The Unknown Known

"There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don't know we don't know." ~Donald Rumsfeld

"All warfare is based on deception." ~Sun Tzu

"Get that thing off my bridge."

It's my voice, yet not. Everything still is, yet nothing is as it was a mere few seconds ago. She is no longer Gina Inviere; I am no longer Helena Cain. The people we were—that we pretended to be—are so far away that I feel completely disconnected. I wish I could say that I was completely shocked when I saw the image on the screen, but somehow, it's as if I knew all along. She'd been too perfect, we'd been too frakkin' right for each other. My gut has always known that it would end badly. I just didn't realize how badly.

My men step forward, but she is too quick for them—there is a flurry of noise and surprise, and suddenly she is holding a gun, staring at me over the barrel. I cannot tear my eyes away from this thing, this inhuman woman who stands before me, trembling with fear and adrenaline as her eyes silently ask for some kind of forgiveness, some token of mercy.

I hate myself for how I want to give her exactly what she wants, even as my heart lies in shattered, bleeding ruins at her feet.

I hate her for how she makes me want to cry—at her beauty, at her fear, at her certain fate. I hate her for how she makes me forget to be a razor.

However, I hate the weakness within me more than I hate the darkness within her. She is a machine, she is merely performing her function. I am a human. I am the one with foresight and intelligence and instinct—I should have known better than to trust her.

Over the years, I have allowed myself to soften—a practice not uncommon among soldiers in times of peace, though its prevalence does not excuse my own lack of discipline.

But now I must become hard again. The process isn't easy, much like building calluses from repeated physical labor, but it is necessary, so I take a deep breath as I stare at the ceiling in my private quarters.

I cannot sleep. I might as well teach myself how to be a razor again.

I begin to mentally recite the list of mistakes that I have made, allowing myself to feel the pain of each emotional wound before pushing it back under again. There must be a lesson learned with each mistake, or else it serves no purpose.

I became too trusting. I let my own men get too close. I let Jurgen feel more like a friend than a subordinate (I frakking held him when he wept over the loss of his wife and children, I held his head over my heart like he was a child, letting him be more vulnerable and open with me than I usually allowed my lovers to be—gods, what kind of example did that set?). I let Gina Inviere—I let that thing that called itself Gina Inviere—into my inner sanctum. I let it turn my head with pretty sighs and soft touches and all the things that a fighter shouldn't need and a razor shouldn't want.

This last acknowledgement makes my throat tighten and I am surprised to feel a warm tear slip down my temple, into my hairline (how long have I been crying, and how could I not even notice such a thing?). Not for the first time today, I wish that Jurgen was still here. He was my confidant, he was the one who heard my confessions of regrets—I still do not regret what I did today (it was necessary, it was a vital move in establishing chain of command and maintaining order), but I do regret that I had to do it to him. Now there is no one left to trust.

I wish that Gina was here. She was the one who saw my tears, the one who quietly watched as I lowered my defenses after long days spent staring into the bleak face of the future, sending more young lives out into a fight that we can't possibly win against an enemy that can never understand the depth of our loss, that can never be truly hurt in the way that we have been. She was the one to hold me, letting her fingers be tangled into my hair as her other hand traced incoherent patterns on my shoulder, letting my mind drift while her body anchored mine to the present.

The thought of how it felt to have her body lying next to mine suddenly makes this bed feel too large, too unstable, like a raft adrift at sea, and the heat of the friction from the hundred passions we played across these very sheets burns against my skin. Her cries are still whispering in the metal walls and her scent and the weight of her being are still here, still filling the room like poison vapors.

I catapult onto my feet, escaping into the bathroom—it's a tiny thing, a claustrophobic box, but it's cool and thankfully devoid of memory.

I lean forward, bracing my hands against the metal rim of the sink, taking big, deep breaths to fight the inner animal that claws and beats against my chest.

I fall back on old tricks—I recite the Prayer of Huntress, followed by the Tenets of Athena. I name every god in the Pantheon, then all the lesser deities, then the patrons of Tauron. I murmur their prayers, or at least as much of them as I can recall. These ritually comforting things bring no peace, and my mind is still swirling as my body shivers at the remembrance of things past.

Why am I shaking? It isn't cold...or is it? My lungs have gotten smaller; my mind goes black around the edges because I can't seem to get enough oxygen.

In a moment of piercing clarity, I think I must be going through withdrawal. I have become addicted to comfort, to tenderness, to that thing, that machine which slipped past my defenses with such thoughtless ease.

I give my head a quick shake, but my thoughts don't simply tumble out of my brain—no, no, I'm stuck with this hurt and this guilt and this unnamed weight pressing on my lungs.

Pull yourself together, Helena.

Helena. No one calls me that anymore. The toaster in the brig was the last one who did. As if on cue, I hear her voice in my head, the way she used to whisper against the sheets, against my hair as she kissed my ear, my neck, my shoulder, Helena, Helena, Helena...

The next voice I hear is not as soft—it is Lucy's, screaming in fear, the last words I ever heard from my baby sister, Helena! Helena, no...Helena!

Lucy. I have betrayed you yet again, through my cowardice, through my weakness, through my selfishness—

I feel the bile rising in my throat, and I turn to the toilet, barely making it before I violently retch. I push my hair away from my eyes and feel the sticky sweat on my forehead—dear gods, I truly am like some strung-out junkie suffering from withdrawals.

I pull myself to my feet again, moving back to the sink to douse my face in cold water. I list the battles of the War of the Colonies, then the dates and events of the Cylon War. I go back to my days at the Tauron Military Academy—Basic Tactical Theory with Commander Hugh Attwater.

Commander Attwater was a mountain of a man, the epitome of what one would expect a great military leader to be, and though he also looked like someone who was more brawn than brains, he possessed one of the most brilliant tactical minds ever to grace the Colonial Fleet. He also had a deep, weathered voice that could charm angels into becoming demons—gods, how I fantasized about that man.

I can still hear his voice, just as clearly as if he is standing over my shoulder during one of his lectures—even in those days, I had been logical and pragmatic, sometimes brutally so, and I had been his pet. His deep cadence rolls over me, like a gentle wave on the shore.

Three hundred years ago, Clautes of Tauron set down the three elements of knowing—that which we know that we know, that which we know that we do not know, and that which we do not know that we do not know. The known known, the known unknown, and the unknown unknown. As a tactician, you must plan for all three. However, you must also acknowledge a fourth element. Cadet Cain, can you tell us what that fourth element is?

"The unknown known." I answer aloud, as if the question were actually asked. I take a deep breath, closing my eyes as I remember these lessons from so many years ago (has it truly been twenty years, two whole decades since?).

The unknown known. That which we know, but which we intentionally refuse to acknowledge. That which we ignore, the gut-instinct that we choose not to follow.

And how does one combat the unknown known?

"One must acknowledge all aspects of one's reality and one's personality, regardless of how unpleasant it may seem." I respond flatly, wiping away the tears that have pooled under my eyes. This concept had saved me from myself—at the time, I was young and still consumed with angst and guilt over the loss of my sister. But I realized that if I truly wanted to be a great general, then I had to acknowledge this part of myself. I was a coward, but also a survivor. I would do whatever it took to survive—a trait that I could use to protect myself and the lives of my men, a trait that could be used for good. There is no dishonor in living to fight another day; there is only practicality and necessity.

I stopped following this rule, stopped questioning reality and personality, and that was my downfall.

Gina Inviere was my unknown known. I knew that it was imprudent to allow her into my confidence, I knew that nothing good could come of a liaison between an admiral and a civilian subordinate, I knew that keeping a lover during wartime was unwise, and yet, I pushed aside all those warnings for my own selfish desires, my own inability to be without some kind of comfort, my own sniveling dependence to a chemical high that could be gotten from anyone, anywhere, at any time.

Commander Attwater's voice is in my head again, searching, pressing me the way he used to do, whenever he was challenging me to go farther and do better, Acknowledge all aspects, Cadet. All of them. Even the painful, ugly ones. Especially those.

I nod in agreement. That's how you become a razor, too—you see all, you accept all, you let it burn you so that you can be remolded and reshaped into a better weapon. Blades are made through forging, through fire and brimstone and the heavy weight of the hammer as it strengthens the metal.

I must accept that this weakness is who I am. I look in the mirror at the pathetic, teary-eyed Admiral who was stupid enough to fall for the oldest trick in the book. I hate the thing that stares back at me.

The first time we touched. Her left shoulder accidentally (or was it really not so accidental?) brushing against my right as we stood side by side, reviewing charts for the retrofit. I stepped back, slightly thrown off—it had been so long since I'd had any physical contact. My officers never dared to stand within arm's reach of me, with the exception of Colonel Belzen, but he was certainly aware of how finicky I was about my personal space and he never intruded into what he affectionately called my "bubble".

Jurgen. I shot him today. Without hesitation, without remorse. Just like Gina should have shot me. Why didn't she? Why the frak didn't she?

The look in her eyes. The complete vulnerability, the utter sadness, so deep and overwhelming that it took my breath away, crushed the heart that I didn't even know I possessed. Her eyes spoke of loneliness, of exclusion and solitude. I understood that. We were the same creature, both caged by loneliness, two sets of hungry eyes and hands praying for lands to explore, seeking comfort and familiarity in a world that offered none. I never had to ask who she was or what she wanted. I simply understood her, with a startling level of clarity that I'd never experienced with any other person.

Even today, even after her mask was ripped away and the scales fell from my own eyes, I still saw that look, that longing, that sorrow. Ye gods above, she must have the most advanced programming in the universe, to be able to pull off such convincing shows of emotion.

The ache. We were sitting on the couch in my private quarters. She had stopped by to present some more networking options. It could have waited til the next morning, but for some reason, I felt the need to see her. I didn't even consider myself attracted to her; she simply made me laugh—something no one on Pegasus could do, with the exception of Jurgen Belzen. I had just left a meeting with the brass aboard the Hydra, those stodgy old men with their rheumy eyes and cigars and liver spots, hard-boiled and weather-beaten by thousands of days on battlestars and weeks in the cockpits during humanity's greatest war. I was not wearing my regulation blues—instead, I had chosen a fitted black dress, with a matching tailored business jacket. The dress was knee-length, but there was a slit that traveled half-way up my thigh. I had chosen the dress specifically for that purpose—the old boys on the board could handle me in my butch navies, because they understood a tough woman in pants. It fit with their conception of power and strength. But give 'em a girl in a dress with heels and makeup and they were suddenly reduced to the intelligence level of sheep. It was a power play on my part, and a damn good one. Worked every time.

Gina was seated next to me; she reached across to pick up a folder from the coffee table, lightly placing her hand on my leg, just above my knee. Had I been wearing my slacks, I would hardly have noticed—by then I'd become accustomed to Ms. Inviere's complete disregard for personal space. But the simple sensuality of touching bare skin completely changed her innocent gesture. I shifted slightly; she realized her mistake and blushed profusely. She stammered, but quickly continued her thoughts on that particular option. For the life of me, I don't remember a single word she said after that. All I could think about was the heat of her hand on my skin, and the sudden longing that she created inside of me.

Stupid frakking toaster.

I have spent so many hours closing the unseeing eyes of dead men and women, gently pulling the flag of a world that no longer exists over the faces of sons and daughters with no parents, brothers and sisters with no siblings, no family left to mourn—because these frakking toasters have destroyed us all.

Those soldiers followed me straight to the Styx. I took an oath to protect them, just as they swore to protect the Colonies, and look how it all ended. A muddled mess, a gaping mouth with no teeth, thunder without lightning, action without reason.

I think back to the day that the recon crew returned with the terrible news that our home worlds had truly been destroyed, the day that I decided that our only option and our only imperative would be to fight until there was nothing left—the sound of my entire Battlestar chanting So say we all, so say we all!, the feeling of determination, the startling realization that every second of my entire life had been leading me to this moment, waiting for the chance to let my true self emerge. I was meant to lead these people, to be the last admiral in humanity's last charge. There would be no history books to remember me, no one left to tell stories of our bravery and defiance, but that was quite alright. My soldiers knew me, they trusted me, and that was enough. It was the most golden moment of my life, the validation of my existence, the culmination of my past and the revelation of my destiny.

And all of it is lost. Lost to a pair of hazel eyes and a silver tongue that killed me with such honeyed lies.

I am no longer the golden commander, the last bastion of humanity's fury. I am the disgraced and fallen woman, foolish enough to have committed the ultimate sin of sleeping with the enemy, allowing it to thrive among us, blinding myself to the truth even as it killed my soldiers.

Weak, pitiful, short-sighted failure. Too inept to see the oldest trick in the book, and still too weak to even face my mistakes with some modicum of dignity. Still too full of helpless love-struck simpering sighs to be able to distance myself from the situation as an admiral should.

I look up at the vile, disgusting creature once more. She stares back at me, her dark brown eyes filled with such pain and self-pity that I am immediately filled with loathing. Frakking toaster lover. I smack my face, trying to wipe that abhorrent expression from it. The thing stares back at me, still immobilized by remorse.

I'll kill her. I'll kill her if it frakkin' kills me. Stop looking at me like that.

I clench my fist and slam into her pathetic face with all my might. The mirror shatters, throwing silver droplets across the room, shards of the lonely little girl's face hanging in the air for the briefest of eternities before crashing to the ground.

I can feel tiny flecks of the glass on my face. I wish that it would have shredded me to pieces, disfigured me completely, made me unrecognizable so that I never have to see that awful dejected spineless thing again. So that I can march into the holding cell, straight to that toaster with the lonely eyes and shriek, "See? See what you've done to me?!"

But I am not that weak. Yes, I am weak, but I will never let my emotions run so rampantly, bursting into public displays like some hysterical figure from the tragedies of old. I still have some control left.

I hear steady drops of water. I look down at the sink spout, but nothing comes out. I look down at my right hand, still tightly balled into a fist. There are a few small cuts on my fingers and a gash just above my wrist. Blood seeps from the wound, snaking down my hand and dripping from my knuckles in a rhythmic pat, pat, pat. I watch it with unfeeling eyes, curiously detached. There is no pain. That's what adrenaline does to you.

I flex my hand open, then clench it into a fist again. The blood flows down my fingertips, trailing down the sink, down the drain, down, down, down into the depths of the ship.

The way she drained me. The moments of pulsing passion, when it was all too much and not nearly enough, when eternity was suspended in a single second, when blood and fire rained in a world of endless waves, when she made me forget myself, when I saw nothing but whiteness and felt my entire body alive and awakened like electricity in its purest form. That was the drug I used to dull my senses, the broom I used to sweep my instincts under the rug. Her mouth, her hands, her skin on my skin, gently pushing me to make the known into the unknown. Her flesh beneath my mouth, my hands, my flesh, feverishly accepting this invitation to oblivion.

And despite the truth I now see behind her actions, I cannot stop the pull inside of me, the longing that still echoes in the caverns of my hips, seeping into my bones and smoldering across my skin, calling out for her, for the power and the glory and the consummation of our flames into one, for the draining and the oblivion and the possession and the stillness in the eye of the storm.

I don't want to feel this way—not about her, not anymore. Still, I must accept this part of me—and in doing so, I must accept her hold over me. In acknowledging this weakness, I give myself the power to overcome it. You cannot overcome that which you do not even know exists.

I will exorcise her from my mind, from my body and my soul and my private quarters. I look down at my hand again—now my fingers are completely red, warm and slick with my own blood, and I think this is good. The ancients used to think that bloodletting helped cured the body of ill humors. Perhaps this will cure mine.

There is a knock on the door—quick, insistent. Has someone been knocking?

"Admiral?" Lt. Shaw's voice filters into the room. Her tone tells me that she has been there for some time.

She appears in the doorway, her expression slightly repentant as she says, "I'm sorry, Admiral, I thought I heard—"

That's when she notices the broken glass. I watch her eyes travel down to my hand, to the blood.

"Are you...do you want me to send for the doctor?" She is hesitant, uncertain, and she suddenly seems embarrassed.

"No," I turn back to the sink, turning on the water. There is a slight prick of pain as the water pushes into the cuts, but I don't care. Pain builds resistance, which builds endurance and strength. All is connected, all is necessary. I learned that from Commander Attwater, too.

Shaw is still standing in the doorway, and for some reason, I feel the need to offer her some kind of reassurance.

"I'm fine, Lieutenant," I state, opening the medicine cabinet—my knuckles will heal on their own, but the cut on my arm needs a bandage. I take pride in how even and unaffected my voice sounds, in how easily I slip back into the role of Admiral Cain.

"Yes, sir." Another pause. Then, "Shall I send someone in to clean this up, sir?"

A wry smile slips onto my face. What stories they'd have to tell in the bunks—the time Ol' Cain got soppy and broke a mirror like a petulant teenager. "I clean up my own messes, Lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."

I turn my attention to applying the gauze to my arm, "What did you want to see me about?"

"Sir?"

"You came in here. I'm assuming there was a reason."

"No, sir—I mean, I happened to be passing by when I heard the glass break, and I...I was concerned, sir."

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise as I look at this woman, this young thing who continues to surprise me at every turn. "You just happened to be passing by, Lieutenant?"

One look into those expressive eyes, and I know the truth—she was standing guard outside my room, trying to protect me from any more Cylon agents who might be onboard, masquerading as humans.

"Yes, sir." She's never going to admit such a thing, never in a million years, and for some reason, I find it endearing. In fact, in this moment, as she's looking at her shoes, uncertain and concerned again, I think I could eat her up, just like the lustful wolf from a hundred childhood fables. I could devour her whole, consuming that loyalty and faith she has in me, using her reverence and respect as the foundation to reclaim my sterling destiny, letting her build monuments to me in her mind, just as I once built for my mentors. I could drain her, just as Gina drained me—I could set fire to her timid little lands and shatter her world with my own sheer force of personality, I could prove myself to be the heroine, the warrior, the claimer of captives that I once was. She is young and pretty and I could do things to her that she has never even imagined were possible, I could leave her a mere trembling shell of her former self, I could suck every ounce of life from her as my own personal fuel, I could sate my helpless hurting with her wide-eyed adoration, easing the ache in my soul with the fullness of another warm body. She could be my next conquest, my next great victory, my next sacrifice to the gods of my own making.

But she will not be any of those things. And I will not do any of those things. I am acknowledging all aspects of my personality once more, and I know that I am merely looking for some kind of substitute, someone else's heart to offer on an altar that will only be satisfied with my own pain. In a way, she would make me weak, too—she would put me on a pedestal, turning me into some infallible goddess, and my ego would fly to dangerous heights once more.

No. I must be the controller of my own image. For too long, I have relinquished the care and keeping of myself into the hands of others.

I finish wrapping my injured wrist (silently thankful that the sleeves of my navies will hide this mark of weakness), taking a deep breath as I state, "Thank you for your concern, Lieutenant."

Her expression tells me that this wasn't the response she was expecting. However, she gives one last curt nod, "Goodnight, Admiral."

I return the nod, dismissing her. I do not move until I hear the outer door close again.

I look down at the silver shards that lay scattered around my feet. One piece is large enough to capture a section of my face—one red-rimmed-but-determined eye stares back at me.

The little lonely girl from the mirror is gone. A nursery rhyme from my childhood springs back into my head: The flag of the Colonies is dipped in red, the soldiers survived but the gods are dead...

I gingerly stoop to pick up the shard of mirror. I study the sections of my visage that I can see.

I now know my unknown known. I confronted my newest demon and lived. I rose to the height of passion and survived the devastating fall. That machine was sent to kill me, but instead it only made me stronger.

Perhaps this was part of my destiny, too. Perhaps this was the vital last step, the last push to truly make me the razor that I was meant to be. All is necessary, all is connected.

I accept this hateful part of myself. I use it as fuel for the fire burning under my skin.

The way she slipped under my skin. The first night that we were together, I remember lying awake, filled with an odd restless energy. Something already told me that this wouldn't be one of my usual one-night stands—if nothing else, the sheer nature of our work would ensure that she remained a part of my life, at least for the next few weeks. Could I handle that, could I be able to remain detached and professional for the rest of her time here? Could she? I rolled over to observe the sleeping form next to me. She was still, quiet, serene, with skin as smooth as marble and the face of Aphrodite herself. I remember smiling in the darkness, uncertain of what my own smile meant but unable to stop it from blooming across my lips as I silently memorized every line, every nuance and shade of her skin. Even then, I knew that there was something different about her. I just chose not to care about the differences. I willfully blinded myself to the truth.

Now I think that perhaps she wasn't the living recreation of Aphrodite, but rather Tyche. Goddess of destiny and fortune—yes, a perfect analogy for the creature that slipped into my bed and my heart. She is the final stepping stone, the final blow needed to make me stronger and ready to fulfill my destiny. She was sent by the gods to test me, to make me prove my resilience. And oh, I shall prove myself—I shall prove myself through her, through how I will turn my lust for pleasure into a desire for her pain, through how I will detach myself from every feeling she ever inspired within me, through how I will punish her, the enemy of my people and my heart.

The gods will see that I am worthy of the task that I have been given, strong enough to bear the burden with which I have been blessed. My men will see that I am a true leader, a righter of wrongs, one who can set aside emotion to do what must be done, one who is to be respected and obeyed at all times (if she can do this to someone she loved, what wouldn't the Admiral do to us?). This is my test, and I shall pass beyond expectation, because that is the kind of person that I am and will always be.

I never replace the broken mirror. I do not need to see my reflection.

I know what I am.

"If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor yourself, you will succumb in every battle." ~Sun Tzu

"I weakened myself in your name. In my own eyes I disgraced myself for trusting you, against all evidence, against the prevailing winds of horror, over the bully's laughter, the torturer's loyalty, the sweet questions of the sly. Find me here, you whom David found in hell. The skeletons are waiting for your famous mechanical salvation." ~Leonard Cohen

*Author's Note: The fourth element of knowing, the unknown known, was suggested by psychoanalytic philosopher Slavoj Žižek, in response to Rumsfeld's "known knowns" quote. I wish I were clever enough to create such a concept on my own, but alas...giving credit where credit is due.*