Title: Beneath
Author: Manipulator
Word Count: 1169
Spoilers: "Water"
Disclaimer: "Battlestar Galactica" and the show's characters are the property of NBC/Universal
Notes: I wrote this prior to the second half of season 2, so this may or may not fit into existing canon, although every effort was made to insure it did.
I shouldn't be here, was the first thought, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She heard the even, languid breathing and stirring of other pilots in their bunks.
My watch, where's my watch?
She groped, found its rubber strap clasped around her bunk's frame. The blue night light forced her to squint before reading the time, 20:13 hours, then the date.
"Oh my god," she murmured, feeling her heartbeat quicken, and her face grow warm.
This is wrong, all wrong.
She rolled out of bed, put on her sandals, and went to the head. She was careful to check every stall, before facing herself in the mirror above a sink.
"My name is Lt. Sharon Valerii. I am a raptor pilot aboard the Battlestar Galactica, out of Caprica. My father's name is Abraham Val--"
She suddenly touched her hair, saw blonde highlights that weren't there before. It was the same face, but the lines under her eyes were a little deeper, her complexion a little more pale, probably because she hadn't seen much sun since…when?
I can't remember. When I woke up, I was supposed to remember everything. That's how it was supposed to be--
She staved off her panic, formulated a plan, just like she was trained to. Let the humans run in circles, clinging to the memory of their dying worlds. She was more than human.
The curtain was drawn around her bunk, and she lay on her stomach, stacks of pictures, letters, and anything that wasn't fleet issue lay piled on and around her pillow, to help her remember.
"Frak," she said, under her breath, looking at a photograph of her and Commander Adama in full dress uniforms at some function, standing, with hands clasped in front. His stock Old Man Stare softened into his standard Old Man Having Fun Stare, evidently.
She didn't remember him. She only knew this from the data she was given from operatives within the ministry of defense. All sleeper agents were fed the necessary information about their assignment.
She also didn't remember anything about Kara Thrace, other than her callsign, Starbuck, and her flight record, with it's long string of disciplinary infractions, and the small, but notable list of commendations.
They would be so proud of how she integrated with the humans, especially in this picture of her and Thrace, with an arm around one another. They were in a nightclub, somewhere, drinks raised in toast at the camera, with beaming, toothy smiles. She sifted through the photos, seeing a variety of other pilots, once again recalling them only from file data. Karl Agathon, callsign Helo, a group shot, at apparently another banquet of some sort next to Galactica's XO Saul Tigh. He was best known for riding Adama's coattails into his position. The faces rolled by, and she recalled the names, but nothing behind the moments that were evidently precious enough to preserve on film.
There was a small, carved cedar box she opened next. Inside was another stack of photographs and a bundle of letters, some in envelopes, some not. The first snapshot was of a dark haired man with stubble glaring at the camera, hand outstretched. He wore a standard t-shirt and an orange mechanic's jumper, the top dangling around his waist. The woman called Sharon found herself grinning, even though she had no idea who this man was. The next picture made her gasp.
She and this man were sitting at a picnic table, he sat on the bench, between her legs, and her arms were around his neck, and they looked so happy.
Oh no.
Other shots were taken of them kissing, still more candids with people who resembled him, possibly his mother and father. There was even one of them posing in front of the famous Dionysian Theater in Abydos on Tauron. The developer's timestamp on the backs of these photos dated as early as two years ago. The last date she remembered was when she got her wings, and received orders to report for duty aboard the Galactica.
She had awakened then, shortly after her graduation from flight school, but she remembered everything that time. After meeting with an elegantly dressed Six model, who gave her the disc with all the information she needed, her human veneer was triggered, until awakening in her bunk, evidently more than a week after the fall of the Twelve Colonies.
The stack of letters only confirmed what she saw in pictures. She was supposed to be very much in love with Chief Petty Officer Galen Tyrol, the ship's deck chief.
She wanted to let panic embrace her, but suppressed the urge. It wasn't time to worry about what she didn't know, it was time to use the knowledge she had, and figure out why she hadn't awakened in another body, surrounded by her brothers and sisters. If all went well, none of this would matter in the next few days.
Letters and pictures were carefully replaced in her footlocker, and she eased quietly into her flight suit. She packed a day uniform in her bag, and headed for the small arms locker. She had no recollection of her experiences and the people who counted Sharon Valerii as a friend, or lover, but she remembered the ship's blueprints, and her pass codes.
That was all she needed.
For the first time, she felt genuine fear at the prospect of dying. This wasn't her first body. All the sleepers were required to die once, so they knew what awaited them upon shedding a corporeal form. Since there were apparently no basestars, no raiders, no heavy cruisers around, there was a possibility she could be lost. Forever.
I still want this. Who am I to choose myself over the greater good?
With that, she entered the tank, feeling the pressure of duty even more than the cubic tons of water above her, as she placed the first charge, and set it.
Setting the explosives took longer than she anticipated, and her lungs were about to burst as she left the final tank. She easily found a route to the tool room where no one would see her along the way. The tool room was the best place to get changed quickly, unnoticed, and then figure out what she would do from there.
As an afterthought, she found her raptor in the hangar bay. If, for some reason, this didn't work, she may have to detonate herself. With the heavy munitions stored on deck, this would make an excellent plan B. She placed the charge under her seat.
Now, to go blend in, and get some needed information.
She closed the tool room hatch, spun the wheel shut. She took a deep breath and sat, water puddling around her, hair sticking her forehead, her cheeks. It was 05:10. Unless her rotation changed in the last two years, she was on duty in twenty minutes.
Leaning over, she unzipped her bag--