Read Online 01 - Battlestar Galactica by Jeffrey A. Carver - (ebook by Undead) - Free Book Online Page B
Ads: Link
changing.
…”
CHAPTER
11
Galactica, Officers’ Wardroom
The wardroom was crowded with photographers and people with microphones, and
the PR flack Aaron Doral, who was in charge of keeping order. Commander William
Adama, stiff and uncomfortable in his full-dress uniform, waited in the shadows
in the back of the room, glancing around, trying not to think about a lot of
things. This room was usually used for briefings and planning sessions—not photo
ops. The walls of the wardroom were lined with pictures, plaques, flags, and
other mementoes of Galactica’s long service to the Twelve Colonies.
Several of the photos included Adama himself.
Usually the commander derived a feeling of family from looking at those
pictures—the family of his brothers and sisters in uniform, those he had served
under and over and with, those who had moved on to other lives, those who had
stayed, those who had died. Right now, he didn’t get much of that feeling.
Because right now, a member of his real family was approaching, and he didn’t
get much of a feeling of family out of that, either.
At the other end of the room, Doral suddenly called out to the photographers
to spread apart, and make room for the approaching officer, also in full-dress
uniform. “Captain—thank you. Aaron Doral.” There was some awkward shaking of
hands, before Doral turned and pointed in the direction of Commander Adama. “If
you’d like to stand up there, we’ll get a few shots of you and the commander.
Thanks.”
Lee Adama stoically stepped past the photographers and into the center of the
room, and Commander Adama stepped forward to join him. “Captain,” he said,
without making eye contact. Lee said nothing.
Doral came forward, effusive. “Great! Okay, gentlemen, could you maybe stand
a little closer?” Disguising his emotions with full military bearing, Adama
edged sideways toward Lee. “Fantastic. Commander, could you put your arm around
your son?” Without a word, Adama encircled Lee with his arm, barely resting his
hand on Lee’s far shoulder. The photographers jockeyed for position. The camera
lights flashed. The happy family reunion was captured for broadcast to the
public. “Great! Perfect. Thank you very much,” said Doral, cutting it short as
quickly as he could. “See you both at the ceremony.”
With that, Adama’s arm came down, the tableau dissolved, and the
photographers crowded through the door on their way out. Commander Adama turned
away from his son and walked over to the refreshment counter.
He was aware of Lee reacting with a cynical, near-silent laugh at his abrupt
move away, and of Lee then starting out the door after the photographers. Before
his son could make it past the threshold, Adama turned to him and said, “Do you
want some… coffee? We make a really awful cup of coffee here.”
Lee stopped. “No, sir,” he answered. “Thank you, sir.” He stopped, but clearly had not committed to staying for conversation.
Adama’s gut was knotted like a waterlogged rope. He fiddled with the glasses
and water pitcher as he said, “Why don’t you… sit down.”
Lee repeated his half-laugh, the bitter expression still on his face. He
turned back into the room, gazing around at the long tables with empty chairs.
It was a place for military talk, business, planning, he seemed to be
thinking—not this. He remained standing, only half facing his father.
“Congratulations on making captain,” Adama said, pouring himself a glass of
water. “Sorry I wasn’t there.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lee said stiffly.
“How’s your mother?”
“Getting married.”
Adama absorbed that for a moment, let the inevitable pain wash over him and
fade away. Finally he nodded, raising his glass of water and turning it in his
hand—his back still turned to his son. “Good for her,” he said, sincerely. “We
spoke about a year ago, had a real heart to heart. It was good.” He drank half
the
…”
CHAPTER
11
Galactica, Officers’ Wardroom
The wardroom was crowded with photographers and people with microphones, and
the PR flack Aaron Doral, who was in charge of keeping order. Commander William
Adama, stiff and uncomfortable in his full-dress uniform, waited in the shadows
in the back of the room, glancing around, trying not to think about a lot of
things. This room was usually used for briefings and planning sessions—not photo
ops. The walls of the wardroom were lined with pictures, plaques, flags, and
other mementoes of Galactica’s long service to the Twelve Colonies.
Several of the photos included Adama himself.
Usually the commander derived a feeling of family from looking at those
pictures—the family of his brothers and sisters in uniform, those he had served
under and over and with, those who had moved on to other lives, those who had
stayed, those who had died. Right now, he didn’t get much of that feeling.
Because right now, a member of his real family was approaching, and he didn’t
get much of a feeling of family out of that, either.
At the other end of the room, Doral suddenly called out to the photographers
to spread apart, and make room for the approaching officer, also in full-dress
uniform. “Captain—thank you. Aaron Doral.” There was some awkward shaking of
hands, before Doral turned and pointed in the direction of Commander Adama. “If
you’d like to stand up there, we’ll get a few shots of you and the commander.
Thanks.”
Lee Adama stoically stepped past the photographers and into the center of the
room, and Commander Adama stepped forward to join him. “Captain,” he said,
without making eye contact. Lee said nothing.
Doral came forward, effusive. “Great! Okay, gentlemen, could you maybe stand
a little closer?” Disguising his emotions with full military bearing, Adama
edged sideways toward Lee. “Fantastic. Commander, could you put your arm around
your son?” Without a word, Adama encircled Lee with his arm, barely resting his
hand on Lee’s far shoulder. The photographers jockeyed for position. The camera
lights flashed. The happy family reunion was captured for broadcast to the
public. “Great! Perfect. Thank you very much,” said Doral, cutting it short as
quickly as he could. “See you both at the ceremony.”
With that, Adama’s arm came down, the tableau dissolved, and the
photographers crowded through the door on their way out. Commander Adama turned
away from his son and walked over to the refreshment counter.
He was aware of Lee reacting with a cynical, near-silent laugh at his abrupt
move away, and of Lee then starting out the door after the photographers. Before
his son could make it past the threshold, Adama turned to him and said, “Do you
want some… coffee? We make a really awful cup of coffee here.”
Lee stopped. “No, sir,” he answered. “Thank you, sir.” He stopped, but clearly had not committed to staying for conversation.
Adama’s gut was knotted like a waterlogged rope. He fiddled with the glasses
and water pitcher as he said, “Why don’t you… sit down.”
Lee repeated his half-laugh, the bitter expression still on his face. He
turned back into the room, gazing around at the long tables with empty chairs.
It was a place for military talk, business, planning, he seemed to be
thinking—not this. He remained standing, only half facing his father.
“Congratulations on making captain,” Adama said, pouring himself a glass of
water. “Sorry I wasn’t there.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lee said stiffly.
“How’s your mother?”
“Getting married.”
Adama absorbed that for a moment, let the inevitable pain wash over him and
fade away. Finally he nodded, raising his glass of water and turning it in his
hand—his back still turned to his son. “Good for her,” he said, sincerely. “We
spoke about a year ago, had a real heart to heart. It was good.” He drank half
the
Similar Books
