Ground breaking
Disclaimer: Battlestar Galactica doesn't belong to me. I'm only borrowing the characters for my evil purposes for a while.
These are the ramblings of Gaius Baltar. Any resemblance to reality is unintentional and purely coincidental.
Peripherally A/R.
Missing scene in Episode 3.09 - Unfinished Business
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President of the Twelve Colonies, winner of three Magnate Prizes and all-round genius Dr Gaius Baltar stumbled around the tent laneways of New Caprica town three sheets to the wind. He knew he was extremely drunk, because his prodigious intellect seemed unable to help him navigate his way back to Colonial One. Not to mention that even thinking the word "prodigious" hurt his head. And who the frak had come up with the notion that "three sheets to the wind" was a good euphemism for being drunk? Frak: "euphemism" hurt his head, too. He shouldn't have ditched his security detail - they would have been able to get him back to his ship. They were good for little things like that.
He knew he was feeling somewhat maudlin, but couldn't help it. Not only was he drunk and lost, he was terminally bored as well, he finally admitted to himself. What had seemed like intoxicating power when he had first become President some months before had devolved into tedious responsibility. Tedious, mind-numbing responsibility. There were too many details he simply couldn't give a flying frak about and so he had begun delegating more and more work to Felix Gaeta. Good old plodding Felix. Military man through and through. One of those unimaginative types who liked the sort of monotonous details that just about put Gaius into a coma each time one of his ministers opened their mouths
Even the delights of hot-and-cold running women was beginning to pall. They were beautiful, experienced, adventurous, but somehow generally lacking in something. Half the time he couldn't remember their names, and they meant no more to him than the furniture aboard Colonial One.
No, scratch that. The large comfortable bed he'd had commissioned when he became President actually meant more to him than the women. The narrow couch he'd inherited as a bed when he'd been installed as President had been completely unsuitable for a man of his eminent position. What the frak had Roslin been thinking, sleeping on that thing?
He swigged from the bottle of Ambrosia in hand. Only the best for President Gaius Baltar. Like this ambrosia. While he had provided free drinks for the unwashed masses at today's "Ground breaking" ceremony, they were drinking beer and moonshine while he was sipping ambrosia. Well sculling it, actually, but who was going to quibble?
The free alcohol was certainly loosening people's inhibitions he thought, as he turned a corner and saw yet another couple engaged in a passionate clinch. At least these two had found somewhere relatively comfortable - reclined on what appeared to be a pile of sandbags. The last pair he'd encountered had been rolling around in the dirt - though they'd probably been from Aerlion he thought, a sneer curling his lip. What could you expect from ground grubbers?
A happy shout and drunken cheers came from somewhere nearby, causing the couple on the sandbags to break their lip-lock. The woman whispered something to the man then she stood and drew him into her tent.
Baltar's jaw dropped to somewhere around his knees as he recognized the couple even in the dim light: it was the stalwart Admiral of the Fleet, William Adama, and the delectable ex-President, Laura Roslin. He stood stock-still in the shadows, staring at the tent they'd entered as it began to glow golden with candle light.
He'd always suspected - but could never prove - that Roslin was frakking Adama. It had to have started early on, of course. Why else would Adama - who had a warship at his disposal - support a prissy ex-teacher as President of the Colonies? It was preposterous beyond belief, unless he was getting something out of it…
Their affair had definitely started by that first Colonial Day. Any idiot with eyes in their head could see it as they danced together. They were practically frakking on the dance floor with those scorching looks.
Then they'd had a little lover's tiff, and he threw her in jail (probably just an excuse on his part to indulge in some interrogation and bondage), before he was shot and she took off for Kobol. And you couldn't possibly believe they hadn't had some rather spectacular make-up sex while down on the planet. They both shone with an "I've just been well-frakked" glow when they returned to Galactica.
Baltar tilted his head, looking at the tent with a grin. The candle light might look nice and romantic inside the tent, but the couple seemed unaware just how perfectly it silhouetted their embrace to someone watching from outside. He chugged some more ambrosia and patted down his jacket pockets looking for a cigar. Might as well get comfortable…
A pair of large strong hands grabbed him from behind and clamped his arms to his sides with bruising force. As he opened his mouth to cry out in pain, a second set of hands shoved a rag in his mouth and gagged him before shoving a damp, smelly bag over his head. His arms were quickly and expertly secured behind his back. Belatedly, he began to struggle, but two pairs of hands now had him in an iron grip, and he was hauled off into the night.
His captors were none too careful with his person as they half-carried, half-dragged him though the settlement. If he lived till morning, he would be black and blue. If.
The sounds of revelry fell behind and he realized he was being taken out of the settlement. His struggles doubled, but to no avail. Eventually they stopped, and dropped him to the ground like a sack of potatoes. He moaned in fear, certain they were about to kill him.
He was forced to his knees and began unintelligibly pleading for his life through the gag. That earned him a swift backhand to the face, and he sprawled in the dirt, stunned.
"Listen you little frak-weasel," one of the men hissed, "The pervasions you practice on Colonial One are one thing. But if you even think about going near Ms Roslin's tent again, you disgusting little pervert, we're going to make you very, very sorry. Got it?"
He cowered in the dirt, gibbering in terror.
No more threats or violence were forthcoming. He lay there on the ground an indeterminate amount of time; listening, waiting for the next blow that never came. Finally, deciding his tormentors had indeed left, Baltar cautiously wriggled around until the bag came off his head.
Darkness was replaced by, well, almost darkness. He could see the lights of the settlement in the distance. In the milky starlight, he could make out the ponderous hulks of spaceships nearby: he had been dumped at the edge of the forest behind the landing field.
Trying to attract attention as futile. Everyone was still out celebrating, or had retired to their cots for the night. No help would be forthcoming. With grim determination, he contorted and stretched until he was able to bring his arms around in front of him. The knots on his bonds he managed to untie with his teeth, and the ropes fell to the dirt between his legs.
For a time, he just sat there, unable to summon the energy to drag himself back to the safety of Colonial One. Fright eventually gave way to anger.
How to punish those who had humiliated him? The men who had abused him were definitely Roslin/Adama supporters. Most likely those "ex" marines that somehow managed to occupy tents directly surrounding Laura Roslin's. He could see Adam's hand in both their presence in the town and their placement around Roslin. The new Colonial Security Service wasn't large enough to protect ex-Presidents, so Adama had taken the bull by the horns, and set some of his own marines aside for his lover's protection.
But without proof he could do nothing. He was certain that should he press matters directly, those marines would have twenty people swearing blind they'd been at the party during the attack.
And the Admiral would definitely have to pay. The Admiral… Hmm. He paused, his thoughts taking an abrupt turn.
Baltar's eyes lit with a wicked gleam. What need did a Fleet Admiral have to come to the surface of the planet? None. And a school teacher had even less reason for visiting an orbiting warship.
Tomorrow, President Baltar would announce to Admiral Adama that he felt he could dispense with face-to-face meetings, and the Admiral could confine himself to his duties aboard Galactica, overseeing the defense of New Caprica. His lips twisted in the approximation of a smile. It was a small, petty revenge, but hopefully the two would be suitably miserable at the separation.
Whistling, he stumbled through the fields back to Colonial One.
It was so nice and justifiable: after all, the Cylons might come back one day. They had to be prepared.
END