Lee Adama is dreaming of vanilla and ginger. The smell is so warm and comforting that his lips form a smile and tears of gratitude seep from under his lashes. He's in their kitchen on Rosemary Avenue where a yellow sun is shining past the curtained window right onto his brother's dark hair, and Zak's taking a cookie from Lee's hand. Zak's wearing his favorite red tee-shirt with "Nuclear Candi" blazing across the front in orange dayglo lettters. The counter tops and checkered table cloth are the green of leaves that first morning in spring when you take your bike out after winter and ride until your butt is numb and your legs turn to rubber.
Maybe it will be one of the good days, he thinks as he comes around enough to realize where he really is, and that the sweetness in his mouth is merely a fanciful trick of the mind. Some part of him is still there, or part of there is here; he feels it and doesn't want to open his eyes and lose the little piece that's left. Not just yet . . . it's already gone.
"You like that, don't you." A sighing murmur in his left ear; her warm breath nearly tickles. It is a her. Kara? No . . . didn't he leave her on the Galactica just . . . when . . . hours ago? Yesterday? Dee, as well, all of them celebrating and waving farewell.
He smiles, a warmth cruising up his body; everyone, even his father. It had been a little strange, saying goodbye to the past like that, not knowing what was ahead, for practically the first time in his life, and . . . wait . . .
I was thinking, that voice, why can't --
"You can open your eyes now." Low, throaty, in his other ear.
I can. Hadn't realized. Of course, I should have, shouldn't I? He drags his eyes open. That's what it feels like . . . sleepy, when you don't want to wake up.
It is still rather dark, and he can't see the far end of the room. In fact, he can't see the walls on either side. Looking down, he sees his bare feet on a dark floor of, possibly metal, only it is warm; the room is warm, only there is no hum or vibration of a ship. It doesn't smell like a ship. Isn't that where he should be? And where are his shoes? Above his feet begin what look like sweat pants, only they aren't his. He would know. Surely he shouldn't be here; he was supposed to be somewhere in his suit. This is all wrong. Definitely wrong when he tries to step forward and can't. He's attached to the wall behind. With something hard, probably metal, and his wrists are sore. Only they hadn't been until he thought of it. The whole thing is very troubling. He'd rather go back to the dream.
Strong yet tender fingers begin kneading his neck, his shoulder. It feels so wonderful his eyes drift closed again. The voice is in his ear. "It's all right Lee. Whenever I am here you'll be fine. I'll always take care of you."
That's nice.
She's moving; he can hear the swish swish of soft clothing and opens his eyes again to see her only inches away. Gods, she is beautiful. Her skin is flawless; lips glistening; blue eyes searching. Her hands caress his cheeks, so warm and gentle. "You must learn to trust me. We have much to learn from one another. You have to know I want to keep you from what is going to happen, but they won't let me. I'll keep trying. Remember that. Don't ever give up. I'll come back, and I'll keep trying to help you. Will you remember?"
She is familiar. He wants to please her; the look on her face - it seems important that he agree, that he remember. "Yes."
She leans forward and kisses him lightly but firmly on the lips, her honey-blonde hair falls forward to brush his temples.
He watches her walk into the darkness, blue dress swaying, no sound of a hatch, nothing.
Remember, remember, only it's hard to retain a thought. She looked so familiar. It's because . . . because . . . . Gods, she's a cylon and he's . . . not where he's supposed to be. He can't think right; he hasn't been thinking right. He's drugged, that's why. Adrenaline, panic, three heavy, deep, fast breaths, a pull against the restraints and he drops his head.
Use your brain, fool. The drugs must be wearing off. You're a prisoner of the Cylons. That's it; it has to be. You've been trained for this. Trained to resist drugs, too. You've got nothing to tell them. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Oh gods, I'm on a Cylon ship. How long? How long have I got? How did they do it? It doesn't matter. Don't make fool of yourself. All that matters now is how you go. They probably think I know a lot because I'm Adama's son. Because I was a commander. A cag. Gods. How long will it go on? Admit how scared you are. That's first. Damned scared. I'm no frakkin' hero. Remember your training. Say nothing. Don't even start. Don't get smart. Say nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Scream all you want, but say nothing.
Her kiss . . . it was ginger and vanilla.
Colonel Saul Tigh hesitates before before tapping his calloused knuckles on the hatch to Admiral Adama's quarters. He grits his teeth when he hears the gruff "enter" and steps within. He's been the bearer of so much bad news to this man and wonders how they manage to remain good friends in spite of it. Maybe because there is no one else.
The red pattern in the rug glows softly in the dim light of the overhead. The Admiral sits with his hands on the edge of his desk, arms stiff and straight as if to push it away, or perhaps to steady himself. His face is all sharp highlights and deep crags in the light of the desk lamp. Tigh refuses to look at the hands that are likely clutching there, perhaps too tightly.
"What have you found?" His chin is tucked; his eyes glare, daring the colonel to disappoint him.
"The four who traded guard duty the last three days swear nothing was said about Lee's departure within the cylon's hearing. Nothing was ever discussed in the brig at all."
"You believe them? One hundred percent?"
"I put those four on duty myself. You know how I feel about that thing, Bill. I have the utmost faith in those men."
"Even if she did know, how could she possibly have contacted them?" Colonel Tigh hadn't realized President Roslin was there, silent until now, in the chair in the shadows to the left of the desk. "Wouldn't they have to be in the same sector? Surely we would have known if they were."
"It's possible a raider could have escaped detection. Unlikely, but possible." The colonel didn't like admitting that, but so many civilian ships had to be spread out, and there were only a limited number of pilots out there at any one time in as many patched up vipers and raptors as could be kept flying. Luck had been on their side, so far.
"They attacked only to take that one raptor without destroying it. They knew exactly who was in it, and she's the only one who could have told them." Adama stares at the photograph on his desk, then up at the colonel. "I want her airlocked immediately."
Roslin is on her feet. "You can't! I won't allow it!"
"She is a danger to this fleet!"
"It's not the fleet you're worried about, it's revenge! You don't know it's her, you're only guessing. She cares about Hera, more than anything. It's why she's here; she knows the child is only safe with us. Why would she do anything to endanger her? She would no more do such a thing than Athena would!"
Adama grips the desk even harder, maybe as hard as his lips are now pressed together in a grim down turned line - the voice that puckers his subordinates' under drawers. "You dare speak to me of revenge."
She takes a breath, folds her hands and sits. Speaks calmly this time. "Well, it takes one to know one, doesn't it."
Adama releases the desk, sits back in his chair, takes a deep breath of his own. Tigh has seen him do this before - gather himself, the forced calm while the mind furiously takes routes not previously explored. "Obviously, then, you suspect some other Cylon activity on at least one of our ships."
"Obviously. She has already told me there are five more and she believes they are nearby. Only I had the impression they were not like the others. They may not want the human race wiped out."
The colonel is breathing slow and deep, trying to make his heart rate normal.
"They merely want my son." One hand lies on the desk, a pen grasped tightly, thumb rubbing its tip. He looks from it to her face.
"I don't know, Bill. I don't think she does either. But I'll talk to her. There is something . . . ." She gives him a look, a quirk of her mouth, lowers her head, raises it. "Anyway, let me try; it can't hurt."
Colonel Tigh had managed to get both Tory and Chief Tyrol alone, and both of them denied any contact with the enemy.
The enemy, he thinks, as he knocks back the ambrosia in the privacy of his quarters. What if the enemy is us, is me? Tyrol had brought it up, that they might not remember, and he had debunked it. Of course, he had. Only now, back in his quarters and alone, he can't help but think it. Anders is gone now, there is always that possibility. But the man was so worried about being a Cylon already, practically a nervous wreck when he'd thought the raider had discovered him. No, if it was anyone, Tyrol and I are the first to know the schedules. Exactly what raptor is going where, when and who is on it. There is a part of me who is glad to see the last of Bill Adama's son. That boy has been a flea in my pants since he'd come aboard with his holier-than-thou attitude. Let alone that time he put a gun . . . holy gods. Another shot of ambrosia that burns going down. I couldn't have, could I? Surely not. I am an officer in Colonial Fleet!
A Cylon; I'm a Cylon.
Never. I wouldn't do that to Bill. Never. He sits, one hand grasping the half-full bottle, the other around the empty glass.
Its a small, yet elegant, room, covered in the luxurious gold brocades and rich velvets of a sumptuous bygone era. The light is low and unseen except for the glow from a small globe on a circular table where the three sit on deep pillows.
"This is a little . . . eccentric . . . don't you think?" he says.
"We find the contrast provocative and rather comforting at times," she says.
"We aren't here to discuss the decor." Their third member shifts impatiently on her pillow.
"You should cultivate patience, Six. It's all going to happen as it has been written, as it has happened before. You should know." He sits cross-legged to her left; his hands lie at ease on his thighs.
"I am tired of hearing that, as though your part should be enough for the rest of us. You believe a human loves you, yet you cannot tell us what love is. Love is defined as strong affection, tenderness and devotion based on common interests. What part of that applies to you and the human, Kara Thrace? She killed you over and over, yet you say you love her." Her hands are fists on the table. There are deep lines between her eyes, and the muscles around her chin are taut, yet the words are clear and controlled.
"We believe God wants us to produce children, and the only way we can do it is with humans. Our one hope, the only child we had, is gone. Gone because she could not survive without the love of her true mother. We have learned she would never have survived at all without the love of the two that had made her. We still do not understand this love or why it is so important, or how it has come between us and our own kind." She peers at the globe. "Now we are in the midst of a civil war, and you tell me to be patient."
He places a hand on one of hers. "Love cannot be defined, only experienced. I understand your need for clarification. But do you really believe you can learn anything from the prisoner?"
"I don't know; I have to try."
"To adapt him, reprogram him according to what we have learned, that's one thing, but this other, I doubt it is possible."
"You said you would not interfere, as long as I played my part."
"I only express doubt. If God has placed him in our hands for the reason you say, then anything is possible."
"Good." She turns to her twin, whose hair is lighter and twisted severely on top of her head. "Can you do this again?"
"Certainly. You know how repulsive I found it originally. I admit it has been difficult . . . wondering why God wants us to have children with creatures who would do such things to their own kind. This love you speak of, perhaps it is the explanation. I hope so, for I wish this to be the last time. The process has become too intriguing, and I find myself looking forward to it far too much."
The first reaches her hands across the table and they join hands on either side of the globe. "Sister, I, too, wish some other way. Only, if this be God's will, if we find what we seek, all will come right in the end. We may understand the path we are to take."
The single male watches them, their faces golden masks in the soft light of the globe. An identical tear tracks down the left cheek of each identical, beautiful mask. It is obvious they have already become contaminated by human contact, just as he has. They all have; none are immune. Why don't they see it? They believe they are going to make Adama theirs, get this information from him. But contact is like energy, it runs both directions.
Perhaps that is God's plan, as well.