The Modern Revolutionary

DISCLAIMER: This is only a work of fanfiction, and meant to venerate, never to offend.

DISCLAIMER (Timeline): This story was written after the airing of episode 2.04 (Resistence). The timeline of the story begins after episode 2.03 (Fragged), and runs through the end of 2.04 (Resistence.) It may contain spoilers up to this point in the series.

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The Modern Revolutionary

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This does not move me. This does not cause my hand to shake, my heart to pound, my adrenaline to rush. This does not move me, does not cause me to fear, or instill in me nightmares. Above all, my friends, we must remember...

A death at the hands of the Cylons is no different than a death at the hands of a human.

Extinction at the hands of the Cylons is no different than extinction at the hands of humans.

Do not fear now, my friends. You are simply coming to understand the enduring suffering that we Sagittarons have known for centuries. To be chased... To b despised... To be exterminated merely for being of a race, of a people. You and the Cylons, you are not as very different as you would like to think.

"Mr. Zarek, sign this please."

I look up from my clipboard. I've been scribbling thoughts for a new book, on and off. Just because humanity is on the brink of destruction is no reason for us to stop thinking, stop creating literature to guide future generations.

I sign off on one of the work slips, and give a firm handshake to the burly, grime-covered man. I tell him that he's done a good job today. He tells me that it sure beats sitting in a cell, waiting for the Cylons to gun him down.

The Astral Queen, now under its own auspices, has -not- turned into a riotous mess. These supposed criminals have not begun to kill each other, nor have they allowed the ship to fall into disrepair. On the contrary, the Astral Queen runs ten times more smoothly than when she was under the control of the prison system. And, she's far cleaner, too. My coffee mug shines as white as the snow that tops the Hephaestus Mountains year round.

Alright, we did have a -few- skirmishes on the Astral Queen, at first. But, those have been settled by the logic and willpower of those who desire to live as righteous and rational men. Righteous men will always win over mere troublemakers.

Humans who wish to oppress others merely for the sake of power will always be defeated. We are righteous men, now, aboard the Astral Queen. Men wish to live their lives as useful, productive and -respected- citizens. If you give a man his respect, his pride, and his dignity as a living being, nine times out of ten, he will no longer have any desire to behave in an unruly and criminal manner.

"Mr. Zarek?"

I blink. I've been mentally pontificating again. Maybe I've spent a little too long writing manifestos. "Jake! Back already? How'd it go?"

"Cirrus Six... She's got a hole in her the size of a pyramid court, sir. That Cylon raider scraped right down her side, and tore a chunk out of her like she weren't nothin'. Thank the gods it was only their aft cargo. Full of old government documents bein' taken to recycle afore the Cylons came, 'parently."

Jake is the head of one of the twelve crews of prisoners from the Astral Queen that contract out to do the hard work no one else in the fleet wants to dirty their hands with. He's barely literate, being born and raised a miner in the punishing Charybdis Mountains of Sagittaron, but he's remarkable with his hands. The men trust him, and so do I.

"Well, what true-blooded Sagittaron ever mourned the loss of a few government documents, right?" I clamp my hand on Jake's shoulder, and give him a confident smile. "Think you'll be able to fix it?"

"O'course. Ain't nothin' them Cylons can do that me and my boys can't rig up with a bit of duct tape and some scrap metal." Jake gives a belly laugh, which is echoed by a few other guys around the Astral Queen's command deck. "Oh. The captain... She's awful grateful. She sent over all sorts of stuff."

I nod. They're always grateful. But, their loyalties tend to be so fickle from one day to the next. Yesterday, the Viper pilots saved them from being destroyed by Cylons. Yesterday, the Viper pilots were heroes. Today, we save them from the cold vacuum of space. Today, we are the heroes.

My cynicism, I suppose, is a bit misplaced. There are loyal people, righteous people, rational people, aboard this fleet. They are just rare. And I find, invariably, almost half of them are from Sagittaron.

"Make sure you check in everything the captain gave you down at cargo. Then, get you and your men double rations for today."

"Thanks, Mr. Zarek."

"I wish it could be more, Jake. The men aboard this ship are the hardest working people in the entire fleet. You deserve..." I find myself biting the inside of my cheek, and I do my best not to lose my composure in front of the men. Sometimes, the indignation gets the better of me. Galactica causes the most trouble for this fleet, and yet we are all expected to serve them without complaint. It's such a sickening cycle. We must give to Galactica, so that Galactica may fight the Cylons, so that we may continue to live under the tyranny of Galactica. There is nothing in this relationship for the common man besides the sacrifice of his ships, his goods, or his life.

Just like on Sagittaron.

"I know, Mr. Zarek. Don't you worry. Me and my crew, we're all behind you one hundred percent."

"That means a lot to me, Jake."

Jake gives me one more big grin before leaving. There's no saluting. We don't run a military ship, you see. Positions are chosen based on ability, or by a free and open democratic procedure. I'm very pro the authority of the individual man to rule himself.

I lean back in my chair and glance around the command deck. There's about a half-dozen men in here. Eritus, age twenty. He's from Canceron, and was interred on charges of automotive theft. Mr. Fein of Picon, the oldest man aboard the Astral Queen, is serving a life sentence for war profiteering. Galvin, Georges, and Herman are all Sagittarons imprisoned on what are surely unjust or trumped up charges. My right hand man, Blake Pyr, is actually a Gemenon. Usually, religious fanatics and I don't get along very well, since they tend to let their faith overwhelm their reason regarding the inherent authority of man. But, Blake says that he believes the Gods wish men to do their best to rule themselves, and as such, begin to cultivate an instinctua compassion towards one another. Well, I guess he's just not your typical Gemenon. That's probably the real reason he was thrown into prison, I suspect.

"Eh, oh, lay Athena low, as bow to the archer, so archer to bow. Down in the fields, the scythe swings fro... Eh, oh, lay Athena low."

I chuckle a little under my breath. That's the other thing about Blake. He sings a lot. The guys don't seem to mind, so I just let him do his thing.

"Lay Athena low? What's that mean, Blake? Someone wanted to frak a goddess or something?"

Blake's brow furrows softly. He tries very hard not to be upset by blasphemous comments. "Nah. It just means that the farmers are hoping Athena is down at their level, watching over them while they harvest."

"I wouldn't mind having a goddess watch over me while I harvest a little seed, if you know what I mean," Eritus says. Sometimes, that boy has no tact. None.

"Eritus, shouldn't we be as respectful of Blake's faith as he is of our lack of one? Or do you disagree? If not, please state your thoughts on the matter."

"No sir, Mr. Zarek. I agree with you completely. Sorry Blake. I didn't mean anything by it."

Blake's brows pop back into place. "No harm done."

The command deck goes back to silence for the moment. Our antiquated dradis system shows that Galactica's Viper pilots are out performing stunts again. I'm sorry, I mean "training runs". As much as I respect Lee Adama, that boy sure could have put his talents to better use.

I have to figure out how to use Lee Adama. Yes, use. I'm not going to mince words. When you're fighting for true freedom, true democracy, you use all of the resources at your disposal. Even if he's a decent kid, Lee Adama is a pawn of the military, and therefore, an asset to be used.

I have people who are counting on me to know how to use assets.

There are almost 1500 prisoners aboard this ship who are counting on me. Prisoners. But, the legal authority which imprisoned them here has already been destroyed. Former structures of power and authority are no longer relevant. We can not simply continue with the ways of the old world in this changed society.

And, there are almost 5000 Sagittarons within the fleet. 5000 of a planet of great history and culture, now finally free to live without prejudices and oppression. Those who have for so long been under the thumb of the other colonies will achieve a new society, a new greatness.

This is what Laura Roslin does not understand, that we can not simply survive... We must evolve.

I glance over and see Hermann thumbing a small memorial medal. He's been sort of...off today. I stand, and move closer. He's a tall man, but wiry from constantly keeping in motion. He's got a quiet and cool demeanor which is often mistaken by others as intimidating and calculating. I heard he fought as a Sagittaron Guerilla at Olympus Valley, and that's when he was caught.

"Your medal... Is it for your wife?"

He nods, and flips it over to show me her fingerprint. I understand. Ten years ago, when the violence was bad on Sagittaron, the families of Rebels were taken to work camps. Many of them died, due to malnutrition and disease. Before their corpses were burned, good-hearted souls secretly took clay impressions of their fingerprints, so that the dead could be identified without their bodies. Many people later had those impressions bronzed, when they could, as memorials to the dead.

"Eight years ago today," Hermann says softly as he pockets his medal. "I have... I had a daughter, but she was never found."

It's a terrible burden, to live with the knowledge that your family died in an act of retribution for your ideals. "I see." There is nothing I can say. Grief is never assuaged by words. "I'm sorry."

"It's...I'm alright."

"If you need some time, Hermann..."

Hermann looks up at me, a light seeming to flicker within his sad eyes. "If it's all the same, Mr. Zarek, I'd rather keep working. Takes my mind off...things."

"Of course."

Grief. Grief didn't come to humanity with the reemergence of the Cylons. Grief has always been among mankind. The Cylons just made it universal.

"Mr. Zarek! Mr. Zarek! You won't believe this!" Eritus is waving a piece of paper at me. "A guy from crew seven just brought this up. It's a letter from the dock workers of the Europa Blaze. Apparently, they were smuggling a full 100 metric of guns and ammo along with their legitimate cargo. They want to turn it over to us, before Galactica finds it and suspects them of something."

100 metric of guns. That's no small acquisition. If the proposition is on the level, it could be very useful, but... I take the paper from Eritus and look it over. "It could be a trap. Let's proceed with caution."

We'll take those guns. And then, as a show of our utter goodwill, we'll use half of them as a bargaining chip to Galactica next time we want something done. It's not that I plan to use the guns against anyone, but I think it is fair that the Astral Queen have some way of protecting herself.

Mr. Fein is giving me a -look-. I ignore him. I'm not a representative of the Quorum of Twelve anymore. I'm just Tom Zarek, average freedom fighter, and run-of-the-mill revolutionary.

And, if you believe that, I have some great Cylon-proof land to sell you in downtown Caprica City.

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I leave Mr. Fein, Georges and Galvin in command of the Astral Queen, and head down to one of our rickety old transport crafts with Blake, Eritus, and Hermann. Eritus gets her started, no problem. The boy could hotwire Galactica, given the chance. Hermann gets us clearance from air control, some story about having to replace some burst sewage pipes on the Europa Blaze.

"You shouldn't be going, Mr. Zarek. If it is a trap, they'll just use it as proof that you shouldn't be re-instated to the Quorum."

"We'll figure it out, Blake."

Martial Law makes everyone nervous. But, I've seen it before. Martial Law begets chaos. Galactica is surely too busy now to try to entrap an old freedom fighter. I have a hunch, and I tend to trust my hunches. Fifty years of living under the thumb of one oppressor or another have honed my instincts.

Blake shifts in his seat. "I don't much care for guns. I like getting things done through politics and reason. Through appealing to people's decency, you know?"

In truth, I don't like guns, either. But, an asset is an asset. You never throw away something that might be of great use, as repulsive as it might be.

Like Ellen Tigh. She sent me a bottle of ambrosia, with a really obnoxious note about how she was sorry about the Quorum of Twelve being disbanded. I doubt the sentiment, seeing as her husband was the one who dissolved the government. Still, I'll keep up the charade of our alliance...for now.

We lift off, and glide out of the hangar without incident. I'm still always awed by that first glimpse of space. As a boy, on Sagittaron, I used to fish magazines out of trash bins and clip pictures of the newest model space crafts to pin up on the wall of our dilapidated little house. Space travel always represented hope, freedom to make your way in the world independent of another's authority. It's ironic, I suppose, that most of my major flights have been on prison ships.

"There she is... The Europa Blaze. Sad little thing, isn't she?"

I peer out at the vessel we're approaching. She's an old heap, probably one of the first cargo ships to even have an FTL drive. We receive permission to land, and pull into her hanger with a rather unnecessary flounce. Well, Eritus doesn't get to drive quite as much as he would like, so I let it go.

I tell Eritus to stay and monitor the airwaves for any clue that Galactica might have caught on to our current escapade. Blake, Hermann and I head out, and are immediately greeted by the Europa Blaze's captain, a short, rather rotund man who looks like he has a cigar permanently affixed to the left side of his mouth. "Mr. Zarek. Thank you for coming. Captain Frank Redfire. It's a pleasure. A real pleasure."

We make introductions. There's a lot of hand-shaking, a lot of smiling. I make sure to compliment Captain Redfire's ship repeatedly. I find out where the he's from (Leonon), and remember to say something insightful about his home province. (Aurora? By Gods, the best black-grape ambrosia in the Colonies, by far.) There's a very simple science to putting a person at ease.

Nonetheless, I keep my eyes open for any sign that something is awry. You can never let yourself fall into a false sense of security. One eye must be focused on opportunity, and the other on hazards. It's difficult, even for an old dog like me.

Several men roll a crate into the hangar on a dolly. It's marked "drill bits".

"This is it. 100 metric of..." Redfire glances around. He's not used to being a smuggler under these sorts of circumstances, I guess. "...supplies."

"We'll be glad to take these drill bits off your hands, Captain." I nod at Hermann, and he begins to assist the Europa Blaze men in moving the crate into our transport. "I just want to know one thing. Why get rid of the drill bits now?"

Captain Redfire sucks on his cigar, and doesn't answer until several dank puffs of smoke are exhaled. "We plan on making a protest."

"A protest?"

Captain Redfire waves one fat arm around, indicating all the various boxes and crates in the hangar. No. I'm wrong. He's waving at his crew, most of whom are sturdy-looking lads and lasses, all probably Leonon stock. "We don't believe in this Martial Law shit. We're going to refuse to resupply Galactica until we get our representation back."

I'm more than slightly astounded. I thought that the declaration of Martial Law would shake up the fleet. But, I didn't actually think they'd stand up to Galactica so quickly, and without loss of life at the hands of the military (or perhaps some extreme prodding on my part). "That's an admirable sentiment, Captain Redfire. You chose to do this of your own volition and by your own council?"

"Yes sir. I done told that President of ours all about who we really are. She said that she didn't care if we were smugglers -before-, and all that matters is what we decide to do from here on in. Then she told me a story about how she smuggled fruit from Leonon home to Caprica City once. I really like that old girl. We all do."

"She's very charismatic," I say, noting the wryness of my own voice. I look around at the men and women of the Europa Blaze. Such bravery really affects me. I understand now. If Galactica found the guns during the protest, they might suspect the Europa Blaze of planning an insurrection, or accuse them of one of a dozen other crimes. This way, the Europa Blaze can not be accused of doing anything but standing up for the ideals espoused by her crew.

And yet, to willingly give away your only means of protection from your chose adversary... It's moving. I grab Captain Redfire's hand, and shake it firmly. "What you are doing here, Captain Redfire, bespeaks a rare breed of bravery and patriotism. I will make sure that you are not alone in your protest. When the other ships in the fleet hear about this, I am certain they will move to stand with you against Galactica."

Captain Redfire thanks me, and like most people, tells me he owes me one. He owes ME one, even though I'm the one getting free guns.

We say our goodbyes, and I head back to our transport craft, Blake at my side. I notice him touching the prayer beads he wears on his wrist, and I know that he's silently beseeching the gods for the safety of the crew of the Europa Blaze. I'm not a particularly religious man, but I say a few words of my own.

Once we're all strapped in, Eritus gets us on our way.

"She must be someone," Blaze murmurs to me, "This Laura Roslin. To inspire such...ferocity of ideals."

"She thinks she's the dying Leader foretold in the Scrolls of Pythia," I reply.

Blake stares at me a long time, as if he's waiting for me to continue. I watch him absently count off prayer beads between his fingers. I wonder if he's even really conscious that he's doing it. "Well? Surely the great Tom Zarek has an opinion about whether or not that's the truth."

"No, I don't. I'm not a student of religion. But, I do know this: Martial Law may be an oppressive and anti-democratic force, but theocratic idealism isn't the answer."

Blake smiles slightly, and bows his head. "Indeed, one should not raise themselves to the level of the gods. It's a dangerous proposition." He glances up, and I see in his eyes the sometimes strangely incalculable wisdom of a learned Gemenon. "Do you know the rest of that song I was singing before?"

I chuckle. In fact, I do know it. It was popular among the student revolutionaries in my home village. I don't think most of them understood the true implications of the song. They thought it was a good little verse about common people fighting for their beliefs.

"Eh, oh, lay Athena low, where goes my enemy, I also shall go. In battlefields, fresh blood shall flow... Eh, oh, when Athena's my bow."

When religion, itself, is used as a weapon...

We're all in trouble.

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In the Second Half: More peeks into life on the Astral Queen, and the wheeling-and-dealing, sometimes shady, sometimes inspiring life of Tom Zarek, modern revolutionary.

A/N: I found most of my information on the Battlestarwiki. (Go to google and type in "battlestarwiki".) It's a good place to find little tidbits about the show, such as measurements and history.

It hasn't actually been revealed yet (today is Aug 9, 2005) why Sagittaron get "oppressed" or "kicked around" by the other Colonies. I decided to make them a bit like Ireland to the Colonies' England, except that the troubles stem from economic or cultural reasons, rather than religious ones.


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