Dr. Baltar. Could he be the one? Or was it her?
I was dying. My ship was adrift with no way to navigate. It was hopeless. All I could do was sit and listen to the wireless give testimony of the horrible, torturous deaths Colonials were suffering at the hands of Cylons.
The Cylon Raider that shot up my ship never came back to finish the job. Perhaps it thought I wasn't worth returning for, or that I was already dead. Either way it didn't matter. Death was coming.
That blonde woman always lurking around the lab; he knew her. He loved her.
As the last of the power ran out I could feel the cold emptiness of space crush what was left of my spirit. Everyone was either dead or dying. What was the point in survival?
In the still and peaceful quiet I slowly drifted away. Darkness surrounded me. Comforted me. Death became a warm blanket of redemption; I would never have to face him again. Dr. Gaius Baltar.
My love.
Suddenly a brilliant light filled the emptiness of the void which had taken me. Disembodied voices begged me to return.
"What's your name?" said one.
"Which Colony do you come from?" screamed another.
After a few moments things began to take shape. People. Hundreds of people. Crowded together. The smell of sweat, blood, and decay were everywhere. This was a place of suffering and pain.
"You're going to be fine," said a woman wearing a blood-spattered smock. Her crimson hair was so beautiful. "Lay still. You're going to be fine."
I tried to talk, but nothing came out. Where was I? What was this place? A ship? A Colony?
Then it came out. I screamed. "Cylons!"
A few hours later I found myself setting alone in an antiseptic room kept cold for no apparent reason. The walls, floor and ceiling were slick and shiny–metallic and chrome. My refection stared back at me from every angle. It was a Torment to see the beaten and bruised woman I had become. So watched myself, shivering in the cold.
A kind of death traded for another?
The chair I had been given hurt; its rigidness kept me sliding around to avoid the pain of standing up. My wounds were becoming more apparent and debilitating.
With two short taps and a load snap a door opened and two large girthed men stepped in and carefully seated themselves in chairs they had brought with them. One looked official; a colonial uniform. The other was wearing a nicely pressed pin-stripe suit. There I was, wearing only a white hospital gown; I felt naked and vulnerable, but it didn't seem to faze either of them.
They are here for something official. Do they know about me? Are they aware of my work?
"The M.O.D.?" said the uniform in a rhetorical way.
"Tell us about it?" the other demanded – his tone was less than comforting.
It wasn't that I was avoiding the question, but I needed to know what had happened. "Are all the Colonies…?"
"Gone?" said the suit as he lazily rested back in his chair. "Yes. All of them."
Giving a less than agreeable glance to his colleague, the uniform asked, "What work were you doing for the Ministry of Defense?
Hesitantly I spoke. What did it matter anymore? "I….I was a mid-level analyst. Most of the work I did was functionary and…. based on the research completed by Dr.…"
"Dr. Baltar?" said the suit as his interest began to increase.
Tell them the truth. What truth? It wasn't him. It was her. A human. She did this. She's the one who should pay. But, he must have known. He loved her – they shared everything.
"Is he alive? Safe?" The desperation in my voice was so transparent.
"Were you at any time aware of any nefarious activities Dr. Baltar might have been involved in?" asked the suit.
Oh my god. They already know. Did he really know what she was up to? Did he help her or just let her have her way with the network, and him.
I dropped my gaze to the reflectivefloor. "Nothing."
There's something about not being able to avoid your own reflected face – you can see the lies hiding behind your eyes, and so can everyone else.
Damn these chrome panels.
"And the Corsair you were flying … You set out from Gemenon?"
I nodded in agreement.
"Business or pleasure?"
They both knew Gemenon had been a hot seat of discontent since before the first Cylon war. No one ever officially traveled there unless they had something to negotiate with the STO representatives. It wasn't unheard of or shunned. Plus, fringe theology had become a fad in the last 20 years; so many people "of means" had made pilgrimages to seek their understanding of enlightenment from the Oracle.
"I guess a little of both," I said with my head in my hands.
"He's very much alive and doing well," replied the suit in his usual placating fashion.
"Can I see him? I need to speak with him."
He has to explain her to me. That woman – she should have never been there.
"Get some rest," said the uniform
As both of them got up and walked to the door. "We'll try to make some arrangements. Give it time."
I could feel the blood running from my face as I heard those words. A chill filled me. Death in the coldness of space would've been preferable to the future these two had for me.
"Judging by your corporate jacket … You've over 10 thousand hours of solo flying experience. Is that so?"
With some confusion I looked up as if an answer would be written upon his forehead. "Yes. A hobby, just that … a hobby."
"We all have a destiny in this universe. At least that's what the Gods tell us. I'll pass your information onto the CAG. You never know."
Wincing with pain, I stood to address the uniform before he had a chance to disappear behind the closing door. "What ship am I on?"
"The Galactica."
"An old Battlestar…?" I muttered under my breath. "…and the meeting with Dr. Baltar…?"
"Let's give it some time. Just be thankful you're alive."
The door closed with a deafening cacophony that reverberated around the sterile icy room. Everything that's happened is connected to me and to him. And to her. Now all I could do was wait.
He might find me a threat if he was involved in the massacre. I need to do as they ask. Be thankful for their generosity. Stay quiet. Save my revenge for another day. Who was she – the one who stole my love and my life?
So I'd wait. Live. Die. Perhaps I'd be another pawn in one of Baltar's personified chess matches where the winner always ends up losing.
Thinking out loud, I asked myself: "I wonder how Commander Adama is doing?"
