** Meta-Author's note: I have elected to continue publishing 'Emissary' on my own webspace, wayfarergallery(dot)net, largely because I am a cartoonist, and because I gradually would like to make illustrations a part of its development. Also, I've become very enamored of some of the interactive functions allowed by presenting the story in "blog" format. However, I very much wanted to put at least some of it in a place that was made for people who are into and know about fan fiction. So here is a little bit. There are some three hundred pages of this thing already written. Here are the first few. **
**Meta-Author's note additional: d'oh! That's where I should have cut.**
Emissary from Another World
The collected diaries of Dr. Gaius Baltar
"Dr. Baltar clearly missed the Nova Express"
- William S. Burroughs
For the sake of argument, let's call this 1/1/1
C. has asked me to do this. Her opinion is that it will give me something constructive to do in the evenings. I'm not used to thinking of writing as constructive, but I follow her line of reasoning in that it is, at the very least "creative" in nature. She says, she thinks that creating something else is what I need to do. Her opinion is that it was fine for a while, when we were building and setting up the farm and helping with the village, but that now I have (her words) "left-over brains". So I need to do something. Here we are: Something. I am writing something. I have nothing to say and am saying it. I'm sure that's a quote from somewhere.
2/1/1
Just list what you do, she said, to start with. She was annoyed with me, or at least she seemed annoyed. I think she is tired of me. I wouldn't mind having the ability to shut off my extra functions. I would like to think less, in general. It seemed so idyllic at the start.
Here's what I did:
Checked and weeded vegetables.
Repaired damage to irrigation.
Turned over compost.
Built cover for well.
Thought about transplanting trees to save the walking.
Thought about F.
Drew plans for smokehouse.
This is ridiculous.
5/1/1
What I want is a cigarette. Just one cigarette.
And a drink. I'm going to build a still.
6/1/1
C. seems agitated. I don't know what the problem is and I realise that I don't actually know how to ask her. Time for honest reflection: the reason for that is, I have the problems, and she does the comforting. Quite selfish, really, on my part.
8/1/1
In the end I decided the best way was to just tell her what I had written. So I did. She cried.
Funny, of all the awful things that we've done to each other, New Caprica hurt her the most. I should have known that, but I didn't. Because I wasn't paying attention. Last time we talked about it, everything was about me and how much right I had to be angry with her then.
It isn't that hard to listen, actually. It really isn't that hard. It's certainly not as hard as my frakking head. I'm not angry with her. I'm angry at myself.
So: she thinks a similar thing is happening. Because I'm bored. Because I'm not happy with her. But I am! Or, I wouldn't be happy anyway.
She said she misses having a divine purpose. I think I do too.
It's not enough just to love somebody.
9/1/1
I didn't write this yesterday, but she wants a child.
I have given this a great deal of thought and I have decided it would be alright.
10/1/1
What was I thinking?
I can't sleep. I keep dreaming about Felix. I know what happened, but the real truth is that I killed him. I was the one who broke his heart. Everything that happened after was immaterial.
I have no business having a child. Whatever is wrong with me should die here.
11/1/1
Last night was awful.
I was up, obviously, writing. I didn't write very much in the end, but it took me a long time. I let the lamp burn, mostly because I liked looking at it, and I suppose the light woke her up. I apologised and told her to go back to sleep, but she said she was up now anyway and was going to have tea. She asked what I was doing and I said, writing, and she seemed a bit pleased. She also seemed very tired, which, I suppose, is hardly surprising. There isn't a watch or a clock, but it was obviously late.
She sat at the table with me for a while. We haven't been physically close lately.
Then she said, does the writing help? And I said, a little. And then I told her. I tried to be honest and I tried to be kind, but it didn't work, because it made her cry. She actually doesn't cry that much – she's not like me – but I have made her cry twice in as many days. This was messy, too. They were bad tears. She looked horrible. I tried to put my arm around her, but she wouldn't let me.
This was when she told me that she couldn't do this any more. I said, what? And she said it again in a manner that made it clear that "this" was me. Or rather, living with me, being with me.
I thought this was really unfair, so I said so. It isn't as if I haven't done anything – I more or less built the farm, not to mention a good deal of the house. But she said she didn't care, and that she couldn't do it, and that she was going to leave me. She wasn't angry. She just cried.
I got angry then. Because I am, actually, an awful person. I got angry and I told her that she should have told me that the child was a deal breaker. She said it wasn't. She said it was what was happening to me, and that there was no difference between right now and New Caprica, and I said that yes there was, because she wasn't there with her people manipulating me to enslave mine.
I wish she'd thrown something at me then, or hit me over the head because I kept talking and it got worse. I'm actually ashamed to write any more of it down. I suppose she had a strength of purpose behind all this, though, because she stayed calm(ish) and eventually she said, again, that she missed having a divine purpose. So I said "you think you're the only one?"
She said, "I made you my divine purpose, Gaius." I said that I had done the same for her. She said I hadn't, and she said that she shouldn't have. She said that it wasn't loving me, but saving me, that she was using to replace that purpose. Saving me from, presumably, myself. She said she didn't want to any more.
We were silent for a long time (mercifully, on my part, probably) and eventually I asked her where she would go. She said the village to stay with some other sixes and this seemed reasonable. But, of course, I don't want her to go, and I told her that.
She said she didn't know what else to do. And by God, she really meant it.
My whole body felt like it was made of ice. I wanted to do something kind for her. Something small, even make more tea, but I couldn't move. I said, there must be something I can do to fix it. She said, no. Because what I really had to fix was myself.
She didn't leave, in the end, but I think she will sooner or later. We talked for a long time, and it was mostly about that – about me, and about the fact that I feel guilty for everything that's happened. She says that it is eating me alive, and for a long time she was content to let it eat her too. She no longer is.
I tried to make love to her, but she wouldn't let me touch her. How dare she? She was the one who made me give her the codes. I think I hate her.
13/1/1
I have been in bed for a couple of days. Today, I got up, and there was mould on the tomatoes. It seems virulent. I do wish I had a stronger microscope, but the better one only worked with electricity.
The good news is, the still is coming along. In a few months, I should have something to drink that won't make me go blind.
15/1/1
We haven't spoken since the 10th. Not really. A few words in passing, about the farm, about the weather (NB: clay pottery? We're going to need some process by which to preserve vegetables.)
The silence is starting to become oppressive, but I'm afraid that when I talk, I'll say the thing that makes her leave.
I think I might have fixed the tomato problem.
17/1/1
Today, when I was out back with the trees (I think the apples can certainly be moved), C. came out with lunch. She used to do that every day, actually.
She asked me how I was feeling, which I thought was awfully generous of her, considering, and I told the truth: awful. I was – I am – terrified that she was, in fact, going to leave me.
She asked me why I would even care.
I got very angry then and shouted at her, how dare you ask me that? or something equally gallant. I don't know how she puts up with me and I think I am starting to see what she means about everything. I think I, Gaius Baltar, am a job of work. I did eat the lunch, by the way, and a lot of care had gone into it.
So, when I went in in the evening, I told her that I would care because I loved her. She said that she loved me too, and I tried to kiss her. She wouldn't let me. So I started to cry and then she said that this was one of the problems – that I loll around in self pity instead of doing anything, instead of fixing the problem. This is unarguably the truth.
So I said, how was I supposed to fix it, and she said that she didn't know, and that that was the point: that she was dog tired of being the person who had to fix my problems.
She is so beautiful. I forget that all the time, because I'm used to her. But she is - stunning, in fact. Her hair has started to grow now, even. I didn't think it would, but it has.
After a while, I said that I was sorry and that she was right. She asked me what I was going to do about it. I didn't know. I still don't.
She'd made dinner too. She does that every day.
18/1/1
C. has gone away for a few days. Probably for the best.
19/1/1
Dearest Caprica,
I am sorry to leave you with such a mess. Please know that none of this was your fault, and I never wanted to hurt you.
You were the only person I ever loved, and loving you
Selfish, selfish, selfish, selfish.
20/1/1
This is what it would be like without her, then. I'd be completely alone.
I spent most of today building the smokehouse. I think it will be quite good, actually. The real trick is preservation, as with the vegetables. It didn't get really cold here, last winter, but there are still times when things grow better than others, and there are always times when one can't get a deer (or whatever they are.)
What I would really like are some spices. I don't know where or how to procure those, but a little trial and error should bring something workable to the fore. Since running out of cigarettes, my sense of smell is stronger (which would be wonderful, if it weren't for the fact that so many things actually smell awful.) There's something supremely comical about imagining myself wandering around sniffing leaves.
21/1/1
My eyesight is getting worse and my glasses aren't helping. I'm going to have to start writing larger, though I don't like that as it wouldn't be as neat. Because that really matters. That is the sort of utter shit that matters to me. Because I am a shallow, selfish, vain, wretched man. Because I drove my wife away, as if everything else I'd done wasn't enough.
She's not coming back. I know that now.
24/1/1
I didn't know what else to do, so I was reading over what I've written. I realise that on the 21st, I referred to C. as my wife. This is, unarguably, what she is (or was), and I wonder if she would like a wedding. That's ridiculous, though, because there's nobody to come. Still, I should give her something, if she comes back. Something that indicates that I have married her, in my heart, if she wants it.
I never thought I would get married. It was the last thing I wanted – I always thought it was stupid. My father believed in it, though, and I suppose so did my mother. But I suppose they were right about that, as they were about everything else. Especially me.
It is remarkably beautiful here, and I am, actually, proud of the farm. I think Laura Roslin was like my mother, or, like my mother would have been if she had been from the city. Tough, but calm.
I know they both thought the same thing about me: that I had a lot of potential and I wasn't living up to it.
25/1/1
I'm giving this up. It isn't helping. I keep thinking about Felix and I just want to die.
**TBC**Really**But I am, as it turns out, unable to produce 'Emissary' here, as I cannot make the text function without strikethrough. What would Derrida say, I ask you?****It's at wayfarergallery(dot)net .**