A Disquiet Follows My Soul

The talk with Boyd hadn't been an easy one. Once he makes it back to Galactica, Gaeta needs a few minutes to sit in his rack, turning the words over in his head as he ponders his options.

Plan it better. That's the big one. Hard as it'd been to hear the bluntness to Boyd's advice, he knows he needed to hear it. And he can make a lot of assumptions right now, but if there's one thing Gaeta can do -- even now -- it's collect data and extrapolate concrete numbers.

Like how many people could be on board, conceivably, if he started the mutiny today.



He picks a time when he knows the mess will be reasonably crowded: the larger the sample size, the better. Food's one of the great common denominators, so everybody -- from ensigns to captains, Marines to deck hands -- will have at least one representative in the tables.

And...oh. Look at that. Seated among today's representatives is Captain Thrace, a hand shielding her face as she picks at her food.

Perfect.

The click-tick of his crutches and prosthesis sounds loud and clear as he makes his way over to her table.