Battlestar Galactica: Transcripts: S03E16: Dirty Hands
Chief: Previously on Battlestar Galactica…
Adama: So what happens next?
Roslin: We give him his trial.
Chief: My father was a priest, my mother an Oracle. I’ve served on the Battlestar since I was 18 years old.
Chief: When you elected me union president, I promised I would keep us working… You must throw your body on the gears and on the levers and on the machine itself, and make it stop.
Teamsters: Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike! Strike!
Cally: You’re pretending like nothing’s changed, that our lives are exactly like they were before we went to New Caprica. But it is different.
Chief: Yeah, we’re just goin’ through a little rough patch.
Cally: What if rough patches are all we have left?
Chief: Figurski, Pollux, Sanchez, you’re gonna be rehabbing mule engines tonight, so don’t make after-dinner plans. (Continues to give orders.)
Figurski: Thought we were subbing out mule maintenance to the civvies in Dogsville.
Chief: Yeah, I don’t got enough mechanics down there… Check flow rate.
Pollux: Flow rate steady at two-niner-zero. Hey, when are we getting some rack around here, Chief? I’m standing double watches the last two weeks.
Chief: I know, I know.
Pollux: Plus, I still got the ringin’ in my ears.
Deck Hands: I’m sorry, I can’t hear you. I’ve got ringin’. What’s that?
Pollux: Pretty funny, guys.
Deck Hand: Okay, fusion indicators are out. Get the wing tank switch to “fuel.” Power off. All right, tank off. That’s it. Kill the fueling station. Pull the hose. LT, you’re tanked up and ready to roll.
Racetrack: Roger that, Chief. Ready to roll.
(Later. Seelix enters with a laundry cart.)
Seelix: Laundry call. Figurski, Pollux, Redford, grab your crap before I chuck it in the ‘cycler.
Figurski: Fold my undies the way I like?
Seelix: Frak off.
Figurski: Oh, nice mouth. Think they let officers talk like that? Gonna have to change your ways when you get them wings.
Seelix: Not getting wings. They rejected my application for flight training.
Pollux: But you aced the written exam, interview went well…
Seelix: Yeah, well, in turns out I’m in a critical position and my leaving would cause “severe mission degradation.”
Cally: That sucks.
Pollux: “Critical position” my ass. They just don’t want knuckledraggers stinking up the pilot ready room.
Chief: All right, that’s enough. Lock it up. That’s enough.
(He pulls her aside.)
Chief: Look, the CAG told me you got bounced from flight training. I’m sorry about that, it sucks. Truth is, we need you down here. You’re the best avionics specialist we’ve got.
Figurski: And she knows how to fold a man’s undies.
(She jumps him; Chief pulls her off.)
Figurski: Are you crazy? I’ll take you apart!
Chief: Hey, shut up, Figurski! I’ll pop you in the mouth myself. Now get back to work. (To Seelix): Come here. Hey! Come here.
Seelix: Let go of me.
Chief: Hey. Hey, hey. Listen to me.
Chief: You do important work down here. Just as important as sitting in a cockpit.
Seelix: Thanks, Chief. …I’m gonna … deliver some more “important” laundry.
Racetrack: Raptor away. Readings nominal. Everything looks good, setting course, heading two-niner-six-five…
Skulls: What the frak?
Racetrack: Flameout. RCS thruster’s jammed. Restart… No go.
Skulls: Galactica, Skulls. Engine two thrusters stuck in full position, engine one won’t start.
Racetrack: There’s a fire in engine two. It’s gonna blow. Get your ass up here!
(the Raptor hurtles toward Tory and Laura, visible through the windows.)
Racetrack: Eject! Eject! Eject!
(Laura looks out the window, seeing the oncoming Raptor.)
Galactica: Roslin’s Temporary Offices
Adama: You got off lucky. A dozen injuries, no fatalities.
Roslin: Thank you. You should’ve seen Tory’s shoulder, I had to help Cottle put it back in alignment. Ugh. You know I am so busy, I hardly ever make it down to this end of the ship. And now I’m gonna be living here for God knows how long, until they repair the bulkheads.
Adama: Well, if the quarters become cramped, you’re always welcome in one of my beds. …In a manner of speaking.
Roslin, laughing: Do you have any better idea of what happened to your Raptor?
Adama: We’re still investigating the situation, but it seems that the tylium was seriously contaminated with impurities. Most likely, it’s a problem with the refining process.
Roslin: The hell’s goin’ on there? That refinery used to be the most reliable ship in the Fleet. Now every day, I start with a stack of messages from the chief — what is his name?
Adama: Xeno Fenner.
Roslin: Fenner. Complaining about living conditions, and deliveries, and, uh, spare parts … and compensation, if you can believe that. We’re on the run for our lives, and the guy wants to talk about overtime bonuses.
Adama: Well, we’ve been more than patient with Fenner and his production problems. Two weeks of sitting here waiting for him to get his act together… I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get back on the road to finding Earth.
Roslin: Is that a hint of hope I hear? Has the skeptic suddenly decided that we’re on the road to Earth after all?
Adama: Have I ever doubted it?
Galactica: Conference Room
Fenner: I’ve got people working eighteen-hour shifts for the past six months. How long you think a man can keep that up?
Adama: If the Cylons show up we have enough fuel to jump the entire Fleet what, once?
Adama: Maybe twice. That’s a margin that’s much too narrow for me. How about for you, and your men? You have a problem. Fix it.
Roslin: Just get the gas flowing, and then we’ll talk. I promise you that.
Fenner: “Then we’ll talk.” It’s always “later.” You know, it’s funny that when the gas flows, my phone calls don’t get returned, but the minute there’s a glitch in the fuel supply, I’ve got facetime with the President and the Admiral? Hmm. Maybe we should just start having more glitches.
Roslin: Is that a threat?
Fenner: It’s like the book says: “If you hear the people, you’ll never have to fear the people.”
Roslin: Did you say the book?
Roslin: Guards, arrest him for extortion and interrupting vital services during a time of war. Go ahead, take him away. That’s it, go. Out of here. Gone.
Marine: Come with me, sir.
Adama: What the hell was that?
Roslin: He was quoting from Baltar’s book.
Adama: The ramblings that his lawyer smuggled out of the brig?
Roslin: He’s having it reprinted and passed out among the Fleet, and he’s calling it My Triumphs, My Mistakes, by Gaius Baltar. And I am thinking of having a good, old-fashioned book-burning.
Chief: Ooh, algae meat loaf! Starting to be a favorite.
Cally: It’s not for you. Remember our little talk?
Chief: Oh, but today’s my cheat day.
Cally: The last three days have been your cheat day.
Chief: Really? Yee. You we’re moving better yesterday. That how the bends are supposed to work?
Cally: I’m just upset about Seelix, so I’m tensing up.
Chief: They should have just told her right off the bat what the Fleet priorities are. Should have said that they needed knuckledraggers more than they need pilots.
Cally: It isn’t about Fleet priorities. We’re not part of the ruling class, so we’re stuck doing the dirty work.
Chief: “Ruling class”? Where’d you get that?
Cally: Something I read. …By Baltar.
Chief: Those frakking rags making their way around the Fleet, I can’t believe that anybody’s reading anything written by that guy.
Cally: That’s what I thought too, but… You ever wonder why all the pilots and the officers come from the rich Colonies, like Caprica, and Virgon, Tauron… While all the knuckledraggers come from the poor Colonies like Aerelon and Sagittaron? And Geminon?
Chief: Yeah, that’s just trash talk on the deck.
Cally: Really? Name one officer on the Fleet that comes from a poor Colony.
Chief: Dualla, Lieutenant Dualla’s from Sagittaron.
Cally: Case in point! How did she get promoted? She married an officer from Caprica.
Chief, answering phone: Tyrol.
Adama: Chief, the foreman of the fuel refinery has just been arrested.
Chief: Xeno Fenner?
Adama: Do you know him?
Cally: Did something happen to Xeno?
Chief: Arrested. Uh, yes sir, he was in the union on New Caprica, seemed like a good guy. What’d he do?
Adama: He pissed off the President. But the bigger problem right now is the refining operation. I need someone to go over there and get that fuel ship moving again. Pick a team, get your gear, and be on the hangar deck in an hour.
Chief: Yes, sir.
Cally: I don’t understand. What happened to Xeno?
Chief: He pissed off the President.
Cally: What, you can get arrested for that now?
Chief: I think the Admiral was kidding.
Cally: Yeah. You ever think about the union?
Chief: Sure, but that’s gone now.
Cally: New Caprica’s gone, but all the people in the union are still here. only difference is, now they don’t have anyone to stand up for them.
Chief: I gotta go.
(Marines rip open his bed and pillow, searching the room. He’s facing the wall.)
Baltar: I do hope you’re enjoying yourselves. It’s not enough you have to interrupt my sleep and put filth in my food, now you have to destroy my stuff as well. You’re pathetic! You’re utterly and totally…
Roslin: — Hello, Doctor. Why don’t you do yourself a favor? Hand over the pages and stop all this nonsense.
Baltar: I don’t what you’re talking about.
Roslin: Turn him around. The pages to your book. My Triumphs, My Mistakes, by Gaius Baltar.
Baltar: So you’ve read it. The people are reading it, and now you’re sorry.
Roslin: We’ve known that your lawyer was smuggling the pages out of here for weeks, so we intercepted them, and I’m afraid I’m the only one who’s read them. And I am dying to see how it ends. Really, what were you thinking, though? Casting yourself as a man of the people, the son of a farmer? A revolutionary? Oh please.
Baltar: It may come as some surprise to you, Madame President, but I wish to strike a chord with the common man.
Roslin: Hand over those pages or I’ll have these guards search you. Make a choice. (He looks down.) Gentlemen, proceed.
(She smiles as they being to strip him; Chip Six appears with her hand on his groin, as the Marines search him.)
Six: Don’t bend to her, Gaius. Show her that she can’t break you. Keep your dignity?
(He pulls the pages out of his pants; Laura motions for the Marines to grab them.)
Baltar: Perhaps you’ll consider writing a blurb for the back cover.
Roslin: Thank you, Doctor.
Marine: Close cell!
Six: It’s all right, Gaius. Everything’ll be okay.
(Chief takes a shuttle to the refinery.)
Chief: Cabott, hey! How you doing? Good to see you!
Cabott, getting him dirty: Sorry.
Chief: It’s inevitable!
(They climb the stairs.)
Cabott: Listen, hey, I gotta tell ya — we were all feelin’ a lot better when we heard they were sending you.
Chief: Oh, yeah?
Cabott: You bet. I’ve been talking you up, tellin’ everybody how the union on New Caprica really stood up for the little guy.
Chief: Yeah, well…
Cabott: You’re looking down at the Fleet’s entire fuel supply of tylium.
Chief: How many jumps you think we got?
Cabott: Huh. We’d be lucky if we get out of the system.
Chief: Well, you better give us the nickel tour, see where we stand.
Chief: It’s a big operation.
Cabott: Yeah, well, you should see this place when it’s up and running. Loud as an A-bomb, just about as safe. Listen, we really need this downtime. I mean, look around you. Next time some machine fraks up, it might not just take out a Raptor. This ship, it really is a big bomb waitin’ to go up.
Chief: Yeah, look, I understand the risk, but I need to see it working, so pull your guys off and let’s fire it up.
Milo: It ain’t gonna work.
Chief: You work here?
Cabott: This is Milo. He’s the best, uh, grease jockey I got.
Chief: Milo, huh? Tell me, Milo, so why is it not gonna work? (Nothing.) Is there something you guys aren’t telling me? Come on. …Okay. Guess I’m just gonna have to have a look for myself. Is that pressure relief? Seals are missing.
Milo: They all are.
Chief: Without pressure seals, the machinery won’t run. Well, where are they?
Milo: Guess they got lost, huh?
Chief: Guys, you can’t be frakkin’ around with this stuff. The Admiral won’t stand for it…
Milo: The Admiral can kiss my ass…
Cabott: — Hey, hey. Come on, Chief. You know what this is about. I guess when working conditions improve, they let Xeno outta jail, we’ll be able to find those seals. Until then, it looks like this ship isn’t gonna be refining another drop of tylium. And that means this Fleet ain’t going anywhere.
Chief: I’ve executed a search of the ship, but the seals have not turned up.
Adama: You know that this was sabotage. I’m inclined to have them locked up.
Chief: Sir, please. They could have rigged something to have me injured, they could have contaminated the fuel on purpose and left all of our ships dead in the air.
Roslin: Good Gods.
Chief: All they did do, was buy themselves some time. Look. The machinery does need overhauling, there’s a reason that the quality control is failing. You realize most of the workers on that ship have not had a day off since the original attack on the Colonies? It’s like slave labor.
Adama: Don’t be absurd.
Chief: The men and women aboard that ship are stuck there. They can’t leave, they can’t transfer. They have no control over their lives.
Roslin: And the work is hard, we know that. Do they think they’re having a picnic at the algae processing plant, or munitions? Or waste processing? The Fleet is filled with ships with people working under horrific conditions, and nobody’s having a good time.
Chief: Well, I think that if we at least release Xeno and start talking to them about improving working conditions and living conditions that the protest will go away, they’ll return the pressure seals, and we’ll get the fuel contamination problem under control.
Roslin: Extortion is not an acceptable method of protest. What are the names of the leaders?
Chief: …Just Cabott.
Roslin: I will issue a warrant for his arrest.
Adama: Put him in the brig, have him sweat it out.
Chief: Admiral, Madame President, they’re just trying to…
Roslin: — Chief. Huh uh. We’re done.
Chief, unable to sleep: I’m gonna go check on Cabott and Xeno.
(Cabott’s crying and mumbling.)
Fenner: You gotta get him outta here.
Chief: What the hell happened to his hands?
Fenner: Wake up in the middle of the night, he’s scratching the walls. Just keeps scratching them, till his fingers are bleeding.
Cabott: …Say it doesn’t matter…
Fenner: He was in Cylon detention on New Caprica, you remember? He came out squirrelly, and this is not helping. Come on, you gotta get him outta here.
Cabott: …It doesn’t matter… I won’t say…
Chief: Where are the seals?
Fenner: Oh, you son of a bitch.
Chief: Come on.
Fenner: Come on, Galen! You gotta get him outta here!
Cabott: No, I won’t.
Chief: Cabott, look at me! Cabott, listen to me, where are the seals?
Cabott: I wouldn’t say. It doesn’t matter.
Chief: Cabott, I can get you out of there. Where are the seals? Tell me where the seals are. Where are the seals?
Fenner: Galen, for Gods’ sakes, get him outta there!
Chief: Where? Where are the seals? Where are they?!
Cabott: It doesn’t — it doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter!
Fenner: Look at him!
Chief: Where are the seals?
Cabott: It doesn’t matter! It doesn’t matter!
Chief: Where are they?!
Cabott: It doesn’t matter!
Fenner: The air vent, all right? They’re in the central stern air vent!
Chief: Tell the President to release them.
(Fenner paces, Cabott screams.)
Chief: All right, that’s the last one. Let’s fire this up. Get back to work.
Fenner: Yes sir, whatever you say, boss.
Milo: Hey, hey, hey. Can I throw the switch?
Chief: …How old are you?
Milo: Twelve. Almost. But I can run every machine we got. only thing I haven’t done is turn the whole thing on.
Chief: It’s all yours.
(He pushes the levers we’ll see later.)
Galactica: Roslin’s Offices
Chief: There are kids down there, Madame President.
Roslin: There’s children on every ship in the Fleet.
Chief: These children work in the refinery. They’re twelve, fifteen years old.
Roslin: There’ve been families aboard the refinery ever since its beginning, and others were picked up after the Cylons attacked the Colonies. Over the past two years, the parents have been teaching the children how to operate the machinery. They have been passing along their skills. It is perfectly normal. It is not ideal, I know that, but there is nothing ideal about this Fleet.
Chief: Do you see what’s happening? The jobs are starting to be inherited, Madame President. We don’t know how long we’re gonna be on these ships, what if it’s ten years? So I train my son to be a deckhand because that’s what I am, and that’s all he can ever be? Is that the future we want?
Roslin: …That’s a really good point. Tory, I want you to make a list of everyone in the Fleet who has a work history appropriate to the refinery. Factory workers, mechanics, whatever you think. Give it to the Chief, and I want you to hold a public lottery. And we will take people from other vessels, and we will put them on shifts in the refinery. How’s that, Chief?
Chief: Thank you.
Roslin: Thank you.
Galactica: Hangar Bay
Chief: So that’s our allotment for Dogsville. Get these people on these ships before they know where they’re going.
Figurski: Hm. All right, people! Let’s go!
Danny: Excuse me, sir? Hi, um, I don’t really know who I’m supposed to talk to you about this, but I don’t really think I’m what you guys are looking for. I don’t really have the skills.
Chief: What’s your name?
Danny: Uh, Danny Noon.
Figurski: Noon? Noon. “Noon, Daniel.” …Says you’re a farmer.
Chief: Farmer. Yeah, that’s what we’re looking for, people to work with heavy machinery.
Danny: No, but I don’t, not really. Sir, I worked on a farm for a summer, ’cause I was saving up to go to college — architecture — but then the Cylons attacked, and… Now I’m a farmer? How is that fair? How is that in any way fair?
Chief: Just give me a second.
Figurski: We make an exception for this guy, there’s gonna be fifteen more right behind him.
Chief: Look at him though. He’s a kid.
Chief: Fine. Put him in the ship. Uh, look… this is just a temporary thing, okay?
Danny: No, wait. Hold on. I am not a farmer.
Chief: Yeah. It’s not permanent.
Danny: No, wait. Can you just check my record?
Danny: I… No, no. Excuse me, who am I supposed to talk to about this? Who am I supposed to talk to about this? You don’t understand, I’m not a farmer! Hey! Stop it! I’m not a farmer!
(Chief walks away, distressed, finds a copy of Gaius’s book.)
“The Emerging Aristocracy And The Emerging Underclass: I wash my hands of the pho… democratic system; I will never let myself be distracted by the plac… elite led… ministries…
Galactica: Gaius’s Cell
Baltar: What are you doing here?
Chief: Your book. Fact or fiction?
Baltar: So you read it? Well, that proves that the President’s an accomplished liar. She told me it hadn’t gone out. So, what do you make of it?
Chief: I think that it’s a pile of crap.
Baltar: Obviously, my analysis of a bifurcated society scares you. But everything in my book happens to be true.
Chief: Oh, it’s true? It’s true that you’re a farmboy from Aerelon?
Baltar: Yes I am, as a matter of fact. I was born and raised on a dairy outside the town of Cuffle’s Breath Wash, on Aerelon.
Chief: Why do I have such a hard time picturing you milking cows and shoveling manure?
Baltar: Lack of imagination?
Chief: Or maybe that your little tale is manure.
Chief: I’ve known people from Aerelon. You don’t sound anything like them.
Baltar: I don’t sound like I’m from Aerelon?
Baltar: Well, you know, I take that as a particular compliment. I don’t know about you, but I’ve always founds the Aerelon dialect to be particularly hard on the ears. Something about the consonants that scrape the back of the throat. Of course, I should know an awful lot about my native tongue — I spent hours on end trying to overcome it. Do you have any idea how hard it is for a ten-year-old boy to change the way he speaks? To unlearn everything he ever learned so that one day, one day there might be the small hope that he might be considered as not comin’ from Aerelon? Maybe — I don’t know — Caprica. Caprican. Oh, to be Caprican. The seat of politics, culture, art, science, learning. And what was Aerelon, just a drab, ugly rock condemned to be the food basket for the Twelve Worlds. And that’s how we were treated: like servants, like laborers, like working class. You know, you’d have fitted right in there, Chief. Lots of men who liked to work with their hands and, uh, grab a pint down the pub, and finish off the evening with a good old-fashioned fight. Oh yes, I left Aerelon after my eighteenth birthday. I turned my back on my family, on my heritage. All of them. ‘Course it doesn’t matter, that. They’re all dead now. So…
Chief: You do realize that none of that exists here.
Baltar: Ha! Coming from the mouth of a mechanic.
Chief: We’ve kept democracy. We have government, we have rights, we have elections…
Baltar: Well, then you should feel perfectly happy, shouldn’t you? Perfectly at ease. Go home, leave me in peace. After all, that’s what the aristocracy wants. It wants the working class to feel looked after, while they scrabble around for scraps from the master’s table.
(Chief walks away.)
Baltar: There’s a question I ask at the end of my book, I’ll save you the trouble of reading it: Do you honestly believe that the Fleet will ever be commanded by somebody whose last name is not Adama? There it is, Chief. one set of rules for the aristocracy, and one set of rules for the rest of us.
PA: …Cleanup crew report for duty in the starboard bay… one minute to …
Fenner: We’ve given assignments to all the new workers from the lottery.
Chief: Looks like you put ’em right to work.
Fenner: Yeah, yeah, they’re okay. They’re a little skittish, but they’ll catch on. Right up here’s where we had the problem last time. Got all kinds of gear slippage, temperature variations… We didn’t know the dross wasn’t getting burned off.
Chief: That’s your bad fuel?
Fenner: Yeah, it’s running now. We’ve got half a dozen other places on the line that could frak us….
(The belt begins to screech and buck.)
Chief: What’s that? Whoa! That”s it! Hit the switch!
Fenner: No, no, no, not when it’s jammed. The whole system will seize up. Gotta fix it, otherwise the ore still in the chambers will superheat and set off a reaction that’ll blow us all to hell. Hurry! We gotta get this going!
Chief: Right here, this is it.
Fenner: You got it?
Fenner: Get it out of there.
Chief: I can’t get my hand around it.
Fenner: Careful! Careful!
Chief: Ah! It’s too small. I can’t get under it.
Worker: We got some hot rocks up there! You gotta get this thing started, fast!
Fenner: Give it a yank! Give it a yank!
Chief: I just can’t get my hand around it. I can’t get my hand on it!
Danny: I can try. I can try.
Fenner: Get in there.
Danny: I can probably get it.
Chief: Come on, Danny.
Fenner: If he clears it the belt’s gonna jump, so you gotta be careful. There he goes.
Workers: There you go! You got it. You got it, attaboy. Careful… Come on, Danny. Get movin’, that’s it. Attaboy, now grab it. Now pull it, pull it towards you. Pull hard, Danny. Pull hard! Pull it hard. There it is.
(He clears it.)
Chief: All right! Good work, Danny. Good work!
Fenner: Attaboy, Danny. Get outta there. Come on out. Come on out. Come on out. Come on out.
Danny‘s arm falls, split open and useless: Aah! Aah!
Fenner: Medic! Medic, now!
(Danny still screaming.)
Fenner: Take it easy, buddy. We’ve got you. We’re gonna lay you down. It’s okay, buddy. Great job. We’ll fix you up. You’re gonna be okay.
(Danny screams: Chief and Fenner lock eyes, and head to the end of the factory line.)
Seelix, tending Danny: I need more gauze, just calm down.
(As the workers stare, Chief pulls down the two levers, stopping the belts. He hops up, standing on a hatch ladder.)
Chief: This plant is off-line! We’re on strike.
(The workers cheer.)
(The deckhands are drinking and playing cards; several pilots enter.)
Pollux: No, no, no, no! Action time!
(They laugh as the pilots approach.)
Figurski: Need something, Captain?
Starbuck: Yeah, I frackin’ need something, I need my Viper.
Pollux: Sorry, Captain. Vital missions only. CAP’s already up, we did our job.
Racetrack: What do you mean, vital missions only? on whose orders?
Pollux: Cally relayed the orders from Chief Tyrol. We’re on strike.
(Chief is brought down a corridor by Marines, walking past deckhands and proud Cally.)
(Tyrol stands as Adama approaches.)
Adama: Are you aware that your deck gang is participating in a work stoppage?
Chief: It’s called a general strike, sir.
Adama: It’s a mutiny. And do you know what we do with mutineers? We shoot them, Chief.
Chief: We’re leaving people behind, Admiral. People are locked into their jobs. They have no control over their lives, they have no say. We’re abandoning them to their fate, it’s like we’ve marooned them on a planet.
Adama: That is not the issue. The men and women on this ship are not allowed to disobey an order, especially in support of some kind of frakking labor dispute.
Chief: We launched the CAP. No one has abandoned their post, we’re not putting anyone in danger.
Adama: This is mutiny. And it stops now.
Chief: Admiral, all I want is a sit down with the President.
Adama, on phone: This is the Admiral. Arrest Cally Tyrol. Take her under armed guard directly to the starboard repair bay.
Chief: Repair bay? What are you doing?
Adama: I’m gonna put her up against the bulkhead and I’m gonna shoot her. As a mutineer.
Chief: are you out of your frakking mind? Cally was just following my orders.
Adama: She’s a ringleader, so she goes first. And then the rest of your dead gang. Figurski, Seelix, Pollux.
Chief, slamming the bars: You won’t do this. We have a son!
Adama: Understand me. The very survival of this ship may depend on someone getting an order that they don’t want to do, and if they hesitate, if they feel that orders are sometimes optional, then this ship will perish. And so will your son. And the entire human race. I don’t want to do this, Chief, but I will put ten Callys up against the wall to make sure that this ship and this Fleet are not destroyed.
Chief: Fine. I’ll call it off.
Adama, back to phone: This is the Admiral. Do you have Cally in custody? Put her on. (To the Marines): Open the door.
Chief, on phone: You okay?
Cally: Don’t worry about me, I’ve been in the brig before.
Chief: Everything’s okay. Call off the strike.
Cally: Did they cave?
Chief: …Yeah. Call it off.
Cally: I knew it. Okay, I’ll take care of it. Galen, I’m proud of you.
Chief: Give the phone to the Marine.
Adama, to phone: Release her. (Hangs up): You can go now, Chief… I thought you had something that you wanted to discuss with the President?
Roslin: Would you like another drink?
Chief: Ah, I think I’ve had enough. Madame President, I’ve seen people drafted into service based purely on where they were born.
Roslin: They’ve also been selected based on their skills.
Chief: Which is a result of where they were born. Capricans are more likely to be professionals, Aerelons are more likely to be farmers. It’s a fact of life.
Roslin: It’s a fact I can’t change.
Chief: True. But I think we can level the playing field. There are a lot of dirty jobs that need to be done every day in this Fleet. Cleaning, hauling, low-level maintenance. Things like that. These are the kind of jobs that I think should be allocated to people who… Well, people like yourself, no offense.
Roslin: None taken. Go ahead.
Chief: Let some of the people on Colonial one get their hands dirty for a change.
Roslin: Done. What else?
Chief: People that are in dangerous and high-stress jobs need to be rotated out for R&R. And in order to do that, we need a formal training program.
Roslin: We can talk about a training program later, but right now, we need to focus on maintaining the workforce that we have, and this is gonna have to be an area where the union gives ground.
Chief: The union?
Roslin: Oh I’m sorry. I thought you were engaged in collective bargaining on behalf of the Colonial Worker’s Alliance. If that’s not the case, then…
Chief: Madame President, that union died on New Caprica.
Roslin: Chief, the workers in this Fleet, they need someone to represent them and their interests. And if this society is becoming truly polarized between an entrenched political class and a disenfranchised underclass, we are doomed. We won’t need the Cylons to destroy us, we’ll destroy ourselves. The Fleet that arrives at Earth will not represent Colonial society at all. I am willing to fight for that society until my dying breath. I would love it if you would fight for that society as well.
Chief: I will. I will, Madame President, I will.
Chief: Pollux and Herschel, you are on, uh, fueling … 4372…
Starbuck: Chief Tyrol?
Chief: Hey, Captain.
Starbuck: Chief, one of my nuggets failed to show up for basic flight instruction this morning.
Chief: I’m sorry to hear that, Captain.
Starbuck: So maybe you can tell me where the hell Diana Seelix is.
Chief: Seelix, front and center.
Starbuck: Flight instruction began twenty minutes ago, Seelix. You wanna be a pilot or not?
Seelix: Yes, sir, but I thought that the…
Starbuck: — You will think when I tell you to think, nugget! And you might want to look at the plan of the day, ’cause then maybe you’ll know where you’re supposed to be, and you might actually get there on time… And you’re out of uniform to boot.
Chief: Oh, I’m sorry, Captain. I think I can handle that.
Starbuck: Thank you, Chief.
Chief, handing Kara his equipment: Hold this. (Holding up an ensign’s pin): You have to be an officer to fly Vipers, you know that. Detail! And salute!
(They all salute her.)
Seelix: Thank you, Chief. Thank you.
Chief: Congratulations, Ensign.
Starbuck: All right, this all very touching, but you were supposed to be in Ready Room Four twenty minutes ago, Ensign, which means that you are falling behind on your first day. So move it! Don’t look at him, move it! Move it!
Chief: Be nice.
(Seelix jogs out of the bay proudly as the other hands smile.)
Transcript taken by Ryan Bechtel
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