AWD #362: Get Off My Lawn
Get Off My Lawn
Summary: Some off the clock casual conversation between Jameson, Nadir, St.Clair & Salazar. A classic documentary of lions plays in the background.
Date: 18/Jun/2016
Related Logs:
Alejandro Bennett Jameson Samtara 
Rec Room - Deck 3 - Battlestar Orion
With several smaller rec rooms spread throughout the ship, this one is the largest by far and is the primary recreation location aboard the ship. Longer than it is wide, with several hatches in and out, the room is divided by load-bearing beams that section it off into equal thirds. There are a dozen tables, couches, and coffee tables set up — though all of the tables and chairs are the drab metal of the rest of the fleet. The couches seem to have been purchased privately and moved in here at some point in the past, heavy use and careful patching evident. Magazines are strewn around randomly, as are racks of books, plus a couple flatscreen televisions set up. Along one wall are several billiards tables, along with a bar for coffee and snacks.

On one of the flatscreen televisions is, of all things, a classic documentary about wild lions grazing in the sun in some savannah on one of the colony worlds. The voice over speaks in that hushed, almost reverent, tone of voice (the voice over done somewhere far away from where the Lions actually are being filmed at) so the hushed tone is a bit amusing. The colors though, the dramatic panorama of nature itself, makes the documentary worthwhile. Seated in front of the screen, and having set aside the stack of files she's working on and enjoying a bowl of popcorn while the scene shifts to a segment with the lions stalking a herd of zebras, the doctor looks as relaxed as it gets these days, with her feet propped on the edge of an empty chair, one foot wiggling subtly from side to with amusement.

Jameson walks in wearing the same outfit he had on when he appeared at the dig site, sans hat. Most people seem confused about how ot address the man in civvies, so most people just avoid him. He ends up wandering into the Red Room and spots Samtara on the couch. No announcement or invitation required, the guy flops onto the couch by Samtara and puts an arm up and over the back. "What's up, Sam?" he asks casually, eyes up on the TV and the lions.

Glancing away from the TV just as the lions get down to the portion of cutting a zebra from the herd and gnoshing down on it like, well, Lions tearing into a Zebra, Sam's eyebrows arch subtly upward as Jameson flops onto the couch alongside her and, by all visual tells, appears to make himself quite comfortable. "Dinner time for a couple of lions, by the looks of it. I've always wondered, do they somehow manage to sneak a microphone along with them in the field that has some sort of sound amplifier that allows them to actually discern what lions sound like when they're eating. Or do they just make up sound affects that make sense and slap it together. It's not like they're out there with a sound team going 'QUIET on the set, the Lions are eating!'," she replies with a tone of mild amusement laced with genuine, if rather abstract, curiosity. "And yourself?" not /quite/ able to address the Admiral by his first name, at least not right off the bat, terribly stuffy this one is from time to time.

The Admiral nods slowly. "Never eaten a horse before. After riding them for so many years I'm not even sure I would want to. Dunno how these big cats ever developed a taste for it. Don't think I've ever eaten feline either, come to think of it." All casual, the guy seems unconcerned with anything at the moment. "What you don't know about this show is that those animals are all paid actors. They all wear the microphones and they remove them digitally in post-production." Dead-pan serious. He crosses an ankle over a knee. "I'm alright. I met some eighteen year old aspiring Viper stick last night. Took the sims out for a spin. He either had no idea who I was or was probably an actor. I'm assuming the latter. He kept looking at me like I was some stray dog that had wandered in."

Sam seems to consider this, hazel eyes narrowed for a moment of contemplation. "It would make more sense if they were filming this in a big game animal preserve instead of just randomly out on some sort of safari adventure. Though, safari adventure also seems to suggest that they have regular areas where the population is monitored. I used to get these marketing brochures all the time from travel agencies. Go see Lions, in their native habitat, enjoy the wonders of nature!" she makes a quiet sound that is part amusement part incredulous. "It's akin to the notion of purchasing a ticket for commercial air travel, then having the vessel crash over open seas and then being eaten by a shark. At that point you've paid for the privilege of dying. Same thing with the Lions. Impressive. Fascinating. From this side of the screen. Have you seen those teeth? I'm quite positive they run a lot faster than I do, even properly motivated," she shares a wry grin, sidelong, at the Admiral. "Those who recognize you upon first glance recognize the weight of the office and authority that you carry with you. Those who don't recognize you on sight are trying to determine where in the food chain you might already be positioned and, from that relative point, determine if they have more to gain or lose by their next course of action. It's a herd mentality, you know, social structure being what it is. And I have never, personally, ridden a horse, I'm not entirely sure I'm comfortable with the notion of riding around on the back of an animal that has its own herd mentality and sentience. It seems… rude."

"I always figured something like that would be interesting to do. Go on a trip and see things like that. My wife said she went whale watching once on Picon and said it was strange since most of our free time together we're out riding and looking at wildlife anyway." He tilts his head with a chuckle. "But you make a good point about the whole thing. I'd rather not get so close to something like that while unarmed. I've never been big on hunting, but when you ranch, you carry." While Jameson listens to the point about who he is and why, he lifts a single hand as if in a shrug. "Yeah, probably. I know he was trying to figure out who I was. I just didn't care and we were having fun. I was enjoying just being a pilot again and not feeling people were looking at me and waiting for a decision. It was great. But your opinion about riding is understandable if you've never been big on it." He turns his head a bit to look more fully at her. "We don't eat our pets because we have a relationship with them. Dogs, cats. Horses are no different. They all have personalities. You can tell when your pets are unhappy, and when they are happy. You're no more exploiting the relationship than you would be by going out to dinner with a quiet friend."

"I don't imagine that a whale would consider a human a particularly intriguing target, I don't think their teeth are designed for that sort of thing, even by sheer size and mastication abilities alone," Sam replies with a breath of a laugh, "whereas Lions are more inclined toward making that distinction if large animals, including humans, wander into their territory. I'd be less worried about a whale, that's all, and they sing, which makes them somehow less . . nerve unsettling to be in close quarters with. Gorgeous, both examples, all the same." She tips her head slightly as she considers his words for a moment, "I think I can understand that. I'm no pilot, with absolutely zero inclination in that area," wry humor again evident in her tone of voice, "but I understand what you mean. My last vacation," again that half laugh is exhaled, "I spent several weeks with a colleague working on a new research project. It was relaxing to just do research, clean room, no press of students or faculty or fund raises or impatient harried patients and their families. It was a very …" she pauses, briefly silent before a quiet hum is made and she decides, "soothing expanse of weeks. Not quite the thrill of observing a lion, but a necessary vacation all the same." She smiles suddenly, "In our culture. That's always the caveat, is it not. In our culture we don't eat our pets. Unless we're farmers. Which is why it's not considered a terribly good idea to name your herd animals, if you plan to make them dinner at some point. You have a ranch?" that last question asked with a note of surprise and curiosity. "Did you have herd animals and such, or just open land?"

"No, I suspect a whale isn't going to be too interested in a person. Unless, you know, you swim up to it and pat it on the side. They mostly eat fish anyway, if I remember. We don't taste like fish. Though if the whale were a lion, yeah, that changes things." Jameson settles into the corner of the couch and glances to the TV, then, "If I had the choice of gettign put into a room with a hungry lion or a skinjob I'd be pickin that Cylon twice on Sunday. You can't reason with that kind of animal. Granted, you can't do the same thing with a dog or horse, but when you piss off your cat that sleeps at the end of your bed, it doesn't eat you. It'll just piss on your floor. There's a saying 'Don't pull the tail on the tiger unless you're willing to deal with the teeth when it turns around.' and they weren't talking about your housecat." The way the guy repeats the saying it is easy to tell it is one of his favorites. "Sure. Its rude to eat things that are named. A name implies attachment. But yeah, well, my wife had a ranch. She owned it before I married her. She was a retired Marine before I even met her. But yeah, we ran cattle - about five hundred. Had a dozen horses we kept out in the fields. They loved her, too. Whenever they heard her voice they'd all come trotting over. She was great with them."

"Surgical interns are like that," Sam notes with a mild shake of her head. "Oh, not the teeth and tail part, they're too competitive and focused to be that much entertainment. But there are rather like wild animals confined in a single secure zone where they're pitted against each other to determine which are the best surgical candidates at the end of their internship so they can go to the next, and best, programs from there. But in the sense that as soon as they hear your voice, in this case I do unfortunately mean mine, they'd be swarming around like … . terribly obnoxious ants, at times. You never want an intern that's always in your face with obnoxious displays of helpfulness, nor the ones who think they know everything - still - and haven't quite shed that measure of annoyance. The best ones figure it out. The worst ones. . well, one can always encourage to consider a future in medical dentistry, orthodontic surgery, that sort of thing." She is quiet for a moment, "You can trust a Lion to always be a Lion, and a Whale a Whale, an Ant an Ant, and so on and so forth. You can never be one hundred percent certain what any human will do in any given situation, not with a perfect degree of accuracy. Certainly, there are typical standards. There's a margin of error, for a reason. But a Cylon isn't a human or a lion or a whale or anything else. They have a herd, social, hierarchical structure of a sort, or so it appears from the outside looking in. I think I'd take the lion, personally. If I've wandered into it's territory, then it was my error in the first place, and I deserve the end result of such idiocy."

Jameson snorts a laugh, nodding. "Gods, that sounds like Viper candidates in flight school. Same thing if you're an instructor. They all want to impress you and they hang around waiting for the next opportunity to be the best at everything. Hell, even some of the Raptor pilots were like that. It was ridiculous, but only funny for the first couple weeks. It got old, fast." Jameson looks back to Samtara from the TV and gives a shake of his head. The point about territory also gets a short laugh. "Yeah, I can believe you'd find that place. Pilots are the other way around. If I've wandered into your territory on my way somewhere, its not my fault if there weren't obvious signs posted. Granted you're getting into the technicalities of scents being signs, but there's no maneuver room with a lion. A skinjob? Sure. It's about the killer instinct to be able to fight and win. Nobody is taking down a 600 pound lion with their bare hands and brain."

Sam laughs suddenly, "Personally? absolutely not. I wouldn't be willing to actually bet against our marines, though. I've long since learned that betting against any marine, in general, is like presuming that they will use the stuff in their first aid kits and not improvise with tape and string. More often than not, it's the tape and string because the blasted aid kits require two hands to open and sometimes two hands aren't available for the doing." She tips her head back briefly, a mild eye roll toward the ceiling, a sigh of exasperated amusement before she shakes her head once more. "Pilots, universally, have thrill issues, one and all. Marines have a measure of invincibility that keeps them going. Naval officers have a superiority complex about getting the job done, their way. We all have facets of ourselves that define us, and equally define our place in the structure that we work within, be it social or professional or so on and so forth. I like to think that I'm right, and I enjoy being right, it just makes me happy, so far as anything makes me happy. I like precision, and beating to death any problem until the solution has been hammered out into exacting, tedious, detail. I think that you think that you can still negotiate with a skinjob or a cylon, and that part of the logic that shapes this vantage is that, from the data to date, there has been a measure of negotiation on the table. But, the data to date does not shape the picture. Once you've pulled the trigger on the attempt at wholesale slaughter and mass genocide it's easier to nit pick over the small details with the size of the population that has survived. They're machines, they have time, rather more of it perhaps than we do, they can be patient if they choose."

"Yeah, I don't know if I would bet against a Marine in the cage with a lion. That's a tough fight. I know we've got a couple of them that have dealt with animal attacks and come out on top. Those damned dire-wolves-things took down several people but the CMC got them and they don't come around anymore." There's some accompanied amusement with her observation about pilots, though. "Thrill issues? Yeah, I'd be guilty of that. Adrenaline is a helluva drug. I was 23 when the first war ended and I'd been in the cockpit for five years. I spent most of that with my hair on fire trying to get my pilots to go faster and faster, lower and lower. At one point I was pretty sure they were going to shitcan me for it. But you make pretty good generalizations about the rest of the fleet." However, its her observations on his outlook that makes him take a more considerate expression. He runs fingers through his short hair and lets the hand fall once more. "Negotiation has always been on the table. Knox was a negotiation. I didn't interfere with the results, but I wanted them to grant that Sergeant his rights because it's an important strategic weapon: One of their kind turned. And we are open to more." He shrugs with his hands, the gesture very small. "See, Sam, you can't fight a war without the possibility of a negotiated settlement. If you do that then you put your enemy's back against the wall. At a point like that they have no reason to remain civil in any capacity or keep prisoners. Like two billion people still living. And you're absolutely right about having more time than we do, but sometimes it's a matter of perspective. Look at that ghost business on Piraeus. If that's indeed what they are then I'm betting that Captain and her merry band will be around long after the last Cylon has become rust."

"You believe that they're ghosts?" Sam wonders this aloud before she gives another, brief, shake of her head. "I don't have any religious persuasion, personally, so that was a rude question. Allow me to rephrase. Your perspective is that the apparitions upon planet are non corporeal entities who were once living, breathing, actual people who inhabited this planet a set number of years ago. And, using that as a premise for what they are, their actions and interaction with the crew and who ever else they've interacted with thus far, is based on the lingering …" she shakes her head then and sighs. "I'm sorry, that's where the logic goes off the rails for me. If they're ghosts," and she stops again before giving it up with a mild shake of her head, AGAIN. "Thankfully, my belief or lack thereof is not altering what is happening on planet in any way. Which is, frankly, rather reassuring, academically speaking." She tips her head then, turning now to face Jameson entirely, "You think that there's room for negotiation where there will be an option, long term, for peace between human and cylon. Not just a tenuous sort of armistice, but an actual, viable, real world solution where they're willing to negotiate over points and where we, equally, have points that we're willing to surrender and accept? Fascinating."

Jameson shakes his head. "I refer to them that way because it is the easiest way to refer to them. I don't know what they are, but I am pretty convinced that the Captain and her crew are not holograms or some kind of pre-recorded thing left for someone to find. I'm pretty sure they are sentient. To what end?" The guy shakes his head. "The universe is a big place. Life may take many forms and I'm pretty positive we haven't even fully considered how else it might flourish." It might be weird to hear a guy with a folksy accent talking over something like this. "They could be anything. I'm waiting for science to tell me what they are. Or I'll settle for knowing what they are not." Easy enough for him. But Sam might find relief to the banner of SCIENCE! But again, the last makes him shake his head. "No on that, also. Peaceful co-existence is probably out. Even if I could accept it, which I wouldn't, I could never convince the Taurans. Or the Gemenese. Cancerans. A settlement could be an agreement to part ways and leave it in a defacto state of war. If we run into them again, or them into us, the winner gets to go home but it stays away from the home worlds. Just go as far as they or we can in the opposite direction. But I don't know that even that is possible. Something kicked this war over. Something provoked it or changed the game. When we know what that was, no matter how inane, we'll know where our settlement options might lie."

"If you're naming groups, add those of us from Picon as well," Sam ventures with a mild tip of her head, lips pressed briefly together in a thin line. "Speaking for myself, at least. The step from mass genocide to some manner of reasonable peace is a big leap. Not impossible, and that's a semantically null word anyway. But, it's a big leap that would be very difficult to belief in, either long or short term. And what manner of guarantee would be believed if humankind and cylon simply went in opposite directions. Space is big, obviously, but big enough? Possibly. Though a root core of the spark…" she makes that thoughtful hum of sound. "Frankly, I've never wondered that, personally. Which is yet another reason that I'm not a diplomat of any measure, apparently. The Why has never been an issue, the war simply is. Until it isn't. Which means casualties and fatalities, the names of the dead, the search for loved ones and notification lists to attempt to reconcile. Knowing Why, yes, would provide insight into how to make this Why Not." Sam draws a slow breath, exhaling a sigh. "With a lion, it's rather easier to see a course of action, I'd imagine." she frowns a little, a mild expression again, "What can I do to help?"

"There's going to be people from every colony. I even left off Virgon. The point is that some will never accept peace. I will never sit across the table from a One and break bread like I would with family or this crew. Other Scorpians could, maybe. But we are talkin about the strong. The weak have already capitulated and welcome their new overlords with open arms. Anything to kiss ass and weasel around to make themselves look good." It's clear the Admiral does not hold a high opinion of those people. They could probably leave with the Cylons for all his desire. "The cause of the war is everything. Something happened. 'Why' is the most important question you can ask in warfare. Everything else is irrelevent. 'Why attack here? Why use this sort of weapon? Why send this many ships?' That tells you what you need to win. There's this old adage, too. Amateurs talk tactics, armchair generals talk strategy, professional warfighters talk logistics. Logistics is everything. If we cut off their ability to wage war, then they have no ability to fight. It places us in a position to be able to make demands, like 'get off my lawn'. As for helping? Keep doing what you're doing. You go to work every day and save lives and keep my people healthy. I can't ask you to do anything else. Especially after Santos Ridge." Hard to believe that it was only 10 weeks ago for Samtara. Days on the ground in that frozen hell with Centurions dogpiling for hundreds of miles in every direction.

"I do suppose it would be to much to just ask one of them," Sam remarks in a voice that is both wry and somewhat resigned at the same time. "Maybe when we get the Ceres model to wake up, maybe she'll be more amiable with regard to genuine question and answer sessions than not. I do imagine, though, that this would be to easy. Anything that's to easy is, in the long run, always a con of some sort." She falls silent for a moment, "Then we need to flip the issue on edge. No single issue or question only has a yes or no answer, only two options, to points to ponder. If we can't get real answers from those who could be answering our questions, then we need to find another source. It's not just the skinned models that we're up against, or the centurions, or the raiders or the what ever we're calling those gun boat things. It's the jacked and the collaborators and anyone or anything else that has cast their lot with the Cylons. And," she draws a short breath, "you damn well can, sir. Ask me to do anything else, that is, to help. To come up with another idea or another point of view or something. The war isn't over and much as I am loathe, honestly loathe, to get shot at again, so what. If it's necessary, then so be it. I'm a surgeon, not a psychiatrist, for a reason. I have, apparently, adrenaline issues of my own. There are answers, there are always answers, it's a matter of discerning the location of the source OF the answer that is the challenge. Which is why I have voiced my request that we get our hands on some Jacked individuals so that we can attempt to cure them, if possible, and in the doing, maybe bring hope, which is sorely needed at this time. While we're at it, maybe glean intel from what they were privy to while under the control of those parasites."

"Knox was debriefed extensively and consulted heavily by Petra about what he knew. They did a pretty good job with making sure he didn't know much. We've got a Twelve in custody that's also been asked. He doesn't know either. The general idea we are getting is that the ones know everything and are being real careful with who knows what. It's making the lines do strange things like question what is happening. Considering we already have the Nines defecting, the Elevens silently switching sides, and possibly the Sixes? That's a quarter of them. Twenty-five percent is nothing to sneeze at." The two are parked on the sofa with something on TV about lions eating gazelle and prowling the savanna. Neither one of the officers are in uniform and both seem pretty relaxed. The few other people moving through don't even seem to notice the Admiral since nobody else in the room is standing at attention or creating foreboding feelings. "But yes, that is the concerning element. The jacks are still popping up, but not nearly in the numbers as these brainwashed collaborators." He drops his voice a bit. "We're not talking about thousands anymore, Doctor. We're talking many hundreds of thousands. It'll be outside that number soon. And these people are still disappearing off the occupied worlds and coming back like this. As for hope?" Jameson tosses a hand gently. "Some of the more religious folks think the Captain is a sign from the Gods. There's a lot of people with conflicted feelings. But hope is subjective. I'm fighting this war because I intend to get revenge and kick them off our homes."

Bennett is certainly not expecting to find the Admiral in here, kicking back on the couch and talking philosophy with the CMO, so she doesn't really spare the two a glance as she drifts in. Rather, she's trying to find her damned lighter, which seems to have gone on walkabout and left her and her smoke high and dry. As per the new, relaxed rules for off duty attire, she's got a faded grey hooded sweatshirt pulled on over her tanks and fatigues, her dark hair left down today, though kinked here and there from having been in a braid most of the day.

"Operational security is all well and good, sometimes it's the only way to keep the right hand from betraying the left hand at the worst possible moment," Sam agrees in a low voice to match Jameson's. "But. Compartmentalizaiton of intel tends to lead to speculation, which leads to, of all things, original thought. I'm not sure if original thought is really what they have in mind for those model lines of theirs. It worries me, not that there aren't a lot of things that worry me, but I'm still skeptical about the convenience of the Elevens in their choice of alignment. But then, I'm cynical about a great number of things, so this is not exactly a shocking bit of data either. They can't, won't, or unable to tell us what the other models look like because that data, as well, has been compartmentalized. A quarter of their lines are having original thought and passing along that sentiment among their line, that's wonderful. Except for the question: What if it isn't." She frowns for a quiet moment, "Then we need to get our hands on some of these brainwashed collaborators as well. As crazy as it sounds, I'd like to look at their brains. We know that what ever happened to Captain Hoshi, how ever it happened, he sustained damage that cannot be pegged simply on PTSD. A long hard look at the scans of his brain reveal that the section of his brain that usually deals with perception and hearing has been deformed or damaged. What is to say that this same damage, this same fingerprint so to speak, is not going to be found on these brainwashed collaborators. There's no way to know unless we look. We can't look if we don't have any alive ones to study."

Jameson glances up to see Bennett. "Captain Saint Claire," he greets casually before looking back to Samtara. "I doubt the Cylons ever intended for much original thought to come out of these skinned models. The problem appears to be that they are spending too much time with humanity and encountering diversity. That seems to be provoking something. Interestingly, Piraeus also seems to be provoking something with them. We're not sure what it's doing or why, but the planet is having some kind of effect. As far as the Elevens go? I'll take it. She idolized Sergeant Knox like a big brother that would fight off her bullies. If seen videos of their interactions. I think her line is genuinely just curious and innocent. We aren't seeing them fighting battles." He slowly rises from the couch. "Coffee?" he offers before moving to the counter. "We've got some brianwashed collaborators. That Twelve outted them. I think we have about fifteen of them? I was going to line them up and shoot them with firing squads but if you want a few I'm open to ideas." A mug is overturned and he pours himself a cup.

Bennett has tracked down her lighter by the time Jameson wanders past, and does a little double-take with a raised brow. "Sir." Never one to stand on much formality, she neither pulls to attention nor offers any kind of salute. Though she does observe him procuring coffee with an amused look. "Sirs," she amends, with a polite smile for Samtara as well, and takes a pull from her smoke while rifling through the never-changing selection of magazines here. Is she eavesdropping? Probably.

"Allow me my cynicism," Sam remarks as she sets aside the folders that were on her lap, stacks them in a neatly aligned pile alongside where she was seated and rises to her feet to follow Jameson across the room to acquire coffee as well. She casually dusts off a mug with the edge of her sleeve then examines it for a moment before pouring herself some coffee as well, sharing a nod with Captain St Clair, "Captain," as she does so. "Anything that is to good to be true, is. Anything that seems ideal, is. Anything that feels like it's a windfall, often is. None of those examples are a full proof guarantee that another shoe is not slowly lowering toward you from another direction. Ant meets boot." She curls both hands around the mug she's now holding and leans against the edge of the counter, "Fifteen? Well now, that gives a healthy sampling to work with. I'd prefer to get them in for a scan before they're shot, personally. The difference in imagine from a live brain to a deceased brain is activity, and it's that activity that may be key. And, by it's very nature, brain washing is insidious, and the individual may not be able to discern their own actions from a point of origin within themselves versus the external suggestion stimuli. It bears research."

"An Occam had a razor and that can be applied to not just warfighting, but also social interaction and psychology. But you are certainly welcome to your opinion on it. Like I'll try and stop you. Not that I'd probably have much luck, anyway," he laughs, mixing in some sugar to his coffee. The consideration of what to do with the traitors is interesting, though. He looks at nothing beteen his nose and the floor, considering. After a few, he nods. "Alright. Yeah, go talk to Fairfax. We could give you five to scan. But I want these people gone pretty soon. I may not shoot them but they aren't ever going to see home or much humanity ever again. I might just have each one dropped on a deserted island in the middle of an ocean. Or pair them up with the same gender. Give em an ax and call it a day."

Bennett plucks out a rather well-thumbed fashion rag from the pile, and sinks back into the chair next to Samtara with her prize. Mention of a 'healthy sampling' has her eyeing the medical officer with some circumspection, though; it's as though she's talking about lab rats. "Manual labour," she offers quietly, blue eyes never leaving the page she's turned to in her magazine. "Put them to work."

"Unless," Sam interjects as she glances down at the surface of the coffee in the mug she's holding, "the damage done to them is reversible. If we do determine that the same damage done to Hoshi was done to these collaborators. If their brainwashing can be short circuited and their original sense of self, of moral compass, of internal right and wrong can be restored. If there is something that can be done to allow them to atone for their actions, so to speak," she glances up with a wry smile at Bennett. "The issue with manual labor is that they run the risk of encountering someone or many such individuals who have been harmed by their actions. Punitive punishment might be meted out, which could lead to charges of such things as murder. There are no easy answers. And capital punishment has not been proven to actually deter violent crime." She moves one shoulder in a shrug, "I'll speak with Fairfax, and I'll pull Dr. Forrester into this, and we'll see what we can learn. Even if we learn that this is not at all like what happened to Captain Hoshi, the research in and of itself is not a waste of time. Even a NO answer gives us data, and all data is vital."

"Whatever happened to the Galactica needs to be investigated. Anything we can figure out on this Hoshi character is tugging at my interest. I kinda doubt some tentacle monster got them but something pretty ugly obviously happened. And where they went needs to be discovered. Adama obviously thought enough of the idea of Earth to make a run for it." Jameson tosses it out there to hear. He doesn't seem to mind who overhears him. Of all his possibilities, though, that one surprises me the most." The mug gets blown across before he sips at it and moves back to the seating area. "Manual labor was considered. The problem is that these people have two goals: A, gain access to and detonate the nuclear weapons on each ship and take as many with them as possible. B, get navigational data or star charts and get back to the colonies with the position of Piraeus. I can't risk that. It would be putting their lives before the tens of thousands here that we have. Leaving them access to humanity gives them the ability to exploit weakness and wait for an advantage. But, if we drop them on islands they can fend for themselves. I don't have to go to sleep at night knowing they are eating food that I'd rather give to those Tauran refugees."

Bennett lifts her shoulders slightly to the commentary directed her way. She's a pilot, anyway, not a lawmaker. "How is Captain Hoshi doing?" She thumbs the page in her magazine absently, gaze skimming over an ad for a perfume manufacturer that centres upon an airbrushed blonde. "I have been meaning to come by and see him." Jameson gets a long look, and a slight nod of acquiescence but nothing further for the moment.

"And . . if they can be cured?" Sam wonders before she shakes her head slightly at Bennett, "He's resting quietly, we're doing what we can to bring him back up to a healthy weight, and from there, we'll see." She returns to where she was seated as well, unpausing the nature documentary so that it plays quietly still in the background.

Alejandro arrives, still wearing his dress blues but he's unbuttoned some of the front of his jacket to hang down like a lapel. His dark hair is a bit more neatly trimmed than it has been in some while and it looks like he's even been shaving lately. Must have been that promotion that did it. The viper pilot walks in with an empty coffee cup that looks like it has been well used and not washed out in a while. Salazar's dark eyes take note of the others in here, does a slight double take at the man speaking to Samtara, then seeing Bennett in here as well, he looks pointedly /at/ her. But she's taking her ease so Hobo takes his cue from her and continues over to one of the coffee tables where he pours himself a cup. When he turns back, Alejandro causually plops onto the couch next to Bennett (if there is room) and sips his drink. He looks a bit tired, his uniform rumpled enough to suggest he is freshly off shift.

"Good evening, Hobo," St. Clair greets her fellow squadron commander with a bemused smile. "I do believe congratulations are in order; I hear they have given you new pins." Mention of the rookie, and the stick talk that ensues has her smirking a little and returning to her magazine and smoke. Elbow room has been reduced with Alejandro squishing in beside her, and she nudges him lightly to get him to make more space.

"IF they're non violent, IF we can determine a course of treatment, IF any of them survive the treatment, then that's a solution that I can support," Sam agrees quietly. "If any of those conditions do not hold true, or we can't find a cure, then that's still the only other viable option aside from a firing squad or lethal injection." She tips her head slightly as she listens to the Admiral's assessment of Janik before grinning briefly at Alejandro where he is now seated alongside Bennett on a nearby couch. "Looks like you aren't going to have to worry about being bored and flying a desk after all."

Whoa, that perks Alejandro's tired ass right up when Jameson mentions Janik, "Really? You save it for me so I can watch the sim? He needs one more good sim training logged and then I hope to clear him for combat missions. Major Arrington has Wescott working with him on his thinking more like an officer and how to deal with not having gone through OCS, but I agree I'm not seeing anything wrong with his flying to hold him back. So far he's been following orders and keeping his head when things get a little hot, Sir." Hobo's not always the most spit and polish kind of guy himself. He puts his cup of coffee down and reaches into his jacket to feel around for his cigarette tin and his lighter. One hand rolled small cigarette is fished out, and as she's shared with him before, Hobo offers them also to Bennett if she wants one. They are made with far better tobacco than commercially made cigs would be. Salazar then lights up and draws on his for a long moment before he exhales slowly, "I hope Janik's ready."
Ale glances down at his Captain's pins, then twists his mouth wryly at Bennett, "Yeah, you know they are scraping the bottom of the barrel if they promoted me." He did just say that even with Jameson sitting right there and gives St. Clair a wink. Hobo scoots over to give her more room, too, when she nudges him. Samtara gets a, "So far. Soon as anybody wants me to fly a desk, I hope you'll shoot me first."

"You do realize that damage that those things do to your lungs, your nasal passages, the risks of lung, esophogeal and other cancers?" Sam notes from where she's sitting, her eyes narrowing notably as the newly minted captain lights up.

"Doc," Hobo drawls, "Did you notice that I'm also a viper pilot? Do you have any idea what our death rate has been in this war? Back in October I was a FNG Lieutenant JG, and now I'm still alive, look where I am? Everyone I knew in my wing is either dead or transfered, and probably now dead whereever too. I'll worry about dy'n of cancer later, if I make it through the war first." To make certain the CMO doesn't get her undies in a twist, or at least that he's play'n with her, Alejandro gives Sam a wink.

"A perspective that I recognize but would prefer to minimize my risk of cancer, personally. I fully intend to die of old age, if possible, while driving a whole auditorium of pre-med students nuts by making them write papers and engage in hands on labs with real bodies to work on. I'm going to be that old surgeon that just won't retire," Sam counters in the same calm, but resolute, tone of voice.

Jameson nods slowly to Alejandro. "Yep. It's all saved in there. It's a pretty straightforward run. I scratched a SAM that tried to launch on us, too. Nothing exciting. Pretty standard mission for Aerilon, I'd guess. I'll leave it to the professionals on his approval, though. But let him know he's got a thumbs up from me." Jameson sips at the mug and looks over to Sam. "It's like me and my chew. I started during the first war. Its usually just a habit for my cruises. This one may take a little longer, though."

Bennett already has a smoke between two fingers, and presently flicks a column of ash off the tip, shaking her head as Alejandro offers her one. "I do not want your cheap Canceron crap," she tells him with a grin. Regarding Janik, her voice softens and her smile vanishes. "He is either ready or he is dead. It is difficult to tell the difference until they have a flight stick in their hand and are facing down the enemy miles beyond hope of safe harbour." Blue eyes drift Jameson's way. "You were a predator pilot in a past life, as I recall, sir?"

Alejandro draws another long pull on his cigarette, which does NOT smell like the usual cheap Canceron crap, tyvm Bennett. He doen't quite exhale it in Samtara's direction but he sure isn't trying very hard to blow the smoke anywhere else away from her either. "I appreciate that, Sir. I'll have a look at it." That to Jameson, obviously. Hobo lifts a brow at St. Clair, "Hey, I rolled these myself. Got the stuff from a tobacco shop down on Picon." The tin's been closed and put away, now.

Sam tips a nod at Jameson before saying, "Cancer of the throat, lips, tongue, and other connected tissues, just to name a few. Yes, why worry about cancer when you just might die in combat. What if you don't die in combat but get diagnosed with cancer a year after the war is over and die anyway. We're all going to die, but consider the possibility of surviving the war and wanting to actually enjoy a few years of peace and the possibility of old age before your friends get to gather round and drink to your memory. We'll talk about liver disease some other time," Sam notes as she yields the field of contest by rising to her feet and scooping up the files she'd carried with her into one hand. "I'll speak with Fairfax, sir, and see about having some of those collaborators transferred to a secure holding so that we can process those scans and see if there's anything useful revealed by doing so." She tips a nod toward Bennett and Alejandro, "Captains, Sir, enjoy your evening."

Jameson shakes his head to Bennett. "Not quite. I was an ECO. I've got about forty-five hundred combat hours in Predators. Wild Weasel is pretty much all I did during the first war. I sneak down to the sims sometimes to maintain proficiency, though. I'll never fly in combat again but I can't let it go." He then looks to Samtara and lifts his mug in cheers. "Or I could have a massive heart attack from the burger I ate for lunch. Or a stroke from the stress. We all die, Sam. When you get to my age you worry less about it, especially when we're fighting a war. I think lead or radiation poisoning is my likeiest causes at this point," he chuckles. "And sure, let me know if you find anything interesting in those scans. Have a good one, Sam."

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