I'm not one to apologize for what I write, but in this case a warning is in order. This chapter is intense. If you've read the story this far, I'm sure you can figure out what's coming next. Still, suicide and depression are hard subjects for some, so be advised of what is coming. I won't say "enjoy" — it's not that kind of story.
-Crys-
Chapter 4
Cally put the new filter in place of where only burned out crud had remained. The Viper was a long way from ready, but she'd get it there. She had to get it there. If she didn't have a reason to move, she'd most likely stop. She couldn't do that.
"Here's the piping you asked for," Socinus said as he walked up behind her. She wasn't even alert enough to jump. The younger man had a habit of coming up behind her when she least expected it, and Prosna had always said
She stopped her mind in that track before she could get herself crying again. She hadn't known a single person had so many tears, but they didn't seem to stop. "Thanks," she told Socinus. "Was there any two-inch, or did you have to bring three?"
"Three," he told her. "You were right. We're out of the other."
"We're out of most everything," she grumbled. A glance over the workings before her showed that this Viper was going to be a long time in making back into space, unless of course they jettisoned its remains, as they probably should. It was taking too many supplies and too much time to fix. Sadly, it was in the best shape of the ones on this line, and the most likely to make it back into the air.
"Cally?"
"Hmm?" she replied, her mind still on the Viper, trying to figure out how she could rebuild what she couldn't replace.
"Did you get your stuff moved yet?"
She nodded. The Chief had moved them all into one quarters, and she and Socinus had been among the relocated. He'd advised them all to pick a bunk, move their stuff, and settle in. Then maintenance had brought in portable beds when they had run out of the built-in variety. Cally had been one of the lucky ones, getting not only a stationary bunk, but an upper one as well. It was hard to consider any of them to be lucky, but it was the closest word she could find.
"I did, too. I'm in D wing."
"Me, too," she said. "Third on the top."
"I'm in a portable," he admitted. "Not too far down from you, though. So, I wondered if maybe you could do me a favor."
She finally turned to face her friend. He looked so uncertain that she almost thought it was funny. Almost, because nothing was funny anymore. "What?"
He gave a shrug and looked away. "We're on the same shift," he began. "So I thought that maybe, if you weren't asleep, that you could wake me up if I get too loud."
"Nightmares?" she asked.
He nodded. "You?"
"I don't sleep enough for nightmares," she admitted. "So if one starts up, I'll probably hear you. I don't mind waking you up."
"Thanks," he said, giving her a slight smile. "I didn't think you were sleeping very much. I guess most of us are having trouble."
He must be, she thought, because he wasn't nearly as energetic as he normally was. They had teased him since they'd met him about what he must be taking to stay so lively, but he'd just laughed and blamed it on natural energy. There were days he'd made Prosna
"I guess we are," she said, stopping her thoughts again. Damn it, why couldn't she stay out of that rut? It didn't go anywhere. She knew it, because she'd gone there about a thousand times this morning already. She didn't need to do it again. Prosna was dead; there was no use in thinking about him.
"Is there anything else I can help with?" Socinus asked.
She looked over her makeshift repair. She liked Soc, but he wasn't the best mechanic on the deck. The Chief said it would just take time, the same way it had taken her, but he really didn't seem to have much of a knack for figuring things out. He could follow a spec and get things mostly in the right place, but right now they weren't working from books. They were making it up as they went along.
"I don't think so," she said. "I've got what I need; I just need to use it."
"Have you eaten?" he asked. God, he sounded pitiful. Did she sound that bad? Like she was going to cry after every word?
"No. I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat," he told her. "Tell you what: I'll go check with the Chief and see if I can make a sandwich run. If you haven't taken time out, then probably no one else has either."
"Sounds like a good idea," she lied. They needed mechanics, not waiters, but she couldn't say anything to burst his bubble. He was trying to be helpful. It wasn't his fault that he was a rook even by the Galactica's standards. He'd only been assigned for about two weeks. He'd been the first rook assigned to Prosna, and
She turned her back on Socinus and started working on a nut that had melted solid when the engine had blown. She would not cry. She wouldn't. There couldn't be any tears left. She heard Socinus' retreating footsteps and was grateful that he hadn't made an issue of it. She'd been rude, and she would need to apologize. Almost angrily, Cally brushed her sleeve over her right cheek, taking away one more tear that shouldn't have been left.
Twenty-four hours later, Cally was tired. Okay, she was well past tired, and somewhere near sick. Truthfully, she'd already been sick. Twice.
Socinus had been true to his word and brought back sandwiches for the deck crews. Most everyone had seemed grateful, so she guessed she'd been a little harsh in her thoughts towards him. The Chief had swallowed two of the sandwiches whole, or at least it had seemed that way, before going back to work on what was left of the Viper he was dismantling for parts. It hadn't been good for anything else.
Cally had taken about three bites of her sandwich, not tasting it, before going back to work. Then the few bites she'd taken had made a return trip about an hour later. That had been a mess to clean up, but she didn't dare ask anyone to help. She'd been light-headed and still nauseous, but she'd managed. The second time she'd been sick had been after lying down to sleep. She'd made it to the bathroom that time, but there hadn't been anything to come up. Em had come to check on her, but Cally had blown her off. She wasn't sick, she'd insisted. Something just hadn't settled right.
She'd tried to go back to sleep, but she hadn't managed. She had woken Socinus twice from nightmares, accepting grateful thanks and then watching enviously as he went back to sleep. Cally really thought she'd feel better if she could just get some rest, but every time she closed her eyes, Prosna was there, his face burned and his body limp. Finally, she couldn't face it any longer.
So she had walked. She had walked the crowded passageway of the Galactica twice, all the way around, before wandering down to the flight deck. She had absently thought of trying to pull another shift, but her mind was so foggy that she didn't dare. She was just alert enough to realize that she wasn't really safe to be working. So she had stayed on the periphery of the work in progress, watching as she stood against one wall or another, and occasionally closing her eyes to rest. They didn't stay closed long, though. Prosna was still there.
She wasn't sure when she'd spotted it. Her mind was in and out of a fog, so when she had seen the sidearm sitting alone on the stairwell to the high-lift, she'd thought for a moment that she was asleep. But she wasn't. It was there. She had looked around for someone, anyone who might have left it sitting there, but no one was around. She wondered absently where they could have gone, but didn't think about it too long. The gun shouldn't be there. Guns were dangerous.
She still hadn't seen anyone when she'd walked over to pickup the blaster. It was a handheld, the kind that Raptor or Viper pilots carried on patrols when they expected to land. Its smooth surface was cool to the touch as she looked at it. One more glance around the area assured that she wasn't being watched, so she wrapped her arms around her body to conceal the gun and walked a ways.
She didn't have a destination in mind, but somehow she managed to get up the stairs and into one of their inactive launch tubes. Her mind flashed back to the day before — or was it two days, or more — when she had sat there and cried. She had wondered then if it would be better not to be alive, but hadn't had a way to do anything about the situation. Now she did.
Her mind was still just a little fuzzy, but clearer than it had been before. Was this even a good idea? It would make work for those that were left. If there was a regret, that was it. Like the Chief had told her, losing someone hurt. She might hurt someone else. But did it matter? The only person on her team that she was even close to was Socinus, and he would bounce back. He was just a kid after all, and barely out of school.
In fact, it might be better for everyone in the long run. With food and medical supplies being scarce, one less mouth to feed and body to house would be a good thing. Maybe it was the one good thing she could do for the fleet. Maybe she should just get it done and have it over and done with. She was dead inside anyway, so it only made sense for her body to join her heart.
She looked at the weapon carefully. They'd been taught how to use the blaster back in basic. It wasn't hard. There was a safety — there — and it was easy enough to take off. She slid the lever to the side, turning the weapon from a precaution to a danger. But was that a bad thing. Almost absently, she wondered what would hurt the least. Probably a head shot, she decided. One to the heart would be deadly, but she didn't know if she could look at it while she did it. She wondered if it would hurt, or if she'd just be gone. She wondered if she'd see her friends, her family, or if there would just be nothing.
"Cally?"
She looked up to see Chief Tyrol walking gingerly towards her. "Hi," she told him absently, looking back down at the weapon, still planning what would be best.
"Cally, give me that," he said, his voice sounding a little strange. Give him what? Oh, the gun. She was holding a gun.
"Please," he pleaded, reaching out towards her. "Not one more. Cally, don't do this to me."
Do what? she wondered. What would it be to him?
Her glance had gone back to the weapon, which was currently not pointed anywhere useful. She still wasn't sure how she wanted to do this. When the Chief's hands closed over hers, she startled a little and looked up to see him very close to her. "Cally, let go," he said softly. "Give it to me."
Oh. The gun. She let go of the weapon, letting him take it from her. It didn't matter. Nothing really mattered. Not even this. She just didn't care. She didn't have anything — anyone — to care about.
She watched absently as the Chief set the gun behind him and then sat down in front of her. She had her legs crossed before her, and he did the same. He hadn't let go of her hands yet. She wondered why. "Cally, look at me," he commanded. It was a command, too. The Chief didn't often order; he asked. She met his eyes because she couldn't do anything else.
His eyes were brown, just like her dad's. She missed her dad. "I miss him," she whispered, not even aware that she was going to speak the words.
"Who?"
"My dad," she answered. He was her first thought, because his eyes were so much like the Chief's. Brown and gentle and sad. He had always been just a little sad, or at least he'd seemed that way. "He's not sad anymore," she thought out loud.
"No, he's not," the Chief agreed. "But a lot of people would be if you did this."
"This?" she asked, confused. Hadn't they been talking about her dad?
"Cally, I know it's hard," he said softly. "And God, I know how much it hurts, but you can't let it do this to you."
She heard the words, but they didn't really mean anything. The comfortable numbness that had surrounded her was beginning to fade, and what had been fuzzy now felt more like dizzy, and slow, and wrong.
"You have a lot of people who still care about you," he was saying. "April and Cindy and Socinus. Do you remember what I told you? It's hard to live, but we have to do it. We can't let anyone else hurt like we've hurt. And Cally, losing you would hurt a lot of people."
"It doesn't matter."
"You matter," he corrected, giving her hands a squeeze that almost hurt. Almost. "You're so young," he added as he reached up to tug on her hair. She hadn't put it back in its ponytail when she'd left her bed, so it was stringy and in her face. The Chief moved it back, tucking it behind her shoulder. "You matter, Cally. You're the best mechanic I have, and that's just on the deck. What about back in quarters? Who will keep Socinus straight if you're not here? I don't have time to train a rook right now, and Prosna's gone. Someone has to teach him a screwdriver from a wrench. Who would be better than you for that?"
"I don't know," she answered, but she didn't know if she was answering for who should train her friend or whether she should live through the night.
"I know. We need you, Cally. You're the one who looks out for everyone, and I know that's hard. I know you must be so tired, but it'll get better. I promise it'll get better."
"You can't promise that," she said in a moment of clarity. The dizzy feeling was fading too, and a horrible pain was beginning to take its place. She didn't like it. She didn't want it.
"Cally I wish I knew what to say. I'm not the one who's good at this; You are. If it were Socinus sitting here, and he had a gun in his hands, what would you tell him? How would you get him back?"
The pain was growing, edging out the numb and dizzy and manageable feelings that had finally began to give her some comfort. She didn't want this. She didn't want to think of anyone else. She didn't want the responsibility. She had too much responsibility as it was, and she didn't know if she could do it. She knew she didn't want to do it. But was the Chief right? Did they really need her? If they did, then it was cruel for her to die. But she didn't feel like they needed her. She felt like they'd be better off without her.
How would she get Socinus back? What had she told him when he'd woke up that morning, screaming and writhing in his bed from the nightmares that wouldn't let him sleep? She had told him that it was okay. She had told him that he was allowed to come apart a little bit, and that it would get better. She had believed it would get better. Did she believe it now?
"It hurts," she said softly, and she could feel the tears again. Lords, they never went away, and they didn't help, and now the Chief was watching and he thought that she was enough of a kid as it was. She wanted him to be proud of her; she didn't want him to feel sorry for her. But the tears wouldn't stop, and when she tried to make them go away, tried to swallow the burning in her throat and the pain in her chest, then she couldn't breathe.
"Oh, Honey, I know it does," he said gently. Too gently. She would have rather he yelled. She could take yelling; she had learned to tune out the yelling, and look for the message beneath. It was why she didn't take a lot of things on the flight deck personally; yelling didn't phase her. But this soft understanding was too much. She couldn't tune it out, and she couldn't fight it, and she didn't want it, but she couldn't push it away because she needed it.
When his arms came around her in a hug as careful as his voice, she finally lost it. All the pain and the burning and the pressure just seemed to explode. She tried to hold her breath, to make it quiet, but she couldn't. Great wracking sobs shook her, leaving her gasping for breath. She lost track of things then, everything except the warm arms that were holding her and keeping her safe. And for a moment — just a moment — it was like her dad was really there, and for that one moment the pain wasn't as bad.
The Chief's shirt was soaked by the time she managed to catch her breath. Her nose was running, and her face was wet, and she felt like her eyes had swollen closed. The faint light in the launch tube was too bright for her, so she squeezed her eyes shut. She realized that she had handfuls of the Chief's coveralls squeezed in her hands, so she let go. As soon as she did, she felt his hug loosening and he moved back to look at her. She didn't want to know what he saw.
But he didn't seem to mind. He used his thumbs to wipe away the worst of the tears, and then searched his pocket until he found a rag. It had grease on it, but he smiled when he handed it to her. "Better than nothing," he said. "Blow."
She took the rag and blew her nose. She coughed a little, sniffed, and blew her nose again. By the time she finished, the Chief had scooted back a little, but he still had a hand on her arm. "Thanks," she said. It seemed like the least she could say.
"Cally, I want to take you down to the Life Station," he began.
She shook her head avidly. "I'm okay now," she said quickly. "Really, I'll be fine. I'm just tired."
"Maybe," he allowed. "But I'd feel a hell of a lot better if one of the docs told me that for certain. I haven't seen you eat, and I know you're not sleeping. Maybe the doc can give you something to help. Please."
If he'd ordered her, she could have argued, but she couldn't find it in her to fight his gentle reasoning. She felt like she was packed in cotton anyway, like the world was a long ways away and she wasn't really a part of it. And it didn't matter. None of it mattered. In the calm following the storm of tears, she didn't feel much of anything, and she didn't feel up to arguing. It was easier to go along than to fight.
"Okay," she told him.
She watched as he turned sideways and nodded to someone. Only when she followed his gaze did she see one of the Galactica's security teams standing at the opening to the launch tube. She looked right back at Tyrol, fear taking over where only pain or numbness had been before. Gravely, she wondered just how much trouble she was in, and why it suddenly mattered so much.