Hestia's Ashes
by Pouncer
He keeps seeing his mother's face.
He was about to leave for school when it happened. She'd woken him after the usual ten minutes, shouting that the alarm better turn off or else. Not that he believed her, but he did have a test that day and it was his job to do good in school. His dad was ready to fight against the Cylons because of the things he'd learned, and his mom said Boxey needed to do the same.
During breakfast, she had quizzed him on the names and characteristics of the Lords of Kobol, reminding him gently to remember Hestia, who was the quietest but probably the most important of the Gods, because she held families together. The newsfeed had droned quietly in the background, not something that was usually allowed, but his father was away and his mom worried.
His father had left a week ago for the yearly trip where he returned home complaining about the boredom of Armistice Station. "Never a peep out of the damned, dratted," (after a glare from his mother) "machines, Boxey. I'd rather have been here watching your triad game," he would always say when he got back.
Father never came home.
A high pitched beep broke into the news broadcast, and his mother's head jerked around in response. She raised the volume to listen, the color in her face leaching away like when he watched snow cover the triad field from his classroom window. Boxey went back to his textbook, trying to memorize the genealogy chart in the back. He knew that next week they would study the exodus from Kobol and he wanted to be prepared.
"Boxey." Her voice was attempting calm, but it quavered too much to succeed. "Go get your jacket and Moppet. We're leaving now."
"What?" He could feel his brows drawing down, because why would he need Moppet at school? His stuffed dog was a bedtime companion who kept the night monsters away, not something to take to class. Moppet was his oldest toy, from the barely remembered time when they'd lived in a small flat near the Delphi Airfield. The other boys would make fun of him if he brought the battered dog to class.
"…reports of a nuclear blast over Caprica City are now coming in … " The words spilling from the newsfeed sunk in at last, along with the panicked tone of the reporters. Boxey stared, dumbstruck, as a strong gust of wind swept through the Thessaly Pavilion, home of that week's theatrical festival dedicated to Dionysus. Boxey had been waiting for the puppet shows later that day, a treat after school. Caprica This Morning was broadcasting there, in front of the fountain. The reporter's hair swooped sideways and the woman shrieked, holding up her hands to shelter her face. The picture rocked back and forth and then went black.
"Boxey! Come on!" His mother thrust his jacket into his arms, snatching up that dumb bag that his father insisted they keep packed "just in case." Boxey had never told his friends the reason they had a suitcase inside the front hall closet, never told them that his father's War College training had made him twitchy even with the Cylons quiet since before they were born.
Maybe his father hadn't been dumb after all.
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She made him go.
He tells himself that when he wakes up in the middle of the night, if you could call any time "night" aboard Galactica; members of the crew are always awake. Sometimes, he can even make himself believe it.
They ran away from their house, his mother's fingers clutched tightly around his wrist. When he stopped to stare at the white cloud blooming on the horizon, she had screamed at him.
"Don't look at it!" Her yank pulled him forward, his feet following her even as his eyes remained locked on the dense ball of smoke rising from the ground beyond his school. Five minutes and I would have been there. He looked in front of him then. He didn't look back.
They ran for a long time, and when short breath slowed Boxey, his mother encouraged him onwards in pained gasps. Even when he could no longer run, she made him walk fast, the same pace he normally used after school when he wanted to stop at the sweets shop and get home before she'd notice his detour.
They stumbled with others fleeing the bombs, into the wild grassland edging their small enclave. His mother was talking again, muttering "Lords of Kobol hear my prayer" over and over. The sun warmed Boxey until he shrugged his jacket off and tied it around his waist. A breeze lifted his hair off his forehead.
The air on Galactica is always still. The ventilations ducts hum in a rising and falling rhythm when the fans switch on.
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He sees the ship every day now, in its berth in the hanger, and his mother's face floats into his mind.
"Thank you, oh gods, thank you." His mother looked toward the Raptor with hungry eyes. The ship was descending toward an open space some distance in front of their position, seemingly the same size as the model toy he had in his bedroom.
They trekked onward.
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Dr. Baltar should have stayed on Caprica.
It should have been Boxey's mom instead.
The man with long, dark hair was the last one to enter the Raptor's cramped cabin, cringing down into the last empty spot on the floor. Boxey had listened as hard as he could while he sat in the co-pilot's seat, trying to hear his mother's voice. She had forced him forward when the female pilot said that they'd take children first. The male officer kept his gun trained on the crowd, eyes darting back and forth, but he took the time to smile as Boxey sidled past, a slight twitch of his mouth.
His mother never came.
The female pilot cried as she took off, pressing a hand against the cockpit glass to say goodbye to the man who stayed there with Boxey's mom. Boxey hoped the man protected her.
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His bunk belongs to a pilot who died while Boxey was eating his breakfast.
Chief Tyrol ushers him to the space, and won't meet Boxey's eyes when he asks about its previous occupant. Boxey lies there, staring up at the too-close ceiling until his tiredness at last drags him to sleep.
He sleeps through the memorial service. He's angry when he hears about it later, about missing the Commander's speech. He should have heard about Earth for himself, not from listening to the pilots talk.
He wanders the ship when he wakes, in search of food. The female pilot – Boomer – finds him and takes him to the mess hall. He had been hungry, but the food on the tray makes his stomach turn. Boxey forces himself to eat a few bites, imagining that this is the same thing his father ate when he was stationed on a ship in the Fleet, instead of at a base with a magtrain station at its front gates.
His father rode the train every day, back and forth, and swept Boxey up in his arms when he walked through the door at night.
Nobody hugs him now.
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The pilots treat him like a pet for the first few hours, tousling his hair as he sits in the rec room listening to them tell stories about their heroics during the attack. Then the Cylons return and keep returning every thirty-three minutes, jump after jump. The pilots no longer have time for a boy. They race to the hanger bay and rocket out to defend the fleet.
Boxey wants to help, so he collects food from the mess hall and brings it to the ready room. They're keeping him safe, so he'll make sure they eat when they can. And he likes the people he's met here. Boomer smiles at him sometimes when he hands her a snack during a briefing. The man at the front of the room doesn't smile.
If Boxey is useful, they'll let him stay. He doesn't want to go to another strange place.
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Once the Cylons stop coming, Boxey settles into the niches around the pilots' schedule. Someone or other is always off-duty and willing to entertain him. They spin breezy tales of life in the Fleet and he learns to mimic them. This life is his now, not the placid routine of school and play and dinner at home.
There are no other children on Galactica. Boxey makes very sure to avoid the gruff man with grey hair, who shouts at his new friends. The woman with short blond hair – the other pilots call her Starbuck - spots Boxey peering around a bunk curtain and grins at him. "Don't worry about Colonel Tigh. He doesn't know half of what goes on around here." She leans closer and offers him a bite of the candy bar she had been eating. Before he can take it, her head jerks up as an alarm blares and she runs from the room.
He should stay here, out of the way.
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Boxey cries alone in the dark.
Nobody else lets their tears stop their work. He won't let them stop his. He doesn't have to go to school now, even though the new President was a teacher, so he has to do his new job.
He clutches his pillow to his chest and wishes he had listened to his mother. He should have gotten Moppet.
-end-
Notes: Written for butterflykiki's Common People Challenge. My thanks to issaro and elishavah for their beta efforts.
Disclaimer: This version of Battlestar Galactica belongs to Ron Moore, not me.