Sometimes I think grown-ups live in a parallel universe. Overnight our world has become more dangerous and not even the schoolroom is safe. Yet Miss Foster has insisted that we sit here and write up our diaries as usual. "It will be a useful record for the future," she insists, and we wonder why Cylon historians would want anything we have to say.
Yesterday we got up, wrapped up in our supposed-to-be-all-weather clothes and trudged through the rain and mud to our school tent. So far, so ordinary. We did drawing with Maya, history with Miss Roslin and composition with Miss Foster. Then we had 'lunch'.
This is not the lunch break I remember from Caprica – a chance to laugh and giggle outside in the sun with my friends, and being able to choose what I eat. No, this is all thirty of us kids huddled together in the middle of the tent because it leaks at the sides. Our teachers pass around hot milk that they've managed to beg, borrow or steal. Even the milk tastes strange; some of the colonists from Aerilon found cow-like animals that could be domesticated when we first came to New Caprica. The farmers are up in the hills and have slightly more freedom that the rest of us do, here in tent-city-hell. The thin sourness of the drink tells me that it is neither completely fresh nor plentiful, and that we're all risking tummy upsets by accepting it. But it's hot, and safer than the water, so we drink without complaint, and us older ones try to ignore the fact that our teachers look angry and despairing as several of the little ones are sick, reversing any good the diluted beverage may have done.
I'm getting off my subject. Miss Foster disapproves of 'digressions' and is trying to get us to follow a single train of thought through our essays. It's easy for her to talk. She didn't have to go to school with twenty-nine children of different ages in a tent that's becoming leakier by the day and with hardly any books. We don't even have writing materials half the time because those are saved as treats for our art lessons or for homework. Nearly all our classwork is done through talking and listening and memorising, and I wonder if the little kids will ever be able to read. Not that it matters. There's no real future for us, and sometimes I think we're all living in a dream world, sitting here learning about a history that becomes more meaningless by the day and a literature most of us will never enjoy.
So, yesterday. We had our lunch and those of us over thirteen were getting ready for our lesson on politics and government with Miss Roslin. We always enjoy those because she used to be the president and she really knows what she's talking about. When I said that at home, Dad grunted and muttered something about Baltar (he really hates Baltar) and Mum gave that sarcastic little laugh and advised me to keep on Roslin's good side or I'd find myself out an airlock. I didn't say anything to that. When I look at my teacher with her hair turned long and straggly, and her sweaters looking almost as leaky as our tent … I can't look at her and see the suited woman I remember from the newsvids. It's as if they're two different people. President Roslin was … scary, but Miss Roslin isn't. I wish everyone else understood that. I wish they remembered that the people voted for Baltar and that Miss Roslin has other work now – us – and we need her.
The Cylons didn't think so. They came for her last night. Our tent is across the way and down a bit, and we heard everything. There's no privacy in tent-city, and my sister and I have had to grow up really, really fast. We can't get away from the arguing and crying and screaming and frakking. All we can do is sit and pretend it isn't happening. Xena sings, but I wrap our thin blankets over my head and imagine that I'm home again. It never works and it definitely didn't work last night. The loud clanking and stamping of the centurions. The soft lilt of Six's voice, and the deeper twang of D'Anna's. I think I heard Maya scream and Isis cry. And Miss Roslin … all she said was, "So you've come for me at last," almost as if she was expecting it.
We're trying not to think about what could be happening to her in there. We've all seen Colonel Tigh's missing eye, and several members of Sam Anders' resistance movement from Caprica have come out missing other body parts – if they come out at all. Some people, like Starbuck, have disappeared altogether. Fear mingles uneasily with hunger in our bellies, and it is harder and harder to stand upright and walk tall. We scurry, as if by making ourselves physically smaller we can escape the Cylons' notice.
I close my eyes and try to remember what it was like when we first came here, before New Caprica became our own special version of hell. Dad says if it is we deserve it; President Roslin warned us that settling on this planet would lead to disaster, but we ignored our prophet and we pay the price. It seems unfair that she has to pay it with us, because New Caprica has never been paradise. I asked her once, just after the Cylons came, when they were still playing nice.
It was my turn to stay late and help tidy up after the little ones' art lesson. I didn't mind – none of us did, for this was really special time for us, when Miss Roslin would talk to us about ourselves and our potential and possibilities and we could imagine that there really is a bright shiny future out there.
"This tent will need patching again before the rains come," Miss Roslin commented to me as I helped her move a homemade easel back to the top of the classroom. One of the eight year olds has proved to be a talented painter, and our teachers are encouraging her as much as they can.
We folded the easel down and pushed it under the bench that runs along the very back of the tent. Afterwards she indicated the seat opposite hers at the big desk and I sat down and watched her dig around in her bag. We couldn't have tea or coffee at these little meetings, but she usually managed to get us something nice. This time it's a handful of sweet berry fruits, and we both dig in.
"Miss Roslin," I began after a moment, "can I ask you a question?"
She looked at me over the top of her glasses. "I'm sure you can, Miss Priam, since I don't see anything wrong with your tongue. And yes, you may."
I rolled my eyes. "Teachers," I muttered under my breath.
"Teenagers," she retorted, and pushed the fruit towards me again. "What did you want to ask?"
"Why are you here?" I blurted. "I mean," I went on hurriedly as her brows went up, "Dad says it's our fault we're here, and if it all fraks up we've only ourselves to blame. But you warned us. Why do you put up with the rain and damp and crappy tents and all the rest of it?"
The unmistakable sound of centurions marching down our tented streets halted her response, and I saw her age ten years in as many seconds. "I took an oath," she said shortly.
"But you're not the president anymore," I pointed out. "The people chose Baltar." I put all my resentment into my voice. Baltar, that silly, mincing man. I'm too young to vote, but Dad and I were pro-Roslin all the way. He had his own reasons, but mine were simple: Baltar gives me the creeps. He's the kind of man who makes you feel undressed even when you've got all your clothes on.
She was silent for a moment. "I never wanted or expected the presidency," she said softly at last. "It was thrust upon me by a – a mathematical absurdity. And you know, don't you, that I was dying."
I nodded. "The cancer." We all know the story.
Her gaze became intent. "There's nothing like the prospect of dying to concentrate the mind and the emotions, never to mention the fact that humanity had suddenly shrunk to this tiny pool." She gave me a quick smile. "Being president gave me something to focus on, something to hold on to. And having taken that responsibility once, I can't let it go so easily, even though I should."
That's why they've rounded her up and carted her off. Not because she's Miss Roslin, a middle-aged schoolteacher who needs a haircut. Because she's Laura Roslin, former President of the Colonies, and Dad says people are beginning to realise they got a bad deal in Gaius Baltar, genius or no genius. I wonder – no, I know – that if the situation was reversed, Baltar would never go to prison for us.
And Miss Foster wants me to write about helping Mum make vegetable stew.
It's early. Very early. It's only just starting to get light, but I wanted to write about yesterday. It's supposed to be spring, but the nights are still long and dark and cold, and there isn't enough light inside the tents for diaries at the end of the day. Not ours, anyway. Besides, Mum can't know I've got this paper. She'll burn it, no matter what it is, no matter what it says. After last night, I know that.
It was a piece of luck finding it, anyway. Three days ago I was taking a walk. It was well before curfew and the Cylons usually leave the kids alone, so I thought I'd be safe. All our paths seem to lead in one of two directions – towards the detention centre at one end, or Colonial One at the other, so I left the path and skirted in through tents and makeshift washing lines and half-frozen rubbish dumps. And that's when I found it, in the rubbish dump not far from Colonial One. Sheets of paper, smooth creamy-white paper, headed with the logo of the Presidential Office. Sure, there's typeface on the other side of all of the sheets and I'm trying to ignore it, even though I can trace the outlines of the font now as I write. I think it says something about 'execution', but this particular piece was scrunched up, so I don't think it means anything.
And I found pens! Three pens. One was black, and nearly full, but there's a big crack running down the side. I need to be careful that the ink doesn't leak. The other two were even better – half empty coloured pens. One is red and one is green. They stand out in the morning light in this planet of dull greys and browns and flashes of steel. I'm writing with the green one now, the colour of hope and renewal. The red is deep and rich and glowing. The colour of warmth. I sometimes think I'll never be warm again, so I'm going to put the green pen down and use the red one. Perhaps I can imagine its heat seeping into my fingers.
Red. The colour of blood, the colour of life. It's so strange that the human Cylons bleed red blood, just as we do. They've got guts and stuff inside too. I saw the bits of people after the explosion at the police ceremony. I still see them when I close my eyes at night. Humans and Cylon mixed up and you couldn't tell just from looking which was which. That's so, so wrong. They should bleed silver, because they're machines. Quicksilver. Poison.
Red. Flashes of red, dappled by sunlight. Founder's Day. It's the only memory I have of this planet that's in full hi-def colour. The greens of the few plants. The deep blues of the Colonial uniforms. The colours that people were wearing, skimpy clothes designed to take advantage of a rare day of sun, even though it wasn't exactly hot. The canvas tents glaring white. The baked brown of the land, for we'd had a mini-drought. No rain for nearly three weeks.
Xena and I were racing down the streets, kicking up clouds of dust. It was good to be a kid again. Good to feel sunlight on my skin, the wind fingering through my hair, and the firm ground beneath my feet. We giggled and chased each other, winding in and out of the crowds of people. We weren't the only ones who were happy, because laughter followed us as we ran.
Then I ran full-tilt into something. Something solid and yielding at the same time that made a soft 'oof!' sound as I recoiled.
"You should really watch where you're going," an amused voice said, one I knew.
I looked up to see my teacher, Miss Roslin. She was dressed from head to toe in red, and her hair whipped around her face.
"M-m-Miss Roslin!" I stammered. "Frak," I muttered as I realised who her companion was, who my victim was. "Admiral."
Just then Admiral Adama did not look very military. He held his boots in one hand, his jacket was undone, he had a moustache (and what a moustache!) and he was smiling. He looked at Miss Roslin.
"Is that the kind of thing you're teaching your students, Laura? Bad language and disrespect for authority?"
Even though I knew he was joking I felt the slow tide of embarrassment rise all the way to my hairline. I opened my mouth to say something, to apologise, but Miss Roslin got there first, slapping his arm in gesture that made me gape.
"Stop it, Bill. I won't have my students terrorised, even if you are the fleet-admiral." She smiled at me. "Besides, you and Miss Priam should get on like a house on fire. She's one of the reasons I've been stealing your books."
He extended his hand and I shook it, numbly. "Are you enjoying them?" he asked, sounding kind and ordinary. His hand enveloped mine, and I was surprised by its steady warmth.
"I loved Dark Day," I blurted out, and wondered at the look that passed between them.
"That was a loan, not a gift," Miss Roslin said, which made no sense to me. "And Cass here managed to get it back to me within a day, and without a single mark on it. I was most impressed."
"I'm glad you liked it," the Admiral told me. "I was the one who first recommended your teacher read it."
Miss Roslin leaned forward, her eyes sparkling. "Don't tell anyone, Cass, but he's my own personal library. I only had one book in my bag when the Colonies were attacked."
The Admiral's gaze switched from me to Felix Gaeta, who was standing nearby looking impatient. I took the hint and began to move away, but Miss Roslin grabbed my arm.
"Do me a favour? Run over to the drinks tent and get us two glasses of whatever Tyrol's gang have produced this week. Take these," she added, producing the tokens that currently passed as money. "And no sampling!" she called after me as I left, and I grimaced. I had intended to sample her drink, at least. I'd never dare to swipe the admiral's.
Gaeta was still talking, so I left the drinks on a stool that stood behind Miss Roslin and the admiral and quietly disappeared again. I wanted to find Xena and continue our game. With an entire day of fun and colour ahead, there was no time to lose.
It's getting lighter by the minute, and I hear tent-city begin to stir. I know it won't be long before Mum comes out, and she can't catch me here, like this. Writing. I've carefully kept my eyes averted from the pile of ashes and cinders that serves as our fireplace. I know it's silly, because paper burns fast, but I don't want to see. Until last night we had one book. Only one. It hurts when I remember the groaning shelves we had at home. Both of my parents come from old Gemenon families, and while the power and money and land vanished a long time ago, somehow they managed to keep hold of the books, even after they moved to Caprica before I was born. I grew up amongst the smells of broken leather and old parchment, and the dry sound of rustling paper.
But last night was colder than usual, the damp chill the kind that penetrates into your cells. And Xena was coughing again, the hacking cough she hasn't been able to shake off since Solstice. I know, because she told me, that sometimes she coughs up blood, but she doesn't want to tell anyone. Mum and Dad have enough to worry about as it is. She doesn't sing much now, and when she does, the sound is dry and weak and harsh, a parody of its former self.
There was nothing else to burn, on this sodden mudball of a planet. So Mum knelt before the case we'd had with us the day the worlds ended and took out the possession I knew she prized the most. An old copy of Pythia's prophecies that had been in her family for at least five generations. All of her family history was there, the births and deaths and achievements, all the way down to the single line that says "The worlds ended" and the date, because there wasn't the space or the time to write down the names of all the family members who died. Xena and Dad and I watched as she carefully removed the leather cover, and the family pages, and reverently set them aside. Then, with hands that hardly trembled, she ripped the book in three along the spine. She fed each part to the nascent flame, and the flames ate the pages of family and history and hope and licked ever higher towards her face, highlighting in orange the dips and hollows there, and the new curves in her gaunt body.
Mum is having a baby. And she hates it. Any other woman would find a way to get rid of it, but not my mum, with the blood of a thousand Gemenon aristocrats and saints in her veins. She would sooner die.
Later. Mum's lying down, and there's no school this morning, so I can write. Miss Roslin was released last night. I saw her this morning, looking pale and tired and shaky, but somehow steely too, as though that week in detention has replaced my teacher with the president.
One day a month ago, just after Xena and I realised about the baby, Miss Roslin took four of us older girls on a field trip. It was supposed to be science, which we thought was weird, because Miss Roslin has told us several times that she's no scientist. When we got there, she encouraged us to lay out our tarpaulin on the grass and begin to eat our meagre lunches.
"Are we going to try fishing, Miss?" Seph asked as she munched through the stodgy bread that has become our staple food. "Is that why we're at the lake?"
Lena tossed her hair. "Shut up, Seph. We've nothing to fish with," she pointed out.
Marya peered at us through her glasses. They are old and out of date, but there's no way for anyone on the fleet to get prescriptions for new ones, so she has to make do. "Are we having botany?" She's our science geek.
Miss Roslin wiped her mouth and looked at us. "After a fashion," she said pleasantly. Then she reached out a hand a grabbed a fistful of green leaves. "Look at these," she instructed. "Look at the colour and the shape of the leaves. Remember them. If we had paper and pens, I'd tell you draw them."
Marya grinned. "I can do better than that," she said, and produced a camera from her bag. It was one of the old kind that takes the photo and spits it out afterwards. "I found it in my case last night," she explained as we exclaimed, "and there's just enough juice in it to do us for a couple of hours."
Miss Roslin's smile was radiant. "Well done, Marya." She spread the leaves out on the white tarpaulin and waved us out of the way so that Marya could take the snaps. Within ten minutes, we each had two photographs of the plants.
"Keep those safe," our teacher instructed, her face grave.
"Why?" I asked as I carefully slid my own snaps into my bag and fastened the buckles.
She looked sad, and her hands were busy with her flask and a cup. We watched as she put three leaves into the cup and poured steaming water over it. "You need to leave it to brew for five minutes," she said.
Lena leaned forward to get a better look. "It smells gross," she said. "Please tell me you're not going to make us drink it. It looks like pee, and probably tastes like it too."
Miss Roslin raised an eyebrow. "Speaking from experience, Helena?"
I cheered inwardly as Lena subsided. She annoys me, and it makes me feel better when I see she annoys Miss Roslin too.
"I'm not going to make you drink it," Miss Roslin told us. "But you do need to know how to make it. Someday you may need it."
Marya gave a little gasp. "It's to stop us getting pregnant, isn't it?"
Miss Roslin nodded, and she looked sad again. "Yes. Life here is difficult, and I'm not going to tell you girls to turn your backs on whatever happiness comes your way, but you're all very young and – and our situation here at the moment is not ideal for babies." She swallowed, and I wondered how difficult it was for our former president to say this. We all knew about 'we need to start making babies!'. "The other girls have families who will bring them straight to Doctor Cottle, but you're all from Gemenonese backgrounds. You needn't feel guilty about taking it," she added. "If you act quickly, it's similar to the morning-after pill you could get on Caprica."
"And if we don't?" Seph asked. "If we wait?"
Miss Roslin took a deep breath, but her eyes were flinty. "If you wait, and if you've conceived, then yes, it will make you miscarry."
"That's wrong!" Lena said loudly, sounding horrified.
"It's smart," Miss Roslin told her flatly. "Sometimes there are no right answers. I'm just making sure that you know the options if any of you find yourselves in trouble. Think about it. You've seen how the Tyrols have struggled with Nicky. You've seen Maya and Isis. Seph is the oldest of you and she's barely sixteen. Do you really want to deal with that, at your ages and in our present circumstances?"
We were all quiet as we walked back to tent-city.
Late. Mum still isn't feeling well, so Doc Cottle marched her off for the night. He wasn't smoking or complaining, so I think he's worried. We have nothing to burn, but Dad managed to get some candles from somewhere, and they provide tiny pools of light and warmth in our tent. Xena is huddled in a nest of blanket and tarp, but I can see she's still shivering. Dad sits next to her, rubbing her back through each coughing fit. I wish Doc had marched her off too, but there wouldn't have been much point. She's probably got another infection, and the antibiotics ran out months ago.
I think I'm losing my sister. I might lose my mum, and the brother or sister that is still only half-real. I wish I could care, but the only thing I want to focus on right now is the smooth paper beneath my fingers and the ridges of the pen I hold. The scratchy sound as I write, and the leisurely flowing of the ink that momentarily glistens in the candlelight before drying into flat permanence.
"It won't be much longer now," Dad murmurs, and I look up at him. He's staring into the distance and I shiver.
"What won't?" I ask quickly.
"All of this." His eyes are black in the dim light and I can't read them. "Tyrol told me today. They've managed to make contact with Galactica."
Something swells within me, a feeling of warmth and light. It's a minute before I can name it. Hope.
"When?" I breathe.
"Soon," Dad says. "Miss Roslin wants you all in school tomorrow."
"Is – she –gonna – be – there?" Xena rasps. "Only got - out."
Dad grinned, a rare sight these days. "It takes more than a week of detention to keep Laura Roslin down." He said that once before. Right at the start, only two months after we settled.
The news had gone around that there was going to be a school and that the former President of the Colonies would run it. The response was mixed. Some people thought it was crazy, and that education shouldn't be in the hands of a politician. Others thought it was great and pointed out that Roslin had been Secretary of Education. Then there the curious ones, who lingered around the school tent that first morning, looking to see how the mighty had fallen.
"Carrion-eaters," Dad growled in my ear as he pushed Xena and I through the crowd of onlookers. He stopped in front of a desk where a woman with dark skin and hair barked out a request for our names and ages. I gave them, but I could hear how the crowd behind me suddenly stilled.
"Hasn't anyone got anything better to do?" I heard a voice ask, and I turned. The former president was standing in one of her suits (I guessed that, like the rest of us, she just didn't have many clothes) with her arms crossed over her chest. The glare over her glasses was pure teacher, though, and I grinned as various members of the crowd began to shuffle and look awkward.
"It's the first school since the Fall, Mad – Miss Roslin," a blonde woman called out. "That's news-worthy."
Something flickered over Roslin's face. "Playa. Nothing interesting coming out of Colonial One these days?"
"Yeah, if you're interested in a bit of tart," someone muttered, a little too loudly, and everyone laughed.
"How does it feel to be a schoolteacher again?" the blonde woman asked.
Roslin gave her a calm smile. "Wonderful. Children are so much more amenable than the ravening beasts in the Quorum – or the press."
Playa looked flustered and the crowd laughed again. Roslin made a shooing gesture with her hands. "If that's all, do go away. I have work to do, and I mean to do it." Everyone stood and gaped at her and she glared over her glasses again before pointing a finger and saying, "Go!"
I heard Dad laugh softly as the crowd began to move. "That'll show them. Nothing keeps Roslin down for long." Then he kissed us both on the cheek and pushed us towards our new teacher. Xena and I exchanged looks of excitement and nervousness. After nearly a year, we were back at school.
Three days later.
I haven't had time to write, everything's happened so fast. When we went to school a couple of days ago, Miss Roslin divided us all into small groups, with all the ages mixed together, and told us that we were going to do drills. Safety drills, she called them, but they weren't our usual fire drills and everyone knew it.
"Look out for each other once the alarm sounds," she commanded. "Stay with your families if you can, but if you can't, head for Colonial One. Miss Foster and I will be there."
"What about Baltar?" someone called out.
Miss Roslin smiled. "If we get that far, Baltar shouldn't be a problem."
I'm not sure, but I think I heard someone say, "Airlock" very quietly. I giggled, but not too loudly. Miss Roslin is sharper than she used to be.
We spent the afternoon practicing, and she dismissed us early with a reminder to be careful. I came home and bundled my few possessions together. Dad's done the same, and together we manage to pack stuff belonging to Mum and Xena into our bags. Mum is still at Cottle's, and I hope he takes care of her. Xena is lying on one of the mats on the floor, and her breathing is loud in the tent. She's in no shape to go anywhere, and fear fills me when I think about what's coming.
Dad's thinking about it too, because he leans forward and takes my hand in his. "Cass, Cassandra," he whispers, his voice loving my name. He's the only one I let call me 'Cassandra', especially now. "When the klaxon sounds, you run. I'm going to take Xena to Cottle and help him move your mother and the other ill people."
"I can help," I protest. "I don't want to be alone."
"You won't be," he says steadily. "I talked to Tory Foster. She told me what Roslin said to you all in school today. Head for Colonial One and don't look back."
I start to cry. "I can't, Daddy," I tell him. "If I do that, I'll never see you again."
"Cassandra, my little princess-prophetess, it won't happen. Don't even think it. This is our only chance. Xena –" His voice breaks and it's my turn to grip his hands. We both know that he's right, or Xena will never make it off this planet alive.
I nod and sniffle. "Okay. I'll do it. But… just be careful, right? I don't want to end up a frakking orphan."
He put his fingers on my lips. "Don't say it." His hand moves to my cheek. "Now go to sleep. There's no knowing when hell will kick off, and you want to be rested and ready when it does."
I put my hand over his and grip it tightly. Then I move to obey, but sleep doesn't come.
Later. The klaxons are going. It's time. Oh, Lords of Kobol, keep us safe. Watch over the souls that are taken to you this day.
Exodus Night, Colonial One.
Lift-off at last. It's weird to feel the thrumming of an engine again, and the sound of it seems loud as everyone is being really, really quiet. I'm sitting on a bed that's been pushed against the wall. After months of being closed in by canvas, it's odd to be able to see so many people at once. And to be sitting on something soft. And dry. And there's running water! The queue for the bathrooms is running the whole deck long because everyone apparently wants to experience proper toilets and showers and privacy again.
"I wonder how long it'll be 'til we find out where our families are," Lena says, and I hate her for piercing my bubble.
"They'll tell us when they know," I say shortly. Lena's already been in hysterics once, and if she goes silly again I may have to slap her. She's the only person I know here – beyond a nod or a 'hello' – and I seem to be the only person she knows. Frakked-up luck, getting stuck here with the one person I really can't stand.
She looks awful. Her hair is stringy and her face is blotchy from all that screaming she did. It's kind of good to see her looking bad. She was one of those really annoying people who managed to sail through New Caprica with perfect hair, skin and eyebrows no matter how worn her clothes got. The rest of us had to make do with shaggy mops and monobrows. For once, I'm glad my hair is so thick and wavy – it's staying put in its plait, while Lena's baby-fine fair hair revolts against anything we try.
Her hand clamps over my arm. "Don't leave me," she whimpers. "I don't want to be alone." Her eyes are wide.
"You're not alone," I tell her impatiently. "Look at all these people!"
"But I don't know them. I nearly got crushed out there, you know," she adds, sounding almost pleased. "If Miss Foster hadn't come when she did I'd probably have been left behind. She said so."
I bite my tongue and continue writing. I focus on the shapes I'm making with my red and green pens and their meanings, and try not to wonder where my family are. Their faces flash through my miin – frak. Lena's still jabbering in my ear. I want to hit her. I want to scream. I want to kick her off this bed and pull the blanket (a soft blanket!) up over my head and block out the universe for a while.
Two days later.
Lena's disappeared. She was there when it was my turn for a shower (warm water, bliss) and she was gone when I got back. When I asked, people shrugged and said some guy had come to get her. I tried not to panic and think of Cylons and detention and sterile little cells. We're on Colonial One. We escaped. Nothing bad will happen now.
If I keep telling myself that maybe I'll believe it.
Now I'm sitting on the corridor that leads to the hangar deck. If I stay here long enough, I'll see someone I know. I'll see someone I can ask. Tom Zarek walked past an hour ago, but I'm not asking him. I stretch my legs across the narrow corridor. At least if someone trips on them they can't ignore me any longer.
Later.
I fell asleep! I didn't know I was so tired, but even the corridor was more comfortable than our tent back on New Caprica. The next thing I knew someone had their hand on my shoulder and was shaking me awake. I'm surprised to find it's Miss Foster.
"What are you doing here, Cassandra?" she scolded as I blinked up at her, her dark face haloed by Colonial One's bright lights.
I scowled at her. Nobody calls me that except my dad. "Lena's gone," I blurted, startling myself. "I want to know what's going on." My voice shook.
"The President sent for her," Miss Foster told me briskly. "Now get up and come with me."
I obeyed reluctantly and prepared to follow her back to the guest deck. To my surprise, she took me up to Deck One, where all the important stuff happens. She marched through the crowds of shouting people, and I concentrated on following her.
She held a blue curtain back for me and I ducked past, blinking when I found myself in a large room that's really just like a first class passenger cabin. It's not how I imagined the presidential office to be. It smells disgusting, close and musky and heavy, but more than a year of tent-city taught me how to breathe through nasty smells.
Miss Roslin was standing next to a whiteboard.
Suddenly, the whiteboard was too bright, and everything else too dark. My breath caught. The last thing I remember is Miss Foster's face and a garbled shout.
"When was the last time you ate?" Miss Roslin demands when I open my eyes.
"Can't 'member," I mumble and make a face. My mouth feels totally horrible.
She hands me a cup of tea. "Drink this," she says. "Tory – Miss Foster – has gone to see what we can give you to eat. Silly girl, why didn't you tell anyone?"
"I didn't think of it. I had a bottle of water and some sweet stuff that someone gave me."
"Hmm. At least you've got that much sense."
I blink up at her, wondering why my brain doesn't seem to be working properly. "Are you the president again?"
She peers at me through her glasses. "Officially, no. Not until tomorrow."
"So you're still Miss Roslin," I say drowsily.
Unexpectedly, she laughs. "Yes. No 'Madam President' until I'm sworn in again."
For a moment, I'm back in the school tent the day she told me she'd taken an oath. "You're taking the responsibility back."
"As I said, I can't seem to let it go. Here's Tory with – something." She eyes the plate of gloop that Miss Foster hands her with enough suspicion that I get nervous, even though my tummy seems to have woken up and started yelling 'Feed Me!'. Literally. It rumbles loudly and I feel the tide of heat rise over my face.
Miss Roslin laughs again. "I've no idea what this is, but it's food, so here you are. Eat!" She hands me the plate and a spoon and I dig in. 'Gloop' just about sums it up, but it's hot (if tasteless) and I don't really care.
When I finish, Miss Foster takes the plate and spoon away and Miss Roslin sits down beside me. "Where's your family, Cass?"
Suddenly I'm trying very hard not to cry. "I don't know," I whisper. "Mum was with Cottle anyway, and Dad said he was taking Xena to him 'cos she was s-so sick-"
Miss Roslin hands me a tissue. "What's wrong with Xena?"
The tissue's worthless. I'm properly crying now. "Chest infection, I think. We thought – we thought she'd never make it alone. She could hardly sit up, she was so weak." I rubbed my nose. "Dad said I was to come here."
She looked at me closely. "Do you think he stayed with Cottle?"
I scrubbed my eyes and nodded. To my surprise she stood up and held out her hand. "Come on. We're going to make a phone call."
Galactica.
This is the first chance I've had to write. I've been on Galactica for three days now. Mum and I are staying in guest quarters until Xena's better. Cottle says her immune system has been so weakened that he doesn't want to rush her.
We're having a service tomorrow for all the people we lost. There's two candles burning on the table now. One is for the baby. The other is for Dad. We don't know what happened for sure, but Cottle says after Dad left Xena with him, he ran off to help other people. No-one's seen him since. He might be on one of the civvy ships, but until all the lists are out, no-one knows for sure.
After the service.
It was held on the hangar deck here, and hung with the banners of the Twelve Colonies. The deck is huge, but it was filled with people, and only half of them were Galactica's crew. People from ships through the whole fleet came. Everyone was given a sheet of paper, and we were told to write the names of the people we'd lost. Then the priestess sang as the papers were gathered together and burnt. Later, the ashes will in scattered in space.
Dad wasn't on any of the lists.
Both Admiral Adama and President Roslin spoke. The Admiral was first. He talked about remembering our dead, and holding onto the living, because as long as we're out here we're family, no matter what blood or genetics says. Then he introduced President Roslin.
She didn't say very much. She talked about suffering and endurance and loss, and even though her voice isn't that loud, it was the only thing you could hear. She talked about faith and hope and walking together, because the gods lift those who lift each other.
Most of all, she talked about leaving the past behind and moving forward into the future.
Strange to think that I could have a future now. Strange to think it'll probably just be me and Mum and Xena. Miss Roslin offered Mum and job as one of her secretaries, once she found out that Mum was an aide to the Governor of Gemenon years ago. Strange to start school again, and not be taught by Miss Roslin or Miss Foster.
Maya and Isis weren't in the lists either.
I try not to think about Dad. I try not to think about New Caprica. All we can do is take things a day at a time.
-End.