Commander William Adama of the battlestar Galactica packed the things in his office thoughtlessly, not daring to glance too often at the things that were steadily disappearing into boxes. He’d lost his temper, though he genuinely felt she’d been wrong. She had no right to tell Starbuck of the confidence he’d placed in her, nor the right to send her to Caprica on some religious mission. She’d had no right.

And he’d had no right to cut into her ship to arrest her. He’d gotten angry and now he’d have to face that. More so though, he’d have to face the betrayals of not only his son and “daughter,” but of many of his crewmen. When it came time to act, they stood with the President, with Lee, against Colonel Tigh. It had been made fairly clear that the President was firmly, firmly in control. It also became clear that they couldn’t work cohesively with that fact. If he wouldn’t concede to military control, he would have to relinquish his position as head of the military contingent. A painful decision, but a necessary one.

With a cooler, calmer head on his shoulders, he surrendered, wary to discover just how many of his people would defect to her side, if he had to be forcibly removed.

So here he was, putting his things away, because he was more than certain that he’d be put in the brig until they properly decided what to do with him. The last thing he wanted was for anything he cared for to come up missing.

The pictures of Zak, Lee, and Starbuck were at the bottom of the storage box, where they’d be safest. There was a fine bottle of ambrosia he’d pilfered from Ellen Tigh wrapped snuggly in a silk handkerchief. There were a few photos of him and Tigh in the early years. There was a medal or two; some commendations. It was then that he realized that there weren’t very many objects that held meaning for him. Everything he’d ever cherished existed in his mind; nearly all tangible evidence of his life had perished on Caprica months before.

He had about five minutes before the President’s newly minted guard showed up outside his door. There was nothing left to do, but remember. He would remember this place; all memories, new and old. Before and after. He wouldn’t forget.

The door behind him hissed open and the intruding presence of his escorts filled his space. “Sir?” They sounded unsure what to call him now. Was he Commander or Mister? Was he anything or anyone? What he was was too damn old for this.

He took a final sweeping look of the place, breathing a cleansing breath. “I’m ready.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned to follow them, noting how they kept a hand clear to reach their weapons as though they worried he’d resist. Where would he go if he did? He’d surely be killed in that endgame.

He nodded to the shocked personnel he passed through the ships corridors and ignored the whispers at his back, deciding that they’d all know soon enough. If he had nothing else, he still had his dignity.

That is, until he entered the brig where he was patted down for weapons or means of escape. He kept his eyes on the blank gray walls, noting how his indifference discomfited the guards in his presence. That gave him little satisfaction. He was about to experience the hospitality of his own brig from the inside. It was sure to be a memorable occasion.

As the gate clanged shut behind him, he took a seat on the provided bunk and laid down to stare at the ceiling in silence. It was spotless, immaculate, and shipshape. He hadn’t expected any less from his people.

With nothing better to do, he took a moment to count those he could name and thought of everything he could remember about them. He was proud to say that he could name several dozen and recall others by that. He was less pleased to know that he hardly knew more about them than their names and possibly their ranks.

Maybe if he’d known them better, he would’ve realized it would come to this. If he’d even known his own son, it could’ve been resolved long before it reached this point. Alas, hindsight was 20/20 and he found that he was now in the hands of his enemy. His fate was up to her.

Several hours passed without any disturbance greater than the corporal guarding him dropping his canteen and then apologizing awkwardly before falling back into silence. That had been amusement enough and had also roused Adama as he’d dozed off. He wanted to stay awake. There was no particular reason; his life didn’t depend on it. He was at a severe disadvantage and he felt that sleep would leave him vulnerable.

Still, another hour passed and his eyelids fell heavily to a light slumber. He was completely aware when the footsteps marched up the corridor towards the brig. He eased back into consciousness as the hatch swung open to admit Boomer and her copilot, both wearing twin looks of disbelief at seeing him behind bars. Lee and Tigh were behind them, half concealed by the hatchway; either not wanting to or not daring to show themselves to him.

“I thought they were joking,” Boomer muttered. She looked back at Lee, shaking her head. He’d really done it. “You shouldn’t be in there, sir.”

He swung his legs down to the floor and sat up to meet their gazes. “That’s a matter of opinion, Lt. So, the mission?” he asked, unsure if he was still privy to that information.

“Went as planned, sir.” She hesitated. “A few complications, but accomplished.”

“That’s how it is sometimes.”

“Yes, sir.” She stepped closer to the bars. “Is there anything I can do for you, sir? You need something from your quarters? Want me to water your plants?”

He cracked a smiled at that. “No, thank you. I’m fine.” He stopped to think and rubbed his knee thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps…If the offer’s still open…”

“Of course, sir.”

“There are some boxes in my office and everything in them needs to be put away for safekeeping. You think you could handle that?”

“You got it, sir.” She backed away, not taking her eyes from him, her copilot right beside her. She finally turned away, his face imprinted meaningfully into her mind.

“Lt. Valerii,” he called her back. She turned to look back at him. “Good job.” He truly looked proud when he said that. A smile took over and she got halfway through a nod when it happened.

Since she’d first seen him, there’d been a niggling in her consciousness. It reminded her of her blackouts, slowly pushing her conscious thoughts aside until an ebbing, swelling, dullness took hold and Sharon Valerii saw no more.

In a perfect motion, she dropped her hand to her holster and grabbed her sidearm, turning fluidly to pull the trigger twice in quick succession. Her stunned colleagues only came to when she made to take another shot.

Racetrack, standing closest to her, lunged forward to knock off her aim, but she simply knocked the smaller, weaker woman into the Corporal’s desk nearby.

She took one last shot to the staggering form with nowhere to hide. Adama’s head snapped back and his knees buckled. His body crumpled gracelessly to the floor. Corporal Venner, Tigh and Lee collectively fought her, attempting at the very least to relieve her of the gun. The three of them pried the gun from her fingers and it clattered across floor as they tried to restrain her. She struggled tenaciously and pushed them off her. She ran for the big hatch when another shot rang out and she was sent sprawling across the hard floor.

Leaning unsteadily against his confining bars, William Adama had taken out his would-be assassin.

He had heard them fighting a losing battle to contain her, and he struggled to wrangle his flagging consciousness. Then he heard Lee’s grunt of pain, and saw him impact the bars in front of him. His psyche simplified to pure instinct, he knew he had to protect his son. He’d spied the gun skidding just within his arm’s reach and he had dredged up every bit of his determination to put her down.

In addition to saving himself, he had also protected his fleet from whatever her plans were. They would get answers from her later. His task done, his blood-damp fingers lost grip of the bars they clung to and he began a painfully slow descent to the floor, where his already battered skull impacted the steel side of the bunk with an excruciating crack.

Lee spun around and reached in vainly between the bars. “Dad!” His father said nothing, face down in a growing puddle of blood that surrounded him like grace adorned. “Dad, can you hear me? Answer me.” Nothing. “Corporal, open this door. Now! I mean, right frakking now!”

The corporal stumbled to his feet and his hands trembled with the massive set of keys. He couldn’t remember which went with the door.

“For the love of the Gods, we’re still using those things? We don’t have time for this. Venner, give me your sidearm. We’re gonna have to shoot that lock out.”

Lee turned and move quickly between them and the gate. “No, you might hit him. He’ll find the key.” He looked back to Venner. “Find the key.” The Commander moaned unknowingly. “Someone needs to get on the horn to Doc Cottle. Dad, can you hear me?” He moved, Lee would swear he did. “Go, go! Somebody get Cottle. Please.”

There was a mechanical clinking and he looked back to see Colonel Tigh on the comm., putting a call through to the Life Station. “This is Colonel Tigh in the brig. We need medics and Doc Cottle. No, it can’t wait. Get him here, and yesterday!” He slammed the receiver down and exhaled, saying a silent prayer for his old friend.

The minutes ticked by and Lee‘s nerves twanged with the tension. “Come on, Corporal; get these bars open, even if you do have to shoot them.” That was the last thing he wanted to do, but he had to get to his father. The younger crewman set back to testing the hefty collection of keys with trembling fingers.

Boomer, laying just a handful of feet from the hatchway began to stir and he knew her first instinct would be to flee. As she pushed herself up onto her palms, he pressed the barrel of his pistol into the back of her head. “You move and I will blow your motherfrakking brains out.”

The ebbing, swelling thing inside her slid away and Boomer was back in control. The cylon notably shuddered at his words. “Apollo.” He didn’t answer. “What happened?”

He pushed the gun harder against her -- its -- head. “You know what happened.”

“No, no. I don’t. What‘s going on?” He reached down and yanked her around to face his father’s supine form.

“That’s what‘s going on. You did that.”

She shook her head, even as he pulled her into a headlock. “No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t,” she protested.

“You did. I saw you.”

She kept shaking her head, tears starting to slide down her cheeks. “No,” she whispered to both the man inside the cage and herself. She had betrayed both him and her. “No.”

“If he dies…” the threat was clear and convincing. They both knew that if his father died, so would she.

Suddenly a freeing click filled the room and he released his grip on her momentarily. The grate slid back and she ran for it, desperate to see for herself what she’d done.

“Get away from him!” More poignant clicks filled her ears as half dozen soldiers pointed their guns at her back, with the full intention of using them if she refused to comply -- perhaps even if she didn’t refuse.

“I didn’t do this.”

“Stop saying that! We saw you.” His angry tirade was interrupted as medics pushed through the ranks to reach their former Commander. They halted, not quite understanding why there were weapons pointed at her. “Move! They need to reach him.” She stepped aside.

The marines locked her into shackles that cut sharply into her wrists as the medics rushed to the Life Station with an unresponsive Adama on a backboard. From the sounds of things, he was barely alive. She’d killed the Old Man. No. They threw her into the cell beside Adama’s and, guarded by several trigger-happy MP’s.

Tigh hurried to follow, but came up short realizing that it was suddenly his responsibility to run the fleet, as it had become when Bill was removed. Now, it truly was. They had to be told. He hated his job already.

Lee wanted desperately to go with his father, but knew that it was his duty to inform the President.

Guilt hindering every movement, both he and Tigh headed in the opposite direction of Will Adama to do what they had to do: tell the people.

~~~

When Lee set foot on Colonial One, time slowed down. The shooting was making the rounds from ship to ship already and a pall had fallen over the fleet. The President was probably the only one left who hadn’t been told. He’d asked that it stay that way so that he could tell her himself. He confined her to her cabin for her safety, he’d said. He didn’t want her encountering someone who knew and being told prematurely. Or worse, being harmed.

The military fallout would be huge as many would use this as the very reason not to follow her. She had to be prepared.

She stood when he entered, looking harried and upset. She hadn’t expected to be jailed aboard her own vessel. “Captain Apollo what in Gods’ names is going on here?”

“He’s been shot.” He thought it best to be blunt and straightforward.

“Who?”

“My father, by Sharon Valerii.” She looked down, taking off her glasses to rub her eyes.

“How? When?”

“When she arrived back from the basestar, she wanted to see him. Colonel Tigh didn’t have a problem with it, so we took them. We escorted her and Racetrack to the brig to speak with him. When they started to leave, Lt. Valerii turned back and shot him twice. When tackled, she got off another shot and hit him again before we could take her down.”

She blinked at the deluge and exhaled, hand over her heart. “What are his injuries?”

“I don’t know, Madame President. I thought you should be informed of the incident right away.”

She narrowed her eyes defensively. “Why is that, Captain?”

“Because when this gets out, it could be used as a convincing reason not to follow your lead. I thought you should be ready for that.”

“Thank you, but I’m currently more concerned with whether or not your father’s alive. I’m not sure I could live with myself if he wasn’t.”

He put his arm out, indicating for her to go ahead. Left alone again, he had to think, ‘I’m not sure I could either.’

The air crackled with tension as the President entered the Life Station, Apollo in tow. Miscellaneous crew members stood around looking jarred and afraid and their countenances did not improve upon seeing their duly elected representative. If anything, they became darker, if not threatening.

Apollo moved closer to her in response, his hand near his sidearm at all times. They were upset and they blamed her. She blamed herself. This had gotten out of hand.

Moving towards the hub of all the activity, they came to a clear sterile curtain around the area where they were feverishly working on his father. Apollo could hardly see him through the mass of bodies huddling over him, leaving only his lower body visible.

One of the medics jumped back all of the sudden when blood shot out of his father’s open chest. He unconsciously stepped away himself. He wasn’t ready to see his father that close to death. The experienced medic moved back in place, handing Doc Cottle his needed instrument on call and putting his personal feelings aside.

Not three hours ago, this man had held their president hostage and tried to have her arrested and now he had been summarily assassinated. It was somewhat unfair come to think of it. The man may have been impulsive and he may have been led mostly by his emotions, but he wasn’t evil. He didn’t deserve to be killed that way -- like a rat in a cage. No one deserved that.

The random clattering of stainless steel surgical tools descended to the orchestrated symphony of a well-oiled machine. Cottle gave his orders, Ishay carried them out, and Nash tidied up behind them. Their conversation was indistinguishable beyond their masks and the curtains. Thank the gods, because their former Commander wasn’t doing so great.

In fact, he was existing with the minimum life signs to still be considered alive. He was one skipped breath from dead. His blood pressure was incredibly low from excessive blood loss, his breathing was compromised from two slugs to the chest, and his brain function was stunted from another to the skull quickly followed by two concurrent impacts.

At this point, he barely had a single lung fully functional, his brain was leaking out of his ears, and his heart was not cooperating. It looked as though this might be the day for William Adama to meet the Gods.

At that precise instant, he ceased to live. His heart stilled beneath Ishay’s insistent massage, his exhausted lung refused to take another excruciating breath, and the synapses in his mind began to quiet; each dying in the blink of an eye.

“His heart’s stopped,” the medic/nurse muttered as she attempted to get it beating again.

“He’s not breathing.”

“His BP is nonexistent. He’s still bleeding. Where is it coming from? Give me the paddles at 200. Now!” Nash pulled the machine over in a daze. Despite what Cottle might say, he would regret more than any other, losing William Adama in his Life Station.

He squeezed the clear biogel onto the paddles and rubbed them together. Doc took them in hand. “1...2...3. Clear!” They pulled away every piece of conductive apparatus, giving him access to the Commander’s chest. His body arched up with a burning sizzle.

“Nothing. Give me 260.” Nash made the adjustment and he shocked him again. Nothing. “300! And be quick about it.” Another turn of the knob. He shocked him once more. Forty-five seconds had passed without a breath. “Come on, you traitorous son of a bitch. There are too many people rooting for you to just kill over now. Don’t quit.” He looked to the heart monitor…

Still nothing. “Do it again.”

“Doctor Cottle…”

“Medic Ishay, we will keep trying until we bring him back if we have to try at his funeral. Do not stop.”

“Yes, sir.”

An encouraging bleep appeared on the screen, only to disappear into the grating whine that wouldn’t end. “Come on. You’ve got half the ship outside and you’re making me look bad. I don’t want to have to tell Lee I lost you.” He shocked him for the final time and checked the monitor.

A tentative beat filled the air. He had a heartbeat. “He still isn’t breathing,” Ishay said tremulously.

“Intubate him.” They gave him sharp looks that he didn’t have the time for. “We’ve tried bagging him, we’ve tried CPR. This guy won’t make it on his own, so we’re gonna have to help him. Intubate him, now!” Cottle knew it was a gamble with Adama’s already compromised system, but he was out of options. The longer his brain was without oxygen, the more brain cells that would be lost.

His heart had survived. Great for him. He’d have the heart of hero, but the mind of someone completely different.

Unless the Gods saw fit to do a miracle, any further work by them was in vain. Fifteen seconds ago, he’d been intubated, a tube inserted down his throat to do the breathing for him. Three minutes ago he’d stopped breathing. Every second was hundreds of brain cells lost.

He had survived. But would he live? Would he be the same?

~~~

Lee’s fingers grasped the nylon curtain as he looked on at the travesty that was his father’s condition. He saw everything. Nothing else registered. Not his fellow crewmen, not his President. Only his fear and his solidarity. No one else in the world knew what he was feeling. Kara came closest, but even she was outside his position.

He had put him there, however indirectly. He was the reason his father had nearly died there. He had died for a few minutes. That was something Lee would carry with him forever. He had killed his father.

And no matter what happened next, there was no coming back from that. For three minutes, Will Adama had been dead and Lee was an orphan, without a single soul to call home.

It was the most terrifying three minutes of his life.