what service to call to handle rattling furniture, another sound slowly overtook it - a clinking, clunking sound, as if someone were dragging a heavy chain in the ship…up the stairs…across the landing…to his very hatch…and as Tigh backed rapidly towards the opposite bulkhead, through the hatch.
It was the face he had seen on the wheel, but with the figure to accompany it. Adama, grey and translucent, strode into the quarters he had occupied in life. There could be no doubt of its being he - his grounded stride, straight back, and steady gaze through the spectacles perched on his nose were all Adama, through and through. But what he carried with him! It was indeed a chain, the very one Tigh had heard, wrapped around the ghostly body and dragging behind him, adorned with lockboxes and ledgers of all shapes and sizes. A patch on his chest bore a dark stain where Adama had once suffered a near-fatal injury.
Tigh’s voice was caught up in his throat until Adama stopped moving. “What do you want?” he finally eked out.
“Much.” Adama’s rough voice was hoarse with disuse.
“Who are you?”
“In life, I was your partner, Bill Adama.” The ghost shuffled over to Tigh’s abandoned chair and settled with a clang as two of his burdens knocked together. He looked at Tigh. “You don’t believe I’m really here.”
“Of course you’re not really here, you’re dead!” Tigh exclaimed, and as he waved his arm, he remembered the glass still in his hand. He brought it forward. “Bad ambrosia on an empty stomach, that’s all you are. I’ll get rid of the bottle tomorrow.”
Adama said nothing, and only continued to stare at Tigh with that familiar, piercing gaze.
“Humbug, I tell you!” Tigh cried. “Humbug!”
At this, the rattling, which had continued underneath the ghost’s appearance, grew to such an enormous roar that Tigh was forced to drop his glass at last and clap his hands over his ears. The hearth, only a decorative fixture, filled with flame, casting Adama’s fearsome shadow on the wall behind him. The image shook so convincingly that Tigh could almost believe another spirit had joined them, and he fell to his knees.
“All right, I believe! Spirit, have mercy on me! Why have you come, and why to me?”
“In life, every person is commanded to walk among their fellow Colonials, to travel between the planets in spirit if not in person. If the spirit doesn’t accompany the body on the journey, it is doomed to do so after death.”
“You traveled, Bill! You piloted ships from Caprica to Sagittaron and everywhere in between. What are the chains that bind you now?” said Tigh, pointing a shaking hand.
“I wear the chain I forged in life. Yes, I made it, every link and bond, and of my own free will. It shouldn’t be so foreign to you, Saul; the one you bear was as long as mine seven years ago, and you’ve been working steadily since to lengthen it further.”
“I don’t understand. I work hard; I make good, honest money. I contribute to the local economy.”
“Money!” roared Adama. “The economy!”
“Yes, dammit, just as you used to do!” Tigh bit back. “Only good business! You can’t tell me it was a fault!”
“Business!” Adama scoffed. “Humankind should have been my business. The Lords of Kobol learned that the hard way, destroying themselves with infighting and selfishness, and I am here tonight to share that lesson with you before it’s too late.”
Tigh lifted his head. Bill continued, “My time here is almost up. You will be visited tonight by three spirits.”
“I think I’ve had all the spirits I need tonight, thanks,” Tigh answered automatically, nodding towards his fallen glass.
“Three spirits, on the hour!” Adama said again. “You have a choice to make, Saul. You can ignore them, continue on as you were, or you can follow them and make a change.”
“What do you think I should do?” Tigh asked.
“I’m gone, Saul; the choice is yours alone.” The ghost rose as if in enormous pain, chains clinking together again. He looked back to Tigh. “Sometimes, you have to roll a hard six.” He made his way across the room to the small porthole, which flung open as he approached. Tigh stood and took a step towards his friend, but Adama held up a hand and looked out the open hole. “Brumalia.”
And then he was gone, out into the cold. Tigh rushed afterwards to see where he had gone, but it was no use; before his eyes, a multitude of spirits flew through the air like Vipers in a show, dancing and weaving among one another. But there was nothing celebratory about their flight, for each one carried a chain like Adama’s, all different in size but equal in weight and pain, judging by their faces. He tried to see if any others were familiar; he thought he caught a glimpse of a rival businesswoman, but Cain’s would-be spectre was out of sight before he could be certain.
The wind gusted again, and Tigh remembered himself and shut the porthole (he hadn’t known it could open at all). He turned back to the room; everything was still. No moving frames, no fire, and the hatch was spun shut as it had always been. Tigh picked up his glass from the floor. “Frakking cheap booze.” He set it down and moved into the bedroom. “Spirits, indeed. Humbug.”
Not sparing another glance towards the frames on the wall or above the mantle, Tigh went straight to bed and fell asleep.