It was the week before the doctor visit, before the strike, the decommissioning. She'd wanted to get some papers signed by the Director of Arts and Antiquities, nailing him down to creating an "Arts of War" section in the new museum. The things soldiers created during time of war, the sketches, the carvings…this, too, was part of Colonial history and deserved a place in the classroom.
She remembered thinking that this exploration of the minutia of war was significant. She was that sure, as they all were, that this scale of warfare was forever in their past and if it wasn't studied, the details would fade.
The Director was less convinced, apparently, as his lunch ran late and Laura was left to poke around the granite-tiled hallway, reading brass placards under various works of art.
In this quiet section, blending exhibition hall and office space, there were not so many glass cases around the sculptures. She strolled around a life-size figure of a goddess, or maybe just a woman—the broken-off arm seemed to be reaching, the shoulder rolled forward with effort. The other hand was down and back, and a fragment of marble foot, half the size of the woman's, peeked from the edge of her gown. Laura re-created the scene in her mind: a woman of Kobol, taking aim at an enemy with a weapon, holding back a small child, pushing the boy or girl behind her.
There was a desperation in her pose, or maybe it was just knowing, in the end, the smaller figure had been destroyed, leaving just that tiny bit of foot.
Laura walked to the other side, wondering why the tilt of the woman's chin, almost a jutting, seemed familiar. Had her mother's chin been shaped like that? Her chest twinged; she couldn't remember, not exactly. She'd spend some time with the family album tonight, her reward for staying to the task until she got her signature…or penance for her own forgetting.
She's have to look this statue up tonight, too. There was something about it, even if it wasn't well-known. The marble seemed to glow as the late afternoon sun touched it through the windows. Did it warm with the sun hitting it like that? She looked guiltily around. It wasn't under glass, but she was sure there was a "no touching the antiquities" rule posted somewhere…still, it had survived millennia. It could survive one more touch.
Her fingers tingled as she raised them to the stone. There was a bared breast right under them, the carved gown carelessly slipping away as the woman handled her duty to defend, protect. The marble was pitted, not as smooth as it looked from a few feet's distance. It had been outside, she realized, maybe a monument.
Or a memorial.
Even so, the veining gave the stone a lifelike look, and she traced the markings that looked like veins under the skin. Like the veins under her own skin, running from the neck to the shoulder, on down to the age-smoothed nipple….
She frowned. Odd to have weathered in that way, she mused, skimming her fingers over an irregular bump at the swell of the breast. And the marble was colder there, maybe from being shaded from the sun by the statue's bulk.
The stone was dry and dustless, but she had wiped her fingers on her skirt anyway.
.
.
.
.
Her own breast felt as cold as that marble, as she leaned against the metal ship's sink, one hand down the front of her blouse. Had the artisan put the irregular lump there on purpose, she wondered? Had the woman been so fearless, so defiantly protective, because she knew she was dead anyway?
The usual travel din (more than usual?) was rising outside the door, too many people talking too loudly at once.
What now?
She straightened her blouse and wiped her fingers on her skirt. Chin jutted, she opened the door.