Out of the Maelstrom
By KNS
Disclaimer: Dear friends, we all know none of this is not mine; it all belongs to others.
Bytheways: Thank the betas for this one – I wanted to drop it. Mistakes can be attributed to me. No, I can't let this great universe of characters go, and yes, I know I should. So it goes. Set S3, right after "Maelstrom."
We craft what sense we can
out of the maelstrom.
~ Marge Piercy (from "The mystery of survival")
%%%
Dualla never wanted Starbuck dead. Not really. Maybe once or twice she'd damned Kara to hell, maybe even wished the woman would disappear – but she hadn't mean it. She honestly hadn't. How could she, when Lee and the Admiral loved the pilot so much? Even if she'd occasionally hated Kara with a white-hot passion, Starbuck had always protected the Fleet as much as possible. It was like the two were separate people – Kara and Starbuck – but she'd never truly, in her heart of hearts, wanted either of them dead.
It didn't matter: Kara "Starbuck" Thrace was dead now.
Gods – Lee had watched it happen. Lee had made more than his share of drastic mistakes, but he'd never done anything to deserve this. She'd heard his voice over the wire, heard him demanding, ordering, asking, and finally pleading for Starbuck to stop. She'd heard Starbuck's voice, too – not the pilot's careless, arrogant, frak-what-you-think voice, but another tone, soft and calm. It wasn't a tone of defeat; maybe. . . exhaustion? Acceptance?
Her husband had howled when Kara died. It was awful, heartbreaking. . Gods, no one deserved either one of those roles. Certainly the Old Man hadn't done anything to listen to it happen. Not Admiral Adama, the man who'd always stood up for the reckless pilot. It was unfair in every way for him to have a front-row seat.
The CIC was deadly silent. Only the wail of the klaxon broke the still. They were all looking around at each other, asking the same questions with drawn brows and scared eyes: Did Starbuck– ? Is Starbuck– ? Gaeta stared at the Dradis, and the one signal on the screen. In a far corner, one of the soldiers had laid his head down on the console, face hidden. Colonel Tigh was splitting his gaze between the monitors and the Old Man. Helo wore the face of a man attacked by a random stranger: surprised, hurt, angry.
She wondered what she looked like right now. Did she look happy? She wasn't happy. Relieved? She didn't feel that, either. Maybe she didn't know what she felt. Loss, certainly – not for herself, but for Lee and the Admiral and anyone else who loved Kara. Possibly even for Kara, who had managed to survive so much, only to be murdered by her own daemons.
Quietly she set her headset down on her console. The Admiral looked up at her and nodded. She walked out of the CIC with her father-in-law. Still no one said a word. Still the klaxon wailed.
/=
It's not something she ever pictured herself doing. Well, maybe someday when – if – she retired. But then, she'd never planned to retire, either. She'd be like Tigh, hang on way past her time – not as a fall-down drunk, of course, but still Starbuck. Always Starbuck.
She carefully folds her uniform and sets it in the box. It'll go into cold storage with the other things she won't need anymore.
Sam really wants this. He really wants to live down on New Caprica, set up a life with a house and a regular routine. A real life, he calls it. What can she say? He isn't a pilot and doesn't have the need to. . .
Flying's going to suck now, anyway. Endless CAPs and drills. She hadn't been lying when she'd said that to Lee.
Lee: Pegasus' Commander. Apollo is married to Dee now. If he's happy with married life, she doesn't know. He refuses to talk to her, will pretty much only acknowledge her existence when he has to. The man can hold a grudge better than anyone else she knows. And maybe – maybe she has it coming.
She turns Cain's folding knife over in her hands. Take it or leave it? It opens, locks into place with a loud click; when she tests the edge against a finger, it quickly draws blood. She won't need it down on the planet. It's time to make a clean break with this life so she can start the new one with Sam. Quickly she folds it closed, tosses it into the box.
Sam says it'll be easy to make a life down on New Caprica. They'll be colonists, real colonists, and get to help make a brand-new world. She's just not quite sure how. . .
Glancing into the box, she stares at the knife and wonders if she's throwing away stuff she'll be sorry about later.
Sam really wants to do this. She loves him, married him, and is trying to want it, too.
There's nothing left in the locker except the picture she keeps on her mirror, the one of Lee and her with Zak. She pulls it off the mirror gently, then rubs the last of the sticky stuff off the back. What about this? It's not hard to guess Sam wouldn't like to find it in her stuff.
Lee is smiling in the photo. She might not get to see his smile for a long time.
Gently, gently she tears the paper between the part with Lee and the part with her and Zak. She'll give Lee's part to Dee; the other half she tucks into the box, between the folds of her uniform. Her hand runs over the folded knife one more time, then closes around it. She takes it out; it's going with her.
That sharp edge – she might need it later. She glances down at Lee's photo and wonders. . .
It already belongs to Dee, this smiling Lee.
She sets the lid on the box and closes it firmly.
%%%%
"It's a frakin' waste," Tigh snarled, not talking to anyone, talking to everyone. He turned a little, noticed Helo staring blankly at the monitors overhead. "You're relieved, Captain," he gruffly said.
Helo turned clouded eyes on him. "Yessir," the Captain said by route. The pilot saluted, turned and marched out without another word. Tight had no idea where the man was going. He suspected Helo may not know, either.
"Somebody shut that frakin' alarm off," he ordered. "And keep looking for the Raider. If Starbuck said it's there, then it's there."
No one contradicted him. No one wanted to.
Tigh knew what had happened. Starbuck's sanity has always been on shaky ground, but months locked up with that crazy toaster on New Caprica – that was just a little push too far. What just happened wasn't even a real surprise; the real surprise was that Kara had lasted this long.
Dead was dead. No point cryin' about it. Lots of people got off New Caprica without really leaving. Starbuck got tired of playing this endless game – it wasn't something that hadn't crossed his own mind. She'd had the guts to do something about it, at least. Although maybe this hadn't been a decision: she'd obviously gone nuts. Been driven nuts.
If she'd told a soul what went on during those months with the toaster, he hadn't known about it. And he'd thought, Good for her for keeping her mouth shut. He still thought so. Her death was on the toasters. She was another body on their missing souls. It mattered who was responsible. It always mattered, even if dead was dead.
He watched Bill, and he watched the monitors overhead. The monitors were fine, weren't saying anything everyone in the room didn't already know. The Old Man, on the other hand, could have a heart attack right now. Starbuck meant a lot to the Admiral, a whole lot, almost as much as Lee did. Maybe just as much. How many times has Bill saved her ass from trouble? There's no exact number for that.
Bill glanced at him, face grey even in the CIC's dim lights. He nodded mutely. He couldn't tell his friend to go, not like he'd told Helo – not with words, anyway. Bill didn't say anything, either, just walked out the door with Dualla.
It was the ones left standing who had to deal with the consequences, because dead was dead, and living was. . .
/=
The rumors aren't wrong. This is going to be all kinds of fun.
Colonel Tigh is a drunk. Oh, he can walk straight and looks the part of an officer, but she knows what a man hooked on booze looks like. It's in the faint shift of eyes, the little tremble of hands. That, and she can just make out the vague shape of a flask above his right ankle.
He doesn't know it yet, but Tigh has just become her new favorite target. Gods, that was easy. She'd been wondering what she was going to do for fun on a battleship. A girl has to make her own entertainment.
Tigh is keeping her at attention longer than necessary. He's watching her closely, as if waiting for her to show one hint of breaking. When she doesn't, he almost smiles. "Your reputation precedes you, Lieutenant. Your file reads like a how-to-frak-up manual."
"Thank you, sir." She doesn't smile, but it's in her tone.
"Hmm." Tigh half turns away. "At ease." He paces a few steps away, then comes back. "I know you're the Old Man's pick for this job. Don't think for one minute I don't. Tried to talk him out of it, too, but he's determined to give you a shot." He smirks a little. "I'm sure it won't take you long to frak it up. And when you do, I'll be there."
She doesn't look away from his gaze. "I'll be here, sir."
"I'm sure you will." He waits a beat longer before dismissing her.
The other pilots in the rec room are friendly enough. It barely takes a few verbal pushes here and there to discover more dirt on the stellar first officer.
A drunk with a troubled marriage. Gods, this is going to be so frakin' easy.
%%%%
Helo wanted to take his wife and child and get the hell out of this life. He wanted to take them and go somewhere else, someplace where friends never threw away their own lives.
In their quarters, Hera was asleep on the bed, Sharon curled protectively around her. He closed the hatch quietly; Hera had a hard time sleeping these days. Nightmares roused her constantly, made her cry and wail for hours. But if Sharon slept, it was only lightly, because she sat up and smiled when he came in.
He looked at her and slowly shook his head.
Trying to jostle the child as little as possible, Sharon escaped the bed and went to him. Her footsteps were soundless. "What?"
He glanced at Hera, looked back to Sharon. "Starbuck's dead. I think – I think she killed herself." He kept his voice low and quiet.
"What do you mean?" She put out a hand, rested it on his arm. "What happened?"
Hera turned restlessly on the bed.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "She was out with Apollo, said she saw that Raider again. . . Her Viper dropped down too much, and Apollo tried to pull her back. . ." He shook his head again. "She wouldn't stop. She just wouldn't. Asked him to let her go."
Sharon frowned and looked at him askance. "Go where? I don't understand. Where was she trying to go?"
"Nowhere. That's the problem. Her Viper fell off Dradis. Lee said it's in pieces." Then he shifted his eyes away. "I sent her to the Oracle."
"No," Sharon said sharply, as if she could read his thoughts. Her tone made Hera stir again; she quickly dropped the volume, but not the intensity of her voice. "Starbuck has always danced right on the edge of disaster." For a moment she paused, then asked, "But are you sure she's– ?"
Hera started to cry, began to wail the heartbroken keen of a child's nightmares.
/=
The good news is, real estate values in Delphi have finally stabilized. It's become a buyer's market. The bad news is, the new landlords are kinda racist.
She walks beside Helo down the middle of the street, in the middle of the day, and each one of their footsteps echoes loudly. This was never the best part of town, but there had always been plenty of people doing stuff (most of it illegal.) It's just her and Helo now.
She can't stop looking around, and not just because she's halfway waiting for some blond Cylon chick to jump out and start kicking her ass again; she's searching for some little sign of what this place used to be. Tall buildings stand mutely beneath the hazy, yellow-white sky, like trees after a forest fire. Cars and trucks are parked neatly along the street. Not even one scrap of litter hides in a narrow corner.
Apparently the Cylons are OCD clean freaks. Who woulda guessed.
Helo says, "Do you think this part of town was this ugly before the Cylons got here?"
She laughs a little, not really all that amused. Her ribs hurt like hell, and laughing doesn't help. "Yep." The place is probably is better looking now, to be honest. Doesn't matter – he won't know the difference. But hey, the crime rate has probably gone down (not counting the genocidal new residents, of course.)
After dragging her ass all the way back here, she deserves to pick up something from her old place. Just a little something to help her feel better about: 1) seeing her planet decimated; 2) having Lee pissed as hell at her; and 3) learning the human race has no place to go. Oh, and that the Old Man lied about it all.
Helo has no idea what he's going back to. It's not exactly a party on Galactica. She's not going to say one word about it, unless he asks – even then, he's gonna get the edited version. He's been on this dead planet so long he's already gone a little nuts, what with that not-Boomer girlfriend of his. Gods, he may never get over all this shit (who could?) It's not like the rest of humanity is so reality-based these days.
Around a corner, down another street. . . It's her block. This is her block, and it's just as dead as everywhere else. Their footsteps echo just as loudly; the air is just as crispy-fried. There's a busted-up coffee cart off to one side of the street. It stands out like a black eye against the neatness of the clean sidewalks. She stops beside it, stares down at it with a frown. She remembers getting a hot drink and a gossip magazine here on more than one late morning. The guy running the place had been annoyingly cheerful. He's dead now, she's sure.
"I tell you I'm glad you're not dead?" she mumbles to Helo, turning away.
"You just want my help getting off this planet," he returns.
Again she laughs a little. She turns the Arrow in her hand, wonders if she should tell him. . . Instead she grasps the legendary object more tightly and keeps walking.
%%%%
Soft. Warm. Gentle. Mother.
Loud. Scream. Gone.
Where gone?
Why?
/=
The kid really is cute. A pretty little girl, actually, with wide eyes and dark curls. Athena has the child resting on her hip as if she's always been a mother, always hauled the girl from place to place. Helo looks happy, like he's always wanted to be a family man. Gods know he'd wanted Sharon – Athena– since he'd set eyes on her, so maybe he'd wanted the domestic-bliss thing for a long time, too.
Hera is a solemn one. The wide eyes are watching her steadily without blinking.
"You look like your mom," she tells the child. Then she mockingly shakes a finger and adds, "But I hope you're smarter than your dad."
The somber child suddenly breaks into laughter. Plump cheeks and charming smile emerge like stars on a cloudy night. Hera reaches out and catches her finger in a surprisingly strong grasp.
"She likes you," Athena says, almost sounding surprised.
"Don't go teaching her stuff," Helo warns, grinning. "And watch you language."
She leans towards the girl and assures, "I'm gonna teach you all kinds of stuff."
The child laughs with delight.
%%%%
The Chief of the Deck watched the CAG land the Viper perfectly, like hundreds of times before.
Apollo fraked up this time, really fraked up, and now has paid for it – was going to keep paying for it for a long time.
And hadn't he himself known something was wrong with the Captain? He'd seen the signs; he'd seen them in pilots before. Pilots weren't Cylons: they broke. Eyes turned dark, flat, darted towards three shadows at once. Reaction times went from sharp and clean to sloppy and blind. So maybe he had seen signs in the Captain – he'd called Apollo.
You talk to her, he'd told the CAG. He supposed the CAG had said the wrong thing. Chain-of-command be damned – he should've called Sam.
Who was going to tell Sam?
The place had suddenly gone all quiet. Cargo wasn't moving, repairs had stopped. The eyes not shifted to nowhere were fixed on the Viper that had just been towed to a stop on the hanger deck.
He didn't order people to get moving again. Pilots weren't the only ones who broke; no one needed another reason to fall apart right now. Instead he walked to the closest stairs and wheeled them over to the Viper. One step at a time he climbed up, slid open the canopy and looked at the pilot inside.
Apollo took the post-flight checklist and signed without glancing at a single instrument. The CAG was blinding staring at the helmet resting on his knees. "I talked her into it. She didn't. . . but I got her to go anyway."
It was true. But he and lots of others had seen the signs, too. "What were you supposed to do?" he asked Apollo, and himself.
Then CAG looked at him. Apollo's eyes were dark, flat, but not darting to three shadows at once. Not yet. "Something different."
Mutely the Chief of the Deck wondered who was going to tell the Captain's husband.
/=
The Chief can make a pilot's life miserable, if he wants to. He can delay repairs and turn the good-will of the knuckle-draggers. There are a thousand little non-dangerous, completely-within-regulations ways to make life rough.
She doesn't want that. Looking for trouble is one of her main pass-times, but not with a Deck Chief. She's not totally stupid. It doesn't seem like Tyrol is the petty sort, but she's not gonna cross him. She's even willing to make a little peace-offering – nothing big, just a little something to say she's not a complete bitch.
It takes weeks to find something. Patience has never been her strong suit, but occasionally she can do it. The man drinks, but not anything in particular. He only dabbles in gambling. Favoritism among subordinates is unheard of. She's wracking her brain for possibilities when she catches him watching one of the Raptor pilots.
The girl is a rookie on first assignment. Sharon Valerii, callsign "Boomer." The girl fraks up landings left and right, day after day. But the pilot is cute, maybe even pretty. The Chief clearly thinks so: he snaps at her like he does all the pilots, but smiles the minute she turns away.
She meets Boomer at a very inconvenient time, right when her stomach is trying to divorce her over some bad shrimp. "I'm Starbuck. Nice to meet you. Go away."
Boomer laughs. "You're the hot-shot pilot? You don't look so impressive."
She almost likes the bold pilot already. "At least I don't have the Chief making eyes at me."
There's a long pause. Boomer has noticed him, too. This might work.
"Whatever," Boomer dismisses. "You're just pissed because you're not as special as you think you are."
Yep, she likes the rookie.
It takes awhile, but with (a lot) of effort she's able to help push the pair in the right direction. "You're getting worse," she tells Boomer, winks so the girl will know she's just messing around. "He yells because he's supposed to." Boomer's eyes quickly shift away.
"Try smiling a little more," she mumbles to the Chief. "Damn rookie likes ambrosia too much, gambles all the time for it." The Chief only frowns.
Soon she spots a sweet little bottle of the green alcohol in the rookie's locker.
Mission accomplished.
%%%%
Occasionally she would no longer like to be President. When she considered what happened with that the last time, however, she reconsidered: no matter what the job entailed, it was better than watching Baltar frak things up.
But occasionally. . .
Tori was looking down at her, watching her with bruised eyes. She's not certain Tori has ever even met Captain Thrace, but Tori knew Sam very well from the Resistance days. It may well be the Captain's husband whom Tori was thinking about now. That was not the person she was thinking about, however, although perhaps it should have been.
Slowly she capped her pen, set it down beside the document she had been about to sign. She rested her elbows on the desk and briefly let herself hide behind her hands, as she had done when she was a child. There was no one in the office but Tori, and Tori knew how to keep quiet.
She was thinking about two honorable men who dearly loved a reckless pilot. A pilot for whom she herself held a great fondness. The reckless pilot had brought her the Arrow of Apollo, and done at least a dozen other things for the Fleet, both before and after New Caprica. Bill and Lee must be devastated.
The entire Fleet will take this death very hard. Captain Thrace had been a hero to people who desperately needed heroes. When heroes died, hope faded, and honorable men faltered.
She remembered Kara's girlish smile when handing over the Arrow. "Mission accomplished," the pilot had said, almost like a child offering something to a favorite teacher. Kara had worn the same expression this morning when handing Bill the Aurora idol. "For your ship," the pilot had told the Admiral.
If the Captain's eyes had looked as shadowed as Tori's did now – well, who carried no ghosts after New Caprica? Although, perhaps, Kara's had been heavier than some.
Bill and Lee would carry Kara's ghost, now.
She let her hands fall and sat up straight in her chair. "Assemble the Press," she told Tori. "I will make an announcement about the Captain's death."
"Half the Fleet probably already knows," Tori replied, voice low and hard. "They probably know it was a suicide, too."
"That won't be my standpoint. Captain Thrace died while carrying out her duty to protect the Fleet. Anything else is irrelevant. She will be remembered as a hero, because she was a hero." She paused, added after a moment, "Have a shuttle standing by. After the announcement, I want to go over to Galactica."
Tori looked down at her silently.
"Get going," she urged her aid, not unkindly.
There were things that should be done, and there were things that had to be done. A hero's death was never easy, never came without cost to the people left without their symbol of hope.
/=
It's all she can do just to stand in one place. Her hands are shaking. She would've been able to do it and would have done it, she's sure, but the relief of not having to is almost overwhelming. Luckily the majority of the Pegasus' bridge crew are still congratulating themselves on the big win, and aren't paying attention to her. Cain is casting her a sidelong glance paired with a sly smile.
She may not ever before have been so grateful not to have to do something.
The President had been behind the assassination order. She knows it. Never, never would the Old Man have even thought about anything like this. But the teacher masquerading as President? Yep. Probably without much hesitation. Roslin and Cain have a lot in common (whether they like it or not.)
She's known for awhile: Roslin isn't nearly as innocent as it seems. Now she wonders if this is even Roslin's first assassination order. Cain is tough, yes, and maybe more sharp than necessary. And the Admiral is dead wrong about Helo and the Chief. But Gods – to be openly executed in front of the crew? Exactly what had Cain done to deserve that?
Adama had changed his mind. She doubts Roslin even knows yet. The President's gonna be pissed as hell. . . Sometimes the President is wrong, too.
Why had she agreed to do this?
It isn't only because the Old Man had been the one to ask; it isn't because she'd do anything for him, no questions asked. Those aren't the only reasons, anyway. Maybe – no, definitely – it has something to do with the President herself.
Her mother had died of cancer. She hadn't been there, and while she's not sorry about that, she might feel. . . something. A slow cancer is no way to die. And the President has really tried to do right by the Fleet. If nothing else, the woman has earned the support of Lee and the Old Man.
She wonders exactly how much the President will be angry. Not too much, hopefully. Dammit all – she hopes the President won't overrule the Old Man and insist Cain be executed.
Because if the President orders it, she'll still do it.
%%%%
Sam was in the middle of settling a dispute between two workers. There was enough algae to take care of the Fleet for a long time, but it wasn't going to process itself. The people committed to the project had been working for days; it wasn't any surprise tempers were starting to fray. Disagreements were breaking out left and right, and somehow he'd been nominated as top problem solver. It wasn't a job he wanted or particularly liked. No one else vaguely seemed interested in taking his place.
This particular problem wasn't overly complicated. One guy wanted x-y-z done his way; the other guy said a different way was better. Sam didn't really care one way or another so long as the work got done. Of course he didn't say that. Instead he brokered a deal between the two men.
"See? Now you're equal – you're both pissed," he told them.
The men weren't happy, but they left.
As they walked out the door he noticed Colonel Tigh standing in the corridor. He was pretty sure Tigh hadn't been here before; it couldn't be any good reason he was here now. "Colonel – haven't seen you in awhile." He waved the man over towards a rickety table strewn with papers, and two mostly empty chairs. "Want a drink?"
"If you'll have one with me."
He shuffled things around on a shelf and found a pair of mismatched cups, along with a half empty bottle of booze. "Nothing special, but it'll do." He poured them both some and sat down across from the one-eyed man. "I'm guessing you're not here just to say hello. Is it the processing slow-down? I've been assured it'll be fixed by tomorrow, tops."
Tigh shook his head. "No, it's not about that. It's about Kara."
"Kara?" His girl had been acting odd, probably because of the nightmares about that toaster on New Caprica. He'd seen her just yesterday, had tried to convince her to come and stay with him for awhile. It would help her, and some time together would help get their real marriage back on track.
Tigh quickly downed the drink. After barely a hesitation, the Colonel said, "She's gone, Sam. Dead in the cockpit while flying CAP. Frakin' toaster. . . I'm sorry."
He swallowed what was in his cup, then poured them both another. "I haven't heard any reports of Cylons in the area. There hasn't been an emergency jump. What are you not telling me?"
The Colonel shook his head. "Not here – it was the Cylons down on New Caprica, the one who locked her up. This is his fault, him and all of 'em. Poison takes longer on some people than others."
It didn't make sense. It had been months since New Caprica, and Kara never said anything about being sick. Not that she'd said much of anything about that time – only pieces, when she was tired or not paying attention. But things were getting better, started getting better as soon as Lee backed off. She was coming back to him and their marriage, just like she had before. They'd been going out, spending time talking – normal married people stuff. She'd seemed stressed, yes, especially since going to the Oracle, but she was getting better. "She wasn't sick."
"She went crazy, Sam," Tigh said bluntly. "She threw herself into the storm, talking to Apollo all the way down. It's not her fault, or yours, or anyone but the frakin' Cylons. But she's dead anyway." Tigh eyed him levelly, his one eye unblinking.
Before he'd left her yesterday, she'd kissed him and smiled one of her real smiles, one that made her look young and sassy. She'd promised to think about taking some time off to be with him. He'd already started planning ways to convince her to stay. With Lee out of the picture (and out of hand's reach,) they'd be able to rebuild their life. She hadn't seemed like she was going crazy – had she?
"You're wrong," he told Tigh. "You're wrong, and she's not dead. If you don't have a body, you can't be sure."
Kara was too lucky to check out. Not her; not his girl.
/=
It's not right and it's not fair, but that doesn't stop it from being true. She can't stand being near Sam.
Gods, she's married to this man. She's supposed to love him, but she doesn't feel it right now. Leoben had told her Sam was dead, even brought her proof; at some point she'd started to believe it was true. She'd even (kinda) made her peace with it. Now not only is he not dead, he's practically holding onto her with both hands. He wants to talk, keeps trying to tell her he never gave up hope and never stopped looking for her. And she believes him.
Sam sounds just like Leoben.
He'll barely let her out of his sight, either. It doesn't help that she's jumpy as hell, has to concentrate just so she won't charge at shadows. There are people everywhere, too many people, with noise at a level she can (barely) stand. Questions – Gods, questions from way too many people. She'd given up on rescue awhile back, and she'd forgotten the lies she'd planned to use as cover. Sam wants to know, too (which also isn't helping.)
Somehow she manages to push through the crowd enough to find a mostly shadowed corner. This is too much: Kacey and Leoben and the things she'd said to get the girl away. . . She's humiliated and furious that she believed so many lies. There has to be a cover story she can use to keep this quiet. The tall man clinging to her side sure as hell doesn't need to know. She rubs her forehead and mumbles, "Gods, I need a drink."
Those must be magic words because Sam disappears. She looks around. Pushing through the crowd, Mathias is headed right at her. The slender woman has obviously seen her, is grinning like a fiend as the distance closes between them. Mathias is a good friend; she'd thought the Marine was dead, too. What is she going to say? They've been friends way longer than she's known Sam. If the damn people would shut up she could think. .
She throws herself back into the crowd and does her best impression of a disappearing girl.
"Hey, Kara, wait." A hand catches her arm. Leoben does that sometimes so she won't forget he's running the show. She turns, ready to knock him flat right where he stands – but it's Sam. It's only Sam.
Sam lets her go and takes a half step back. "Easy," he says, holds a bottle of something out to her like a peace-offering. "Look what I found."
She takes the bottle, unscrews the cap and drinks it, not caring what it is. It's bitter and familiar and even though she hasn't had one sip of alcohol in months, she still recognizes the taste. She manages a little laugh and a smile for the man who brought it. "You wonderful bastard," she says, offering back the bottle.
Sam's smile is some mix of relief and hope. "Gods, there you are," he tells her. He takes a drink himself, then pulls her close. "I was wondering, for a minute there."
%%%%
Lee knows he has to get out of the Viper eventually. He can't simply sit and stare at his helmet forever. Delay isn't going to change anything; life goes on.
Except for those times when it doesn't.
You're the CAG – act like it, Kara had snapped at him once. It was a long time ago, when existence came in 33-minute slices.
He makes himself get up. His footsteps echo hollowly as he climbs down the stairs. It isn't supposed to be this quiet, not when the deck has a full crew. People aren't supposed to be this quiet. When everyone went down to New Caprica, it was this silent, and when Flat Top and the other pilots were killed.
I am the Flight Instructor, sir. My word is Scripture, sir. Kara had almost decked him then, but he'd held his ground. He'd held his ground with her this time, too, when she'd said she didn't want to go. All hail victory.
At the bottom of the stairs, he falters. All eyes are on him; he already knows what he's going to see in them. He suspects he knows what will be seen on his face, too.
Because I'm a screw-up. Try to remember that.
Not professionally. Not when it came to flying. Not even this time: she'd known what she was doing. She'd heard him insisting she pull up, come back. Her answer had just been no.
Good to see you, too, Captain. She hadn't been surprised at his reaction to her return from retrieving the Arrow. Her eyes had laughed at him, already knowing he'd forgiven her.
Gods, he'd forgive her this time, too, if she'd suddenly reappear. He'd curse her soundly for being reckless; he'd ground her like a houseplant and may not ever let her in a Viper again. And he'd hug her like he has a hundred times before and be grateful he has a chance to do it again.
Let's just be glad we both made it back alive.
The CAG would bet his life that Kara had never wished him dead. Harmed and hurt, certainly, because she wished that on just about everyone now and then. But not dead.
He can't stand at the base of the stairs forever. It isn't like he has never before been there when pilots died. Tens of times he'd heard their last words and tears and screams. Still, he's certain he's never been there or listened to a suicide before. His grip on the stairs' handrails becomes so tight his hands go numb.
There is nothing here – do you get that? She'd been so angry, furious with him and herself and the universe at large. He'd been angry, too, for completely different reasons – with her for using him as a distraction, with himself for ruining things by saying the wrong words. She'd seriously flirted with death then, too.
Straightening his shoulders, he opens his hands and turns away. There are at least a dozen emotions on the faces watching him: uncertainty, doubt, fear, shame. Concern. Anger. And a single recurring question: why? There is no why. No, that's not true: there are a hundred whys.
You going somewhere with this? she had asked him that night, when they'd both been left by their respective sweethearts, when they'd both been so drunk neither could walk without stumbling into the other. It'd been his best and possibly last chance to convince her – and it had worked. He'd gotten through to her so well that she'd run like a jackrabbit. It was something he'd never forget, any of it.
Even though his intentions are to face all the gazes watching him, he can't. He simply can't. Instead he says loudly, "Yes. Yes, Starbuck's dead." He takes one step forward, then another. It doesn't get easier.
Bird's on the deck, I'm on the deck – I don't know what you're bitching about. She'd barely slanted a look at him before shifting her glare elsewhere. He'd been beyond pissed, infuriated by how she'd ignored his orders as much as she ignored him in general. His response had been to make a short retort about a death wish. What a poor choice of words.
One foot in front of the other, he walks across the deck. It doesn't matter where he's going. He's just – going somewhere else. There's not anyplace special he should be. He's lost.
I missed you. She hadn't said that until they'd beaten the hell out of each other, of course. It wasn't a sentiment he'd been willing to hear before. But once it was out there – Gods, it was true. So much time and trouble alone. . . They'd ended up on the other side of hate in almost no time. And people had gotten hurt, people who hadn't deserved that – like Dee.
Dee is standing on the far side of the deck, watching him now. She doesn't look pleased or satisfied in any way; she's a good person who would never take pleasure in someone's death. Not even if the person was someone who had almost taken her husband.
Maybe. It had been Kara's response to his suggestion that things had turned out this way for a reason. Solid Starbuck had looked like a wreck, her eyes more haunted than when she'd come back from New Caprica. Even when they'd been on good terms again, she'd only said a handful of things about those months of confinement. He'd wanted her to provide at least enough details so his imagination would stop filling in the blanks. Silence or some smart-ass remark was all he got.
The Admiral is standing beside Dee. His father. Kara's father, too, in some ways. The man looks old and tired. Fragile, even – the way he'd looked in sickbay after being shot. Shoulders slumped, hands empty. Almost broken.
I'm not afraid. She hadn't sounded afraid, either. She was right on the edge of death, and she wasn't afraid. That was the instant he'd known he'd made a mistake, a handful of mistakes, one right after another. Mistake to abandon her on New Caprica, mistake to think she could get over it on her own. Mistake not to have grounded her, mistake to have talked her into going. There won't be any more mistakes with her, now.
He pauses, stops to look at his father and wife. They're here for him, he knows. But they can't fix this, and they can't make it better. He doesn't know what to tell them or what to do.
Right on his heels, he turns and walks away, in a different direction from his family.
%%%%
They thought Kara had died before, more than once. More than three or four times. Admiral Adama sent out the Search and Rescue birds because she might not be dead this time, either, despite Lee's words.
Her ship's in pieces. We lost her. His son sounded heartbroken, completely bereft of hope. It did not mean Lee was correct. Odder things had happened. Yet as he walked down the corridor with Dee, he thought about the slow unraveling he'd started to see in Kara.
Eyes so shadowed they said, No sleeping. A thinning face that said, No eating. He'd known she went to the Oracle and come back carrying something close to desperation. He'd gotten reports she was overreacting to incidents which should only be irritating.
Cottle had cleared her to fly. Lee hadn't grounded her. Even great pilots got rattled now and then. Sometimes they burned out, too, but he hadn't believed that was Starbuck's problem. She'd only needed a few minutes to get her feet back under her. Things were going to be fine.
A chance at a fresh start, Kara said when she gave him the golden statue. Was that only a few hours ago? She'd been smiling.
He stopped beside Dee when they reached the hanger. The deck was unnaturally still; the eyes which weren't watching Apollo were looking at the deck or bulkheads. Lee stood at the base of the staircase for a long moment before turning around. His son told everyone, "Yes, Starbuck is dead."
His pseudo-daughter was dead. Two of three of his children were dead. There would be another funeral and some kind words, and then he'd officially have one child left.
It was an accident. He repeated it in his head multiple times. She hadn't done it on purpose. A tragic accident. Dee was standing beside him, a hand over her mouth: she didn't think it was an accident. Lee didn't, either, not according to the bleakness on his face.
Lee saw him and stopped. His son looked puzzled for a moment, then abruptly turned and went in the opposite direction. His last son didn't even want to look at him.
Dualla, his kind daughter-in-law, hugged him and started to quietly cry. He gently patted her back and said nothing.
Wild, reckless, no respect for authority, loyal, courageous, never gave a damn about what didn't matter... Kara, there were other options.
/=
Good Gods, she's fraked up this time. She's been dragged into Commander Adama's office/quarters and she can tell by his frown that her luck has run out.
It was just a stupid prank! No one got hurt. How was she supposed to know the CAG would get so pissed about it? The situation is clear-cut: she lost a cardgame, she had to pay up, the price was a certain joke on the CAG, she did it. Simple. Except no one told her the CAG on this ship can't take a joke. She's been on the ship less than two months – it really isn't fair she should take a hit on this.
Okay, yeah, this isn't her first infraction since transferring to Galactica. But those other one or two (three at most) little issues had been so minor, all she'd needed to do was serve a few hours in hack. Who among them hadn't? She'd only been checking how far she could push things. . . Now she knows. This tattle-tail from the CAG shouldn't count.
She has a sneaky suspicion the Commander may not see it her way, not this time.
"Flat-out disrespect of a superior officer," Adama says. His voice is quiet but severe. "What were you thinking?"
It's never been her policy to stop talking when she should. "I thought it would be funny, sir." Oh, and it was. The other pilots thought so, too. The stunt would live forever, be passed down from generation to generation. . . a true legend. . .
"Funny," the Commander echoes. "Like the rest of the demerits in your file."
Hell, she's fraked anyway. "Most of them, sir." She's careful not to smile, but it's in her tone.
Adama regards her steadily; he doesn't even blink.
She's so out of luck this time, she can practically taste it.
Finally he makes his judgment. "Five days in the brig. And you personally clean out the CAG's locker, so clean you can see it shine from space."
Ummm – that's it? That's all? It's so damn hard not to grin. "Yes, sir."
The Commander waits a moment, then adds, "Don't ever get caught doing anything like this again. Dismissed."
She salutes smartly and scrambles out of the office. Once the hatch is closed she starts laughing, doesn't even try to stop. Don't get caught, he'd said.
She laughs all the way down to the brig.
%%%%
Kara "Starbuck" Thrace: more people apply to attend her funeral than Galactica can possibly support.
[end]