Heartfelt thanks to all of those who took the time to comment in the past few chapters. As we are going to another difficult time, this is rated M (just in case). This is going to be easier than the last detention.

Please, note that the first two paragraphs of Laura's diaries are taken directly from the show (Episode 'Occupation' Season 3), credits given to the writers of the show.

The poem, 'Prayer of the Death', is my original work, based on Greek mythology.

Chapter 18

Within a week, preparations for the Waluguru tribes had picked up again. Most of the trip would take place by foot with guides, porters, and armed protection. The team would be airlifted to a remote section of the mountains and proceed in the dense forest of the eastern slopes. Equipped with satellite phones and Internet connections, they would carry sensitive apparatus, laptops, physics and chemistry equipment, and tents for a prolonged stay. It was basically moving a smaller research camp to that location, at the exception of the heaviest material. An expedition of this importance was not overlooked. Dr. Inoue's team was looking for tangible answers to their questions, some kind of physical correlation to the text they were translating. They knew, however, that the probability of finding 150,000 years old evidence was slim. Yet, they were hoping that some of the stories would still live in the oral history of tribes of the region.

Helena, a cup of Darjeeling in her hand, sat down outside on a large rock overlooking at the plains. The rain had cleared out and shred of clouds were remaining attached to the hills below. It was cool, with a soft dry breeze rising from the west. The moon was shining bright, casting a blue light on the landscape. The fence surrounding the compound was just a few feet below. Takashi Inoue slowly stepped by her and sat down on her side. He was carrying his own mug with black coffee. They sat in silence. They were comfortable with each other, having worked together after graduate school on various projects around the world. She had not talked to him about his life since the death of his wife a few years ago.

"Do you miss home? I mean, Tokyo is a long way from here." Helena asked.

"No. Nothing's left there." Takashi answered, his gaze lost in the distance. "Home is here. This is the most important work I have ever done in my life."

"Same here. Officially, I am on sabbatical from my professorship position. I really don't care anymore. This… this is important" Helena replied and she remained silent for a few minutes lost in her thoughts. "She was quite a remarkable woman", Helena whispered. Takashi nodded "yeah" and added: "What do you expect we will find out there?"

Helena sighted taking a sip of her tea. "I don't know. Any physical evidence will have disappeared. But their stories may not have. They may have lingered, slowly modified with time, creating their own mythology. I hope we can find that. Extensive genetic sampling will be useful. What we have already is not enough. We have to compare it to the DNA of Laura and the man on the ridge. I want to study their language. I hope to find similarities."

Helena had immersed herself in the diary, using the other books as a vocabulary and grammar guide. Deciphering the handwriting was not easy. Over a year had passed since she first arrived in Africa. Her progress was notoriously slow, but she knew there was no other way. The text was old, her resources limited by the nature of the language and her work tedious with great attention placed to detail. It was all very frustrating, but she was aware that she was making history studying the most ancient document known to mankind. Or was it?

"Takashi? You know, we have not talked about the last book. We talked and shared all the information of the printed books and the diaries in our lab meetings for weeks. I just cannot begin to translate the last book."

"You mean the one with the leather cover?'

"Yeah. It is different from the others. It seems printed in a different language. I do not have any references for it, and without references, I cannot go anywhere" She sighed, frustrated. "The formatting, however, makes it resemble a prayer book, it looks like it has sections -what would be number headings- I can probably infer numbers from the signs on the pages. But there is nothing remotely similar to a publisher on the front like the other books. If you ask me, it looks like a Bible. And it seems older than the others, if that is even possible. There are illustrations too. Those are hand drawn in ink with some coloring. They represent cities with buildings that look ancient… Well, what does ancient mean when you are looking at 150,000 years old material anyway. But these buildings look like Greek style kind of buildings, with columns and a beautiful architecture. They are very pretty. I wish I could read the text."

"Yes, that one may take longer", Takashi acquiesced.

"We are here contemplating the greatest discovery of mankind. I wish I could know more. I know that from the moment this gets out, we will be facing a storm of questions and studies. Of course, disbelief. Even for us it was hard to believe such artifacts would be that old; we are bound to be discredited. I am not looking forward to that." Helena closed her eyes. "I want to give Laura her voice back."

"And you will. What happens after does not concern us. We will have done our work. People will chose to believe this or not. We know what is true." Takashi replied.

He rose and gave her a hug. "See you tomorrow?"

Helena nodded in silence and continued to stare in the distance. Tomorrow in the lab meeting she would share the latest progress of her translation.

"134 days of cylon occupation of New Caprica. Today is Martius day, somehow it seems appropriate to honor the God of war on a day when it feels like perpetual war is the only realistic prospect for us. We had no contact with Galactica since it left four months ago. But I refuse to believe that Adama has abandoned us. Our insurgency has been striking back, although at times these attacks seem like futile gestures, I believe that they are critical to morale, to maintaining some measure of hope. But in order for the insurgency to have a more meaningful impact, we need to strike a high profile target. It is simply not enough to kill cylons, because they don't die. They resurrect themselves and they continue to walk among us. It is horrifying. The cylon occupation authority continues to exert complete control over the city and we remain at their mercy. The colonial government under President Gaius Baltar functions in name only."

"In recent months, the cylons have been recruiting and training humans in an attempt to establish a human police force. It is hard to think of anything more despicable than humans doing the dirty work of the cylons. Let to believe they were merely taking the civilian security out of the hands of the cylons, the members of the human police have since become an extension of the cylon's corporeal authority. And while their names are kept deeply confidential, there is no question some of them are people we might least expect. Hundreds of us have been rounded up by the Cylons, held in detention, questioned, tortured. Others have simply vanished. In recent weeks, we've been gaining access to some very important documents from a source within Baltar's administration, No one knows who this mysterious benefactor is, but he communicates with the insurgents by means of a secret signal. We pray every day for the men and women who risk their lives to fight the cylons. They have everything to lose and such little hope of something to gain."

"I did not know what they had in mind and I certainly would have opposed the use of suicide bombing, if I had known. The insurgency has started to recruit people, young men and women, who would agree to strap bombs to their bodies and explode themselves in public areas, especially locations with cylons and cylons' collaborators. They had lately targeted a high profile award ceremony for the New Caprica Police with the hope that they would kill President Baltar and most of the human recruits working for the cylons. But Baltar did not show. Still, the bomb disseminated most of the new police recruits. I abhor those who have chosen to work the cylons, but I cannot say that I love the spilling human blood. There are so few of us left. It is war in all of its horror. If we want to get to the cylons, however, we have to send the message that nobody should collaborate with them. But to think that some of us are desperate enough to sacrifice their own life to have a significant impact on the cylon occupation force is scary enough to me to consider."

"They came for me in the evening. I got dragged on my feet, gagged and blinded. It was terrifying. Before I could even see, I recognized the smell of the prison, the stale stench of blood and urine. I heard the screams, faint in the distance, muffled by the thick walls. My stomach started to heave and I started to choke on the rag tied on my face. Panic took me. I struggled, with the irrational urge to run, even when I was tied up. As an immediate result, I was thrown down on the floor and kicked. I could not see where the hits were coming from. I am not sure how much time passed before hands picked me up and pushed me and made me walk blinded for what seemed to be an endless walk through corridors, on cold floor, with echoes of banging, clatter and shouts around me. For the third time in a few months, I thought it was going to be the end of my life. All of the evidence gathered with Dr. Cottle, the tortures some endured, the beatings, the loneliness, the pain flashed in front of my eyes. I had walked this path before. I was thrown in a cell just like last time by two guards. And they removed the hood covering my face and untied me. When the fabric pushing in my throat was removed, I took a deep breath and immediately regretted it, as the smell of the cell over turned my stomach I stumbled and reached the bucket in the corner. A Doral, a number Five, was looking at me. I stood up. I was shaking. The smell of nausea was sticking to my skin. I knew what was coming. Legs numb, stomach sunken, I even could not feel my body anymore. I could not feel anything at all. My hair was disheveled; my body was so thin after a winter with barely any food, my clothes were hanging loose, my skin was paler than I ever saw it. One of the guards threw a dirty jump suit at the skinny woman standing in the middle of the cell, a shadow of myself.

'Clothes off'

I was paralyzed. I kept looking straight in front of me, each muscle of my body trembling.

I stayed like this for a few minutes, or maybe was it only seconds, immobile. Time had no meaning anymore. One guard stripped me forcefully until I was naked. I felt my spirit leave my body. I was outside myself, shivering, bending to grasp the prison jumpsuit and clenching the fabric to the front of my bared body. They took my clothes, my shoes, my glasses and left. I stayed standing without moving, head down. It took a deliberate willful action for me to go back inside my body and move it, slowly at first, as I was shaking too much, and recover control of each one of my muscles. I slowly put the rough clothing on. The fabric was stiff with dirt, blood- stained and smelled. Then, I noticed I was cold. I started to feel pain, where I was kicked, on the legs. I sat down and brought my knees to my chest and leaned against the wall. I lowered my head on my knees and let my hair curtain the blinding fluorescent light from the ceiling. I waited. I waited for them to come back, jumping at each noise, straining at each heard step in the corridor. I waited until I was interrogated, until I was going to be beaten, or raped, or tortured. I waited until it did not matter whether they came or not. I waited until it did not matter whether I lived or died. I stopped waiting. It could have been days. I am not sure. They never turned off the light. They came to bring food and water once in a while, throwing me each time in a panic. I heard banging on wall and doors. Noises were sharp in my head. They hurt like knives. They echoed in my head and clattered. I buried my head in my knees and crossed my arms over my ears. Noise hurt. The light hurt. I felt my head would explode from the strident screams, cries, shouting and metallic slamming of doors. Again and again. Day after day. There was infrequent food. I had only a little water. I stopped being hungry or thirsty. I must have slept. Maybe. Or just dozed off. The light was so loud. The noises were so bright. I was so tired. I comforted myself by reciting the scripture of the Book of Pythia. Over and over. Some anchor to who I used to be. I did not feel cold or hunger or tiredness anymore. In fact, I did not feel anything at all. I pushed away dangerous ideas, ideas of being saved, ideas of rescue, thoughts of Bill. Such ideas would break me down. I finished reciting the book of Pythia and then said the prayer of the dead. I said it for those in cells next to me, for those who had and would die here on this hellhole. I said it for all who never made it. This prayer that, nobody probably would have a chance to say for me:

'Oh river of Sorrow, Acheron,

Let me cross you,

Charon, take me through

I paid my dues in hard labor,

I left my friends and those I loved.

By Cerberus, for the final judgment,

Alone, I stand at the crossroads,

Take my life and offer me passage,

Below the Styx

In Hades' realm.

Judge me, all bared,

My soul exposed.

For what I have done is mine only.

Elysium for the virtuous and brave,

Honorable and courageous,

Who have kept their oath.

A land of wealth, beauty,

Flowers, of all colors,

And shining light,

Fruits and honey,

Butterflies and birds

Shining rainbows and sweet bread,

And everlasting joy.

Asphodel meadows, for the common souls.

A plain of flowers, never ending,

Where the common work

And plainly mechanically live.

No pain and no pleasure.

No joy and no ordeal.

And Tartarus, the domain of pain,

For those whose crimes were judged and punished.

Torment and suffering for eternity,

Burns and torture and pain

Endless night, dark and gloomy

Black burning flames of unquenched desire

Eternal tears and grief.

Lords of Kobol,

Take my soul to Hades

Let it be the judge

And send me for eternity

To meet Kronos and its servants,

To pay for my sins

And be rewarded for my virtues.

So say we all.'

"When I heard steps by the door, I did not even move. I continued to recite the text. It did not matter anymore. But when no blow came, when no hands grabbed me, I lifted my head and faced the bright light. Baltar was there, looking at me as if I was an animal in a zoo. It took a minute for the senses to come back to me. Without his knowledge, Baltar pulled me forcefully back into the realm of the living. I did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me defeated. I pulled together the last bits of strength I had left and pulled myself up to sit on the chair he brought in. His hand was shaking when he handed me my glasses. I wondered if he somehow realized what he was doing to us, somewhere within his big egotistic behavior. By giving me my glasses, he gave me back my identity. He gave me back my status. He pulled me back up at his level. Suddenly, I was not a prisoner anymore. I was again the president and he was there for advice. He showed me respect. We were leveled. Certainly enemies, yet he admitted his defeat and his failure to manage the resistance. He was assuming that I had any power to control the insurgents, which in fact I did not. He reinstated me as a leader, at least psychologically if not legally, by asking me to admit my repulsion at suicide bombings, which had been happening more and more frequently, and asking me to publicly declare that I did not agree to this. The reality is, I never condoned those, even if I understood the reasons, which would push people to commit such atrocities. I hated to admit this in front of him, but I did, because I would never have agreed to have young people commit suicide bombings regardless of the circumstances. Baltar gave me back my humanity and that jolted me into a push of anger. He was responsible for our demise. If it were not for his cowardice, his surrender to the cylons, we would not be there. He pushed to settle humanity on this planet out of pure calculation, for his own benefit, as a plot to win over the confidence of the people and thereby the elections. He looked away when the cylons started to torture the people. He refused to see the horrors unraveling in front of him. I saw these horrors. I experienced them. I saw people coming to us with scars and open wounds. I saw colonel Tigh's missing eye. How could he ignore this? I felt anger boiling in my veins. He denied his involvement. He denied the existence of torture, which we had witnessed in the flesh, so to speak. I tried to make him admit this. But he wouldn't. We were talking one to one, equally. Unwilling to confront me, he ordered the guards to give me back my shoes and let me out. He left without turning back as they brought in clothes and gave me privacy to change.

My shirt had been ripped off and I was given a shirt and sweater, with a big tear by the neckline. I wondered whom it used to belong to, if the woman, who once wore this sweater, was dead or had been tortured. I got my jacket back and, very weak, I hobbled down out of the prison back into the camp, where a worried Dr. Cottle greeted me. He immediately walked me to the hospital and allowed me to lie down. I was exhausted, dehydrated and hungry. After the adrenaline rush from the conversation with Baltar and the fear I had experienced, my body was giving out. After Cottle's exam, I ate and drank in the hospital tent, reflecting in silence on the latest events and Cottle placed an IV to give me more fluids. Then, I immediately fell asleep. Cottle drew the curtains and isolated from everyone, feeling safe finally, I must have slept for hours."

"Later, once rested and checked again by the doctor, I made my way back into the village. My wounds were only superficial, only some bruises. I was more lucky than most. Maya and Tory ran to me, caring and worried, but I did not want to describe my detention, much less the solitude and humiliation I had suffered. I was fine, when so many were not. That is all that mattered. In the evening, I visited Colonel Tigh. We argued about suicide bombings and how I thought they were despicable. I slapped him, when he asked me if I was now working for the cylons. He had guessed what happened the first time I was in detention, so his comment hurt me even more. Such is war, not a noble deed, but a brutal, despicable one, without honor. It was a fight for survival, ruthless, bloody and dark. We were killing not to be killed. We were killing ourselves not to be enslaved. We had no chance to win. I left the tent, knowing very well, that Tigh and the others would soon plan more suicide bombings, knowing that more humans would die taking off cylons, who could not be killed. I left the tent and walked slowly back to mine, as the night descended and my breath condensed as little clouds in the cold air. I thought of Isis, the daughter of Maya, and how she was representing hope. Which hope and how? What was left for us? I decided that I would fight relentlessly. As I am writing those lines, in the solitary candle light of my tent, there is not much hope to be found and only a miracle could save us."

Thank you for reading.

Please leave comments, as this is very motivating to me. I appreciate your feedback.