Writing "Colonies of Kobol" Part VI - Saul Tigh and Brenik

I'm currently writing Book Fifteen: New Caprica.  Having just finished Book Thirteen: Caprica, I had plenty of things fresh in my mind to use ... especially when it comes to the torture of Saul Tigh.

If you have the DVDs or Blu-rays of BSG, then you know there are deleted scenes.  A lot of what is removed is of little consequence.  Sometimes, however, there is gold.  For example, remember Elosha telling Galactica's crew that the Tribes fled Kobol when a jealous god sought to elevate himself above the others?  That was a deleted scene.  (And one that I put my own unique twist on in Lords of Kobol.)

Here's another deleted scene.  In it, Young Bill Adama and Young Saul Tigh talk about the war and Tigh discusses his own particular horror story.  I couldn't find the entire scene on YouTube, but here's the audio for his tale:
CLICK HERE.

I couldn't NOT use that, right?  I did, in Caprica and I revisit it in New Caprica.  Click the JUMP for two never-before-seen chapters, one from each book (in first draft form ... so keep that in mind).

From Book Thirteen: Caprica:

XCVII

BRENIK

Day 402 of the First Cylon War

"Petty officer?"

The young man turned toward Major Dophie and saluted.  "Gunner's mate Paul Michaels, sir!"

The older woman grinned and returned the salute.  "At ease, petty officer.  You have something for me?"

Michaels handed the clipboard to her.  "With Ensign Ryder's compliments."

The command deck of the corvette was cramped into a single row of workstations that faced a tactical board and array of monitors.  The CO and XO stood on either side of the board and Dophie signed the papers.  "My best to Ensign Ryder."  She looked up at her new executive officer and said, "Ryder is the gun crew commander."

The young captain nodded and made a mental note.  "Yes, sir."

When the major returned the clipboard, an alarm sounded.  The crew faced the lieutenant by the large green scope.  His eyes widened and he said, "DRADIS contacts!"

The XO looked at the monitors and studied the blips.  Dophie kept her eyes on the lieutenant.  "Action stations.  Talk to me."  Michaels ran from the room.

The lighting scheme shifted to red and alarms sounded throughout the ship.  The DRADIS officer said, "Four Cylons.  Two cruisers, two destroyers.  Distance … one-seven-zero-zero kilometers and closing."

"Frak."  Dophie looked at the board and said, "Why are they here on the outskirts of Delta?"

"Hoping to catch a small convoy like ours?" the captain answered.

"But with such an overwhelming force."  She shook her head and said, "FTL status."

"Spun up in thirty."

"And the transports?"

The comms officer said, "Sir, all three ships report at least one minute needed."

"Tell them to spin 'n' go at will."  The major turned toward the DRADIS screen and said, "Helm, come about.  Bearing four-five-zero.  Increase speed to one half."

"Aye sir."

The XO glanced nervously from the screen to the major and asked, "Putting us between the Cylons and the transports?"

Dophie raised an eyebrow and looked at the captain, "What do Cylon tactics call for in a situation like ours?"

He sighed and said, "In past engagements with convoys, they will attempt to commandeer transport vessels.  Presumably for fuel or materiel.  Military ships are often either destroyed or rendered inoperable."

"Do you think there's a different tactic we should employ?"

The young man put his finger against his lips and said, quietly, "The Cylons won't destroy the transports.  They want them.  We're just a corvette.  We won't even be a hurdle to them."

"So we should put the transports between the Cylons and us?"  The captain opened his mouth and then shook his head.  "Right."

"Distance, eight hundred."

"Standby flak.  Standby main guns."  The major moved to the left of the tactical board and grabbed the railing. 

A new alarm sounded and a confused lieutenant said, "New DRADIS contacts.  I'm reading multiple small vessels on approach.  To us."

The senior officers looked at each other with furrowed brows.  The major said what was on both of their minds.  "What does that mean?"

Petty officer Michaels stepped off the ladder and moved toward the firing room.  The machinery of the large ammunition hoists for the port and starboard guns were already going.  Paul took a pair of protective earcovers from the wall.  The red lights flashed onto the gun crew's sweaty skin and the petty officer waved to the ensign that he was back.

"Be ready to go to the shell room!"  Ryder looked at the board and saw that the flak command light was the only one illuminated.  "We may need to change ammo and I want you there to supervise!"

The crew typed on their panels and the hoist system began to load the shrapnel shells into the carriage, then stopped at the magazine where the propellant was loaded, before carrying both up another two decks to the guns themselves.  The separate hoists loaded three salvos and had a fourth in the carriage, standing by.

"Yes, sir!" 

The eight people scurried about the deck and studied status monitors and camera feeds, showing that the path from the magazine and shell rooms up to the guns themselves were clear.  The panels began to flash.  The flak light on the board began to flash, meaning the commander just ordered the batteries to fire. 

Their screens illuminated.  Ryder screamed, "Fire!"

The Brenik shook.  The six guns along the starboard side fired their bursts into space where they exploded, creating a brief shield of metal and shockwaves.  They fired again.  And again.  The ammunition hoists continued to work as planned and the batteries were loaded in an automated, continuous motion.

The guns were silent in space but they roared in the firing room.  The air seemed to flash with heat after each shot, despite the shielding between the guns, the hoist, and the chamber.

Then, the CIWS light flashed.

"Close-in!"  As the crew turned on the automated machine gun units, the ensign brought a commset to his ear and screamed over the machinery, "Targeting!  This is Ryder!  Close-in weapons?"

"Ships got through the flak," the woman's voice said through the earpiece.

The ensign shook his head, not understanding, but he said, "Close-in is firing!"  He looked at the screen and saw the ammo and feed status of the ten weapon emplacements on the starboard side of the ship.  Then the ones along the dorsal and port side came on.  Whatever the targets were, they seemed to be surrounding the Brenik.

The ship rocked to one side.

"Missile strike?" a specialist asked.

"No," Ryder answered.  He looked toward the upper decks and said, "Something different."

The ensign ran along deck three's outer perimeter.  He was on his way to command when the Cylon craft slammed into the hull.  He was thrown to against the bulkhead and slowly picked himself off the deck when he heard the hatch to a supply locker opening.

The lights flickered overhead.  The floor quaked with another barrage of flak being fired.  Then, into the center of the corridor stepped a tall, shining Cylon Centurion.

The ensign's eyes widened and he fell back onto his hands and began to scurry away.  The machine saw him and raised its left arm.  Instead of holding a gun, the Cylon made a fist, and a large blade sprung from its forearm.

"Oh, shit!"  The ensign scrambled to his feet and ran ten meters back to a comm unit.  "Command!  Command!  Deck three, port side.  Cylon boarders!"

The Centurion bounded toward him quickly and swept upward with its sword.  His torso seemed to dislodge, spilling blood and gore to the deck.  The man was dead before his fall was complete.

"Boarders?" the captain asked.

The major looked at the comms officer.  "Marines to deck three, port."

"Sir."

Dophie took a deep breath and said, "This is new."

The XO looked toward the DRADIS officer and asked, "Status of the transports?"

"One away.  Correction, now two away.  Number three is moving away from us at full burn."

The captain asked, "We're spun up, right?"

"Yes, sir."  The navigation officer said, "The board is green."

"As soon as three is gone, we're gone.  Understood?"

"Yes sir."

The major looked at the DRADIS screen and said, "More Cylons inbound."  The ship rocked again and she said, "All hands, arm yourselves."

The Brenik didn't have many Marines, but their squad ran to deck three.  They found two bodies with blood painting the bulkheads.  In their stupor at the sight, they didn't see the silver machines standing nearby, but the sound of their scanning eyes and servos brought them back to reality.

"Fire!" the gunnery sergeant ordered.

Bullets sprayed the hallway and bounced off the gleaming armor of the Centurions.  Two Marines dropped to their knees and took greater care with their aim, firing short bursts into the machines' heads.  One unit fell back with a damaged eye.  Another suffered a severed hose and spilled dark oil or lubricant onto the deck.  Its arm went limp and it moved back toward the rear of the company, though it kept firing with its good arm.

Seven Cylons remained upright and mostly undamaged.  Only three Marines in the squad had higher caliber weapons and their shots dropped five of the invading robots.  The intruders, however, had greater numbers and they flooded the corridor.  When just four humans remained, the Centurions ran toward them.  This surprised the Marines and they started to fall back. 

One Cylon extended a blade from its forearm.  Three other units withdrew swords from their waists.  The humans fired until their ammunition was spent and when it was, blades were thrust into their abdomens.  One machine pushed the point of its sword under a woman's chin and then deep into her skull.  She fell against the bulkhead and the Centurion stared at her.  After a moment, it leaned over and wrenched her head from her neck, leaving the sword in place.  It gripped the hilt and hoisted the woman's head high before following its fellow Cylons deeper into the ship.

Ensign Ryder removed the earset from the side of his head and looked at his gun crew.  "We've been boarded!"  They all seemed stunned and a few weren't sure they heard him right over the roar of the gunfire and hoists.  "Stacy and Maines, you stay here.  Everyone else, with me."  As the six entered the corridor, the ensign looked back inside and said, "Seal the hatch behind us!"  The specialists complied.

They rounded a corner near the firing room and saw a scene of death.  They instinctively pressed against the metal walls, trying to limit their profiles.  Petty officer Michaels looked at the center of the corridor and saw a single person lying there.  Seemingly, every drop of his blood had been spilled into a large pool around the body with great sloshes splashed against the wall.  His abdomen was open and his ribcage splayed.  The bones were cracked and cartilage dangled from the points.  Gray, pink, and dark brown organs were strewn into the redness.  Yellow bubbles of fatty tissue clung to the edges of the flayed skin and a few meters of the displaced intestines.

"Who …" Paul began, "is that?"

Another petty officer swallowed hard and took a step forward.  He looked down at the man's red-stained face and shook his head.  "I think it's Duncan Rafferty."  A crewman vomited behind them.

"Come on," Ryder said.  "We've got to go."  He jumped over the thinnest part of Rafferty's puddle and reached back for a specialist's hand.  She took it and he helped her jump over.  A few moments later, they left the body behind but all were slow in their advance and they kept looking back.

"What's happening?" Michaels asked.

"They might try to get to the ammunition magazine.  Propellant, shells, missiles."  Ryder climbed into the ladder hatch first.  "If they get there, they could destroy the ship."

Before all of the gun crew emerged onto the lower deck, the ship rocked again.  The major came over the speakers and said, "FTL is down.  Repeat, FTL is down."

"Frak."  Ryder looked toward the magazine hatch and saw no one.  He then looked in the other direction.  "There's a gun locker in the next section.  I'll be right back."

He ran to the door and input his code.  The ensign grabbed the biggest rifles he could and a belt of grenades.  When he turned to run back, he heard screaming.

In the corridor approaching the magazine, six Centurions were storming forward.  One even appeared to have a woman's head on its sword.  Half of the gun crew removed their sidearms and began to fire, but the small bullets did little to slow their advance.  The one machine slashed a specialist with its woman's-head sword, causing the man to scream in terror and grasp his bloodied belly.  Finally, Ryder threw a grenade and yelled, "Get down!"

When it exploded, the Cylons were stopped.  Three fell aside either deactivated or severely damaged.  One moved forward without an arm and stood.  The humans were frantically trying to load their weapons and when the machine slashed forward with its sword, Michaels fired three twenty-caliber bullets into its chest.  The recoil knocked him back in time to see the Cylon drop its sword and stumble backward onto another deactivated unit.

"Can we close those bulkheads?" a specialist asked, pointing to the corridor whence the attackers came.

"We can, but," Ryder stopped speaking as he saw another group of Centurions appear.  They raised their weapons and began to fire.  In the hail of bullets and spent casings that followed, the humans didn't see the Cylons approach from their left.  The three units fired and two of the Colonials fell dead.  Ryder turned and shot at the newcomers before he was himself hit.  A specialist scooped up a grenade from the floor and threw it at the bulk of the machines ahead of them.  A petty officer emptied her weapon into one of the Cylons on the left and it collapsed.  Ensign Ryder, with blood pouring down his arm and chest, picked up a fallen Cylon's sword and hacked at the arm of a unit as it shot.  When it looked down at him, he jammed the blade into the machine's neck.  It stumbled back and collapsed to the deck.

In the relative quiet that followed, the three remaining gun crew went to the side of Ryder.  He tried to sit up and then he coughed, spraying blood into the air.  "Call command," he said.  He sputtered and continued, "Tell them to send people here.  You'll … you'll …"  He fell from their hands and to the floor. 

A specialist stood and scanned the corridors.  Gingerly, she walked toward the bulk of deactivated Centurions and the comm unit on the wall there.  When she saw that it had been damaged in one of the grenade explosions, she turned around.  A Cylon arm grabbed her leg and squeezed.  She cried out in pain and felt her bones shatter.  She fell to the deck atop another Cylon and raised her rifle.  She fired once and the bullet ruptured the machine's head and memory storage units.  The metal comb of its head, however, splintered off and cut a large gash above the Centurion's grip.  She crawled back toward the others and Michaels put his hand over the gushing wound.

"Go find a comm unit," she said.

He took a deep breath and then nodded.

"Say again?"  Dophie looked at the communications officer and pointed up.

"Command, this is gunner's mate Michaels."  He was whispering and the officers were squinting to hear over the surrounding noise.  "Deck seven, midships.  Cylons are trying to get to the ammunition magazine.  We've had multiple waves.  I say again, Cylons are trying …"

"I hear you, Michaels," the major ran her hand through her hair.  "How many of you are there?"

"Just three now.  One of us is injured."

She looked at the captain and said, "Get down there.  Grab who you can."

"Yes sir."

"Secure that magazine!  If the Cylons get it," the young man was already out the door with the last two Marines Brenik had and two more crewmen.  The hatch closed and Dophie said, "We're sending people to you, Michaels."

"Thank you, commander."

She looked toward the navigation officer and asked, "What's the FTL status?"

"Still spun up.  Engineering says there was damage to a conduit.  They're having to re-route."

"Come on, you damn snipes."  As soon as she said it, the hatch to command was blown open.  Smoke poured into the room, two officers collapsed, and a squad of Cylons stormed inside, firing with their guns and hacking with their swords.

With the XO and the people he brought, there were now thirteen people standing before the hatch to the ammunition magazine.  Cylons pressed forward and soon, the humans were out of bullets for their weapons.  Seeing this, the Centurions stowed their guns.

"What are they doing?" a lieutenant asked.

Before anyone could answer, a few of the machines engaged their forearm swords while those that hadn't had it installed yet withdrew blades from their belts.  They ran forward and plunged their weapons into flesh.  Five Colonials fell dead and those pinned behind the bodies against the wall started to strike the Cylons with their useless rifles and swords from fallen machines.

Michaels slid down a bulkhead with his hand pressed against the back of a dead deckhand.  The point of the Cylon sword emerged from the corpse's spine and blood began to pour onto the petty officer's face.  He shook his head and in a kind of panic, screamed and stabbed upward with his own sword.  The blade severed some internal works in the Centurion and oil and fluid poured onto Michaels, too.  He exhaled loudly, trying to clear his nose of the pervasive stench of grease, as well as the metallic smell of blood and the creeping odor of death.

The XO caught a Centurion's arm in mid-swing as it tried to slash through him with a sword.  The captain tried to keep a firm hold on the machine's arm, but his fingers from both hands began to slip and became caught in the metal struts.  The Cylon saw this and then flexed its arm down and backward.  The force broke the XO's hand, several fingers, and dislocated his shoulder. 

He cried out and the Centurion again rared back with its blade.  The captain didn't wait for the inevitable.  He pulled a grenade from his belt and winced with pain as he pulled the pin.  He then ran harder against the Cylon's chest and tried to push the machine off balance.  In the jostling with other Centurions and Colonials, the XO was successful, and the pair moved deeper into the squad of robots.  When he saw he was far enough away from his crew, he released the spoon of the grenade and kept pushing the Centurion.  Then the grenade exploded.

The captain and an ensign were dead.  Several Cylons were seriously damaged and were struggling to stand in the corridor to the port of the magazine hatch.  Michaels peered out from under the body that had shielded him from the blast and looked ahead.  A few Cylons were still coming.  Then the speakers crackled with an unfamiliar voice.

"Command?  This is engineering.  FTL repairs are complete.  Respond."  Michaels saw the four Cylons in front of him stop and then look at each other.  "Respond, command."  The Cylons turned and moved back along the corridor.

The petty officer climbed out from under the deckhand's body.  "Frak."  No other Cylons were visible.  He then ran to the nearest ladder hatch and climbed up.  I really hope they're going to engineering.

He emerged four decks above, out of breath, and ran as fast as he could along the corridor to command.  When he got there, he saw that the hatch was detonated off its hinges and smoke was billowing from a small fire behind the comms station.  Michaels stepped over two bodies and saw Major Dophie, dead with her sidearm in her hand, and draped over the DRADIS console.  Her mouth was wide open and a steady stream of red poured toward the deck.  Her left eye dangled from its socket.  The young crewman stared at his former commander.  He couldn't look away from her eye.

"Command!" the speakers crackled again, "Cylons are attempting to breach the engine room!"

Shaken from his daze, the petty officer crawled over the communications station and stood over the decapitated body of the navigation officer.  He had only looked at an FTL station a few times, but he recognized that the coordinates were input and that the green light meant they were locked.  A glowing blue rod was in the center of the panel and he knew that was the FTL key.  He turned it and heard the deep rumble of the drive seem to drop away.  His stomach lurched, his eyes seemed to bulge, and he momentarily lost his balance.  The coordinates blinked away and the word "COMPLETE" appeared in their place.

Michaels ran back through the corridors and saw more bodies spread throughout the ship.  Limbs torn from a torso.  A person's head facing the wrong direction.  He slid down the ladder as quickly as he could and emerged by the magazine hatch again.  Only three people were left by the opening and they were covered in blood, both theirs and other people's. 

"Where did they go?" he asked.

A lieutenant held onto a Cylon sword tightly and shook her head.  "Engineering, I think.  They …"  Her eyes widened when she heard metal footsteps again.

The petty officer bent over and grabbed another sword before crouching against the ammunition magazine's hatch.  Three Cylons appeared in the corridor ahead and then three in the corridor to their left.  He sighed and tightened his grip on the blade.  The Centurion nearest him then twirled its sword in a sweeping motion across its front.  Michaels was confused by this apparent flair and then stood.  The machine took a step toward him and then stopped.  All of them stopped.  Their eyes ceased their scanning and they were motionless for a moment.  Finally, they turned and began to retreat the way they came.

The petty officer's mouth fell open and he mumbled, "What?"  Cautiously, quietly, he stepped away from the magazine's hatch and into the corridor.  He turned a corner and came face to face with a Cylon.

Before Michaels could react, it brought its sword across all four of his limbs, severing his various muscles and tendons.  He cried out and collapsed to the deck.  The Centurion lifted him onto its shoulder and then it turned toward its own craft.  Once the machines were aboard, it detached from the Colonial ship and then jumped away.

One hour later, the Brenik was found.  The three transports had successfully escaped to coordinates nearby, but the battle had essentially set the small corvette adrift.  Rescue operations began once the ship was located, and when they reported what they found, commanders, admirals, and more came to see for themselves. 

Standing among the bodies and parts of more than seventy-percent of the crew complement, they all knew that the war had just changed.

From Book Fifteen: New Caprica:

XI

TIGH

457 Days After Settlement

It didn't even hurt now.

He felt the punch and the quaking of his head.  His jaw dangled and a blend of spit and blood sprayed onto the wall and floor.  He stumbled backward and braced himself against the wall and tried to stand at attention again.  Before he could, he was punched in the gut.

He heaved forward and involuntarily collapsed to his knees.  Saul coughed, but as he did, he felt the Cylon clutch the top of his skull and pull his torso toward an advancing knee.  The first such blow hit Tigh's upper arm.  The second and third reached under his armpit and the pressure of the impact rippled across his chest.

"That's enough."  It wasn't said with any kind of anger or frustration.  It was said with a kind of remote indifference, as though he had become bored.

Saul fell onto the wall and turned to face the door.  The Number Five, Doral, remained standing above him.  He was sweating and his bare arms and face glistened.  He also seemed to be out of breath.  Behind him, another Five had just entered the room.  He was wearing a tightly tailored blue suit with a sheen that very definitely didn't speak of high quality.

"Go."

The original, silent Five nodded and turned.  After he closed the door behind him, the new Five sat at the small table set in a pool of harsh light.  "Please.  Join me."  He placed a small paper cup on the table top and pushed it toward Tigh with his fingertips.  "Have some."

Slowly, painfully, Saul crawled toward the plain metal chair.  He grabbed the back and began to pull himself up.  He grunted and then glanced at the Cylon, who only stared at him and maintained that infuriating, empty smile.  He strained again and his muscles cried out in protest.  The colonel gripped the edge of the table and pulled further until his rear managed to slide into the seat.

"There we are."  Doral opened the folder on the table before him and started to sift through the pages.  Saul simply sat, hunched, in the opposite chair.  His whole body swayed both with vertigo and with labored respiration.  Blood dripped from his mouth and nose onto the clean metal table.  The Cylon paid no attention.

"I must congratulate you," Five said.  "You've managed to endure quite a lot without uttering a single word in these last two days."

Tigh's eyes quickly and involuntarily widened.  Two?  It's only been two?  No.  It has to have been longer.

Doral must have sensed this reassessment of his internal clock.  "Maybe it's been four.  Or five."  He shrugged and added, "They all blend together in here."  Saul looked down and the interrogator asked, "Do you recall what you asked when you were first detained?"  When the old man didn't answer, the Cylon folded his arms over his chest.  "Take your time."

Tigh glanced into the Five's eyes for the first time as if to say, "C'mon."

"Fine," Doral said.  "I'll let you maintain your vow of silence or whatever."  He poked his finger at a page in the folder and read, "'What's this all about?  What am I being charged with?'"  He shook his head.  "Ending a sentence with a preposition."  He looked up and scanned the colonel again.  "Have you come to a conclusion?  Do you really not know?"

Saul didn't answer.  He looked at the paper cup of water instead.

"We received intelligence that you were planning to place explosives in a grain silo."

Tigh blinked.  He forced himself to not react in any way.  Still, he thought, We have a traitor.  A godsdamned collaborator.

The Five leaned onto the table and lowered his head to try and catch Saul's eyes.  "That silo is located near the hospital tents."  He shook his head.  "That's … unconscionable."  He resumed his normal posture and leafed through the folder again.  "Naturally, when we heard this, we had to stop you.  We had to stop your attempted rebellion.  We've been here, what?  A little over two months?"  Doral smiled and said, "Your people were struggling for food before.  That grain silo?  That's only filled because we filled it.  We've made your farms productive and we've expanded them."  He opened his mouth to continue, but he stopped himself and scoffed instead.  "We came here to put the past where it belongs.  In the past.  And you," he gestured toward the prisoner with an open palm, "you want to plant bombs and collect guns and … and do who knows what."

Tigh said nothing.  He noticed that he was breathing a little easier, so he decided to sit up taller.  When he did, a sharp pain shot through his back and chest.  His next breath stuttered but he maintained his position.

The Cylon studied him and said nothing.  After another moment, the Five began to turn pages in the folder.  "Hmm," he said in mock interest.  "I knew you were a veteran, but I had no idea."  His voice quietened and became heavy with false weight.  "You were on the Brenik?"

Saul winced and his eyes darted toward the interrogator and then the page.

"Wow.  The Brenik."  He turned the page over and ran his finger along the lines of printed text.  "I've got your psych eval after you were rescued."  Tigh's eyes widened again.  "It's very detailed."  He lifted the edge of the folder and read along, making his lips move as he did.  "You describe everything.  The sights, the sounds, the smells.  You paint quite the picture."  The Five smiled at him again.

His skin itched and seemed to crawl.  His neck tightened and Saul contorted his head to stretch those damaged muscles.  He twitched a couple of times and rolled his shoulder.  He stopped once he realized the interrogator was watching him.

"Well."  He slid his chair out from the table and stood.  "I think we need to change how we handle things."  Doral walked to the side of the entrance and stood still, staring back at the prisoner from across the cell.  "You need a roommate."  He knocked twice on the door and it swung open.

Immediately, a large, shining Cylon Centurion stormed inside, clanging and whirring, and made for Saul Tigh.

The colonel fell out of his chair and scrambled toward the back corner of the room.  The machine kept pace with him and stood just centimeters away.

Tigh's breathing was frenzied.  He watched the scanning red eye move in its droning "V" pattern.  He caught a glimpse of the spinning device embedded in its chest and then tried to turn away.  When he turned, the Centurion repositioned itself to be right there, so very close.

The unit had been polished thoroughly and Saul could see a distorted view of his bloodied, purple-bruised face in its chest.  Then he noticed the smell.  The overwhelming smell of machine oil.  He closed his eyes and immediately remembered being on the corvette in his youth.  A gunner's mate.  Frightened for his life and bathed in the blood of his friends.

Saul's stomach turned and he began to quake.  He sank to the floor in the corner of his cell.  The Centurion crouched low over him and stared.

I'll leave it to you, the reader, to figure out how Tigh got the memories of that gunner's mate.  But I think you can guess what my theory is.

Thanks for reading.  More to come.