Chapter 37: The Shot
The gunshot reached the Cybele as data before it reached us as sound.
Gaeta's encrypted channel screamed priority at 1423 — a burst transmission, no formatting, no protocol, just raw text punched into a terminal by hands that were probably shaking:
ADAMA DOWN. SHOT IN CIC CORRIDOR. VALERII. TWO ROUNDS. CRITICAL. MARINES HAVE HER. TIGH ASSUMING COMMAND.
I read the message standing at the cargo office workstation with a cup of Dunn's Gemenese coffee in my left hand. The cup hit the desk. Coffee sloshed across a supply manifest. I didn't move to clean it.
It happened.
Frak. It happened.
The guilt arrived before the training could block it — a physical weight, dropping through my chest like a stone through water. One hundred and three days of knowing this moment was coming. One hundred and three days of calculating probabilities and drafting contingencies and telling myself that the math was right, that preventing the shooting would cost more than allowing it, that Adama survived in the show and would survive here.
But you don't know that. You never knew that. You chose a television show's script over a man's life, and now he's bleeding on a corridor floor with two bullets in him.
Sixty seconds. I gave myself sixty seconds.
I walked to the maintenance closet adjacent to the cargo office — the same closet where I'd vomited after the Olympic Carrier, ninety-eight days ago, when thirteen hundred people died on a ship I'd helped condemn. The door sealed behind me. The darkness was absolute.
My hands pressed flat against the cold metal bulkhead. My forehead followed. The steel bit into my skin.
Breathe.
Four count in. Hold. Six count out.
You knew. You could have tried. You didn't.
Four count in. Hold. Six count out.
He might die. The timeline might have shifted. The bullets might have hit differently. And you chose operational security over a human life.
Four count in. Hold. Six count out.
Fifty-nine. Sixty.
I opened the door. Walked back to the workstation. Picked up the coffee-stained manifest and dropped it in recycling. Keyed the organizational network.
"All stations, priority alpha. This is Cole. Commander Adama has been shot. Cylon infiltrator confirmed. Colonel Tigh is assuming command. Activate crisis protocols. All cell leaders, confirm readiness within fifteen minutes."
The responses came like heartbeats — fast, steady, the rhythm of an organization that had been waiting for exactly this moment.
Dunn, ninety seconds: "Operations cell active. Civilian fleet coordination standing by. Supply chain monitoring engaged. All partner ships contacted."
Marsh, three minutes: "Engineering cell active. Cybele FTL nominal. Demetrius confirmed. Greenleaf confirmed. All network ships FTL-ready. Comm relays powered and standing by."
Kwan, four minutes: "Security cell active. Cybele cargo bays secured. Refugee sections stable. No panic yet — fleet wireless hasn't broadcast."
Montoya, six minutes: "Political cell active. Colonial One contacts report: Roslin is in the brig — arrested before the shooting over Kobol dispute. Quorum emergency session being called. Billy Keikeya is managing the President's office in her absence."
Kira, eight minutes: "Humanitarian cell active. Refugee population across six ships — no unusual movement. Family communication channels open. Standing by for civilian impact."
Six cells. Six confirmations. The organization that had started as a man and a cargo master — a handshake in this same office, Dunn's grip stronger than mine — was functioning at full operational capacity during the fleet's worst crisis since the Fall.
Now use it.
"Dunn, priority: civilian fleet captains will be receiving martial law orders within hours. Get ahead of it — contact our network captains, brief them on the situation, recommend calm compliance. No resistance, no provocation. We stabilize, not agitate."
"Already drafting the messages."
"Marsh: monitor Galactica's power grid status through the maintenance partnership channels. If the ship has damage from the Kobol engagement that's affecting medical facilities, I need to know. Adama will be in surgery."
"On it."
"Montoya: Roslin is in custody. Track everything — who visits her, what messages go in and out, how the Quorum responds. If the political situation shifts, I need advance warning."
"Understood."
"Kira: the fleet wireless will broadcast within the hour. When it does, refugee sections will panic. Have your team visible — reassuring presence, not authority. People need faces they trust."
"We're ready."
The earpiece went quiet. The cargo office hummed. Through the viewport, the fleet drifted in its formation — sixty-three ships, forty-nine thousand people, none of them knowing yet that the man who'd held them together through the thirty-three and the water crisis and Bastille Day and a hundred smaller emergencies was lying on an operating table with two bullets in his abdomen.
The fleet wireless crackled at 1500 — thirty-seven minutes after the shooting, an eternity in crisis time.
"All ships, this is Galactica Actual. Colonel Saul Tigh, acting commander." The voice was rough. Strained. The voice of a man who'd been drinking three hours ago and was now holding the keys to humanity's survival. "Commander Adama has been injured. He is receiving medical treatment. Lieutenant Sharon Valerii has been taken into custody."
A pause. In the background, CIC noise — muted, shocked, the sound of a crew processing the impossible.
"Until Commander Adama returns to duty, I am assuming command of the fleet. All ships will maintain current position. Further orders to follow. Galactica out."
Tigh. The drunk. The compromised XO whose wife is a Final Five Cylon building a social court among the officers. The man who, in the show, declared martial law, sent marines to civilian ships, and nearly tore the fleet apart through a combination of grief, alcohol, and institutional rigidity.
And he's in charge.
"Dunn."
"I heard."
"Timeline. How long before he overreacts?"
"Based on his profile? Hours. Not days."
"Get me Gaeta."
The encrypted channel took three attempts to connect — CIC was overwhelmed, personal channels competing with tactical traffic. When Gaeta's voice came through, it was clipped to the bone.
"Cole. I have ninety seconds."
"Status?"
"Adama's in surgery. Cottle is operating. Prognosis unknown. Tigh is in command and he's already talking about martial law. Roslin is in the brig — arrested before the shooting over the Kobol disagreement. The fleet doesn't have a functioning civilian government right now."
"What do you need from us?"
"Keep the civilian ships calm. If Tigh sends marines — and he will — your people need to cooperate. Don't give him an excuse. The moment martial law creates a confrontation, we lose what's left of civilian-military trust."
"We're already on it."
"Good." A pause. "Cole. She was a Cylon. Boomer. She shot the Old Man and she was a frakking Cylon the entire time."
The pain in his voice was real — not tactical, not analytical. Personal. Felix Gaeta, who computed probabilities and analyzed data and held CIC together through every crisis, was grieving. Boomer had been crew. Had been trusted. Had been one of them.
"I know, Felix."
"How the frak does a Cylon serve on a battlestar for two years and nobody—"
"Not now. Later. Grieve later. Right now, Tigh needs you functional."
"I know." His voice steadied. Professional discipline reasserting itself over the human underneath. "Ninety seconds is up. Gaeta out."
The channel closed. I stood in the cargo office and listened to the sound of a fleet discovering that trust was a weapon the enemy had been wielding since the beginning.
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