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The Assistant Chief of Staff for Operations, better known as the Fleet's Operations Officer, Major Jilleen Simmons, walked down the corridor that would lead her to the Admiral's state room with a file in hand. She walked with the confidences of a veteran Officer in her tailored dress blue uniform, with a side arm attached to her belt which had become standard for most officers since the start of the war, three years earlier. Her life, like many others within the fleet, had been fundamentally changed. The last years had matured her perspective on life. It was a fragile thing, life and could be very painful.

She came up to the Marine Corporal who stood guard at the final passageway leading to the Admiral's state room. "I'm here to see Admiral Sinclair, she is expecting me."

"Yes, Sir," he replied after instantly recognising the Major and stepped to the side to let her pass and continue down the passageway to the open hatch.

Jilleen entered the open hatchway and into the Admiral's wardroom, where she found Sinclair sitting at her desk reviewing something on the monitor. She walked up to the end of the desk and came to attention.

"Pardon me, Sir, I have the latest combined combat readiness reports you requested."

Her eyes locked straight forward, as she had be taught to do since a cadet at Tauron Military Science Academy, Gladius Cross.

Sinclair looked up with an arched eyebrow, accepting the papers with a swift motion of hand. "Simmons," she greeted, glancing down to peruse the information within. A thoughtful, "Hm," being murmured, as she read through the gathered contents. Confidential, though it was, the symbols and text would have meant very little to the casual civilian, probably being of more use as insulation material, than anything else.

To Admiral Claudia Sinclair, however, they were evidently a cause for concern.

"Think if I put the fear of Zeus into the crew with a flash inspection, the Pacifica might shape up her reaction times? Because those fire drill results do not inspire me with confidence..."

Still at the position of attention without the command to stand at ease. Jilleen replied, "Yes, Sir. The latest fire drill reactions times have fallen by 21%, since 10 cycles ago. If I may add, the Pacifica has been conducting a mid-cruise overhaul of their port flight pod since the damage from our last encounter with the Cylons. It has come to my attention shortfalls in production are hampering replacement material for the deck plating. The industrial ship, Granite Moon, its crew, are complaining that they are being over-worked."

Sinclair exhaled in what was all but a vocal growl of annoyance, one hand lifting to massage temple. She had come to experience two principle barriers to a truly efficient command, since receiving her promotion-by-circumstance.

Firstly, her age. She was much younger than the previous Admiral and there had been doubts muttered by some, as to her ability to pull off what he had spent a good few years doing. Through a combination of trial and, at times, even error, she had eventually secured the respect now afforded to her; mainly through being able to avert some sort of fleet-wide tragedy in the nick of time. This was no longer as much of a concern as before, although some political souls still referred to her youth, whenever the caustic need arose.

Secondly, although trained with almost as equal a regard given to diplomacy as actual warfare techniques, Sinclair had never expected to be put in charge of what was, to all intents and purposes, the very last remnants of humanity. This was not just a Strike Group, but one guarding a huge fleet of civilian craft and each of them represented one more logistical headache to guard over. Many lives had been lost because of practical considerations. Even two battlestars could not spread themselves everywhere and the prior loss of four others had left them all at a severe disadvantage.

But more than that, it meant that even when not battling Cylons, Claudia Sinclair was forced to act as negotiator, almost constantly coming up against one special interest or the other. Politicians kept the civilian population in line, but could also prove to be very much an obstacle to getting things done right.

"Labour disputes," the uniformed brunette spoke with aggravation clear in her voice. She preferred those who came to her as remaining at attention, until the need to speak informally arose. With a brief, "At ease," it seemed that this was one of those times.

"Of course they're being over-worked," Sinclair agreed, looking up at her subordinate and allowing the report to fall upon desk. "We're at war. What do they expect? A recruitment campaign?"

Jilleen relaxed her posture and now looked directly at her superior Officer. "Apparently, Sir." She understood the politics of the refugee fleet. "What I understand is that there is growing speculation that we are purposely prolonging the war, so that those of us in the military can hold onto power. It's a rumour, I mind you, one that has it roots since long before we finally left the Colonies." It had been something the Jilleen had picked up on her regular visits to the Shangri-la. "One, I am sure, that some of the now-empowered politicians are encouraging."

She felt at ease working with this Admiral, thinking she could speak freely and actually be listened to. Not that Admiral Pullo was a terrible tyrant, but he had been set in his ways for a very long time. She respected the old man and thought he was a brilliant tactician, but he had demanded much from her as a Special Task Officer. It had been a relief to her when the old man was killed. It meant an end to her appointment as the evacuation manager.

"Oh, for frack's sake..."

If Sinclair had still possessed the charts in her hand, she would have been tempted to toss them away. As it was, she exhaled sharply and reclined back in the chair, looking away to the floor. There was a certain decorum to be upheld, once reaching such a position, but that was for the media. Behind closed doors, tempers could flare and cursing was par for the course.

"What power?" She snapped back. Not at Simmons, personally, but more rhetorical, to the air, as if the critics could listen in and somehow provide an answer. It was enough to make her stand up, hands behind back. "I was the one who suggested the luxury vessels take most of the extra residential burden, but oh, we can't possibly commandeer those... We'd be 'stepping over our jurisdiction'. But when it comes to distributing a percentage of our tylium reserves to make sure the high and mighty don't have to suffer through power outages, they're all for it!"

Shaking head, Sinclair picked up one of the model ships she had displayed along one shelf. Their world scaled down to miniature form.

"Remind me again why we can't just line up the government for a firing squad, on the grounds of 'efficiency savings'?" She asked with grim humour.

A laugh came out of Jilleen at the last remark.

"Something about an oath to uphold the Articles, maybe."

It seemed rather silly to her and to others that anytime there is a low in the fighting, that the commentators on the wireless broadcast like to critique the leadership, and whine about how things have gone to hell. As if those in power were responsible for it.

"We are never going to please them," she continued. "There is no way to be fair about it. And you can't simply point out to them that everyone has to play their part for us to function as a fleet, not as a civilisation on the brink of the golden age. That's all gone, we left that behind in ruins." Images of the burnt and destroyed landscape she had witnessed, during the ground operations of the nuclear wasteland, filled her mind. The image brought up emotion. "Half of them never saw the aftermath or have forgotten. You would think we kidnapped them away from paradise and dragged them on our quest for adventure and glory," she over-stated.

Sinclair clenched jaw momentarily. She tried to compromise, where it was practical to do so. Still, one could not help, in a position such as hers, but feel constantly dogged by snapping political jaws at heel. Public figures had interests in votes. Or at least securing favours. They could afford to be populist. She could not.

And yet, she still very much had to be. Whilst mutiny was hardly an option, sabotage was and some of the conspiracy theories were getting out of hand.

A few even persisted that there were no attacks. That it was all carried out with manipulated footage and the few examples of destruction seen, up close and personal, were as a result of the Colonial military giving orders to fire upon its own people. such theories ran that it was all to herd the public into prisons and what was the present situation, if not precisely that?

Logic like that was hard to counter with reasoned debate, precisely because of how closed off those minds could be to any other alternative.

And to think that she was tasked with protecting the very lives of those people... Well, at least they were a minority. The trouble was that they could be a very irritating minority, indeed, once putting their minds to it. For that reason, the fractured nature of the fleet could sometimes be seen by the Admiral as a blessing.

"I think they remember," she spoke, placing the model back down on its flat surface. Claudia was not a cynic, still having faith in humanity, as a general concept. She was, however, a realist. "The trouble is, some just don't want to."

Turning back to Simmons, the Admiral knew just how truthful the other woman had been. They had sworn an oath. Although gifted with enough firepower to enforce a dictatorship, they were still very much servants, not masters. Warriors tasked with protection and security. It was something war made it sometimes difficult to remember, but not something Sinclair would ever consciously forget.

"Have you, uh... Spoken to our 'guests'? Quite the intricate marvels of engineering, although their psychology leaves something to be desired."

"Ooh," Jilleen's mouth distorted as if she had tasted something foul. "Those things. They have not caused us much trouble. A few of them are quite broken, but beyond the point of being of any use to us. One, in particular, still likes to play games with us, the older fellow. He still demands that you surrender the fleet to him."

She shook her head, the Cylon with the appearance of an elderly male, seemed to enjoy his captivity or at least playing his games. She hated them all, those machines.

"Internal security's still keeping on an eye on a suspect collaborator. No solid proof in the offering as of yet, we have them on the no-flight list."

"Good," came Sinclair's only reply. She knew there was not absolute proof of guilt in some imprisoned cases, but chances could not be taken. Not when such critical matters were at stake. Her reply was in regard to the no-flight comment. Yes, it might have been interesting to allow them access to such assets, but all it took was a suicide run hitting home in the wrong place and an awful lot of things could be rendered inoperable. In some cases, perhaps even permanently. "I want updates, the moment anything suspicious is noted."

Whilst not a micro-manager, some things in the fleet demanded the Admiral's personal attention. This was one of them. Something which could be delegated, but hardly the height of responsibility, should such a course of action ever be taken.

Infiltration... And by a method unable, as of yet, to be detected. The only sure guard against it was to keep watch, as much as humanly possible. Of course, that gave the security something to keep them occupied, but Sinclair would have preferred not having to resort to redirect so many resources. The threat could come from anywhere and there would never be any guarantees of it having been totally eradicated. One of them could commandeer a light freighter and send it colliding into a flight pod.

Heck, they could sabotage the reactors of ten or more civilian ships, setting them all to go off within the same space of time as one another. Do it close enough and the inevitable flying debris could cause an awful lot of damage. They would effectively turn the fleet into a deadly array of free-floating nuclear mines, in its own right.

And if one of the armed, military vessels were ever compromised at a critical moment...

"Have our, uh... Medical specialists made a decision?"

Having a lobotomy performed on one of those known, without any doubt, to be Cylon in nature, was something Sinclair had ordered a discrete line of inquiry into. She had wanted to know if it was worth it. Whether anything worthwhile could be discovered through such a procedure. If not, then there would be no point in causing potential memory loss in an interrogation subject.

"They need more time. As I understand it, they need to refine a procedure, as we have only a limited number of candidates," replied Jill.

Nodding thoughtfully, Admiral Sinclair looked at the far wall, letting private thoughts wander. Any advantage they could get... That was the imperative now. This state of affairs was not something able to last indefinitely. It was going to be a race of human ingenuity against that of machine. She had personally ordered all prison cells to be insulated against - and monitored for - electronic transmission. There was no telling what those things might be capable of and giving away their position to the enemy was not on the Admiral's list of priorities.

"Very well," she decided, "that'll be all."

Exchanging the expected formalities, Sinclair watched Captain Simmons take her leave and cast her gaze, once more, to the report left behind.

"There's always something ready to kick your ass when you're down..."