Hello everyone. I know it has been a while and some persons have been asking me if I am still alive. I had a surgery with serious complications over the summer, and then the return of work for the fall semester. A very successful and busy semester. My daughter got married around Christmas and then the Spring semester with barely any time to breathe, yet alone write fanfiction.

I have had tremendous professional success with my students becoming national finalists and semi-finalists, interesting volunteer projects going on in education, and I am writing now freelance for a professional publication.

I have not forgotten you and I have been writing whenever I could in the middle of deadlines and other excitement.

Please take a moment to reacquaint yourself to the story. I have chapter 45 underway, so hopefully it will not be 6 months before I post next.

I appreciate all of the persons who have make the effort to contact me. I read you and I understood your concerns. I always thrive to deliver the best possible work for you.

Enjoy this latest installment and please do not forget to give me some comments and send me notes.

Chapter 44

When Helena regained consciousness, she had no idea where she was. It was dark and she was lying on a bed. She felt very cold and was shivering. A cool wet cloth was on her forehead. She felt someone tucking blankets around her body.

"Takashi?"

"Shhh…" He whispered.

"I'm cold"

"You have a fever" he replied, sitting down next to her, with a cup containing water. "You need to drink plenty of fluids." He removed the cloth on her forehead and helped her up, his arm supporting her back while he brought the cup to her lips. He put the cup down and gave her a couple of pills to swallow.

"What is that?"

"Ibuprofen"

She took the pills, drank more water, and then she rested down again.

"How long was I out?"

"Just a few minutes, we brought you back in the house. I heard you coughing this morning. You probably caught an infection. Try to sleep."

She nodded, closing her eyes. Her head was throbbing. Takashi got up and put aside the medical kit that he had. Going through his backpack, he took the SAT phone and turned it on. He walked out of the house and down to the center of the cave, trying to find some signal through the opening in the ceiling of the cave. Poor signal, but it would do. After a brief hesitation, he dialed the base camp.

"Evelyne? Helena is sick. She has a high fever and she passed out this morning. Please grab your medical bag and come over here with Liang. Sharon will guide you." He hung up and came back to the house. He was worried. It was not like Helena to faint. He knew that it would take a few hours for Evelyne, Liang and Sharon to arrive. All he could hope that the few medications he carried would be enough to lower her fever until they got there. Evelyne had been trained to deal with medical emergencies for the expedition. And while her task was to perform the biological and genetic analyses of research samples, she was well aware of various tropical infections and was carrying extensive supplies to attend to all kinds of emergencies. Takashi worried that his phone call, using the satellite network, would precipitate a visit from the UN forces. He would have liked more time to go to the villages and was dreading to share the cylon technology they had uncovered. He did not want this mission to become militarized. He walked back to the house, passing on his way the quorum delegates sitting by the fire and talking. John was with Elosha, who was translating. He waved at them and rushed back to Helena's side. She was asleep. Her forehead was beaded with sweat. He hated how fast the infection had progressed. She was fine the night before and only slightly coughing earlier in the morning and yet she developed a fever in only a few hours. He wiped gently her damp skin and lay down next to her on the bed. He did not want to leave her alone.

A burst of coughing woke him up an hour later. Helena was violently coughing and spitting dark mucus. She was absolutely soaked with sweat. Takashi was on his feet immediately, rummaging through her bag for a dry t-shirt and sweat pants. He helped her out of her wet shirt and pants, and she put dry ones on. He hung her wet clothes to dry on an alcove.

"All of this to see me naked," she whispered with a smile, barely catching her breath, her chest rasping.

"Ha, you must feel better!" He replied with a small smile, barely masking his worry.

"That must be so attractive" she rolled her eyes at him.

"You are lovely, even sick" he said back attempting to joke and lighten the mood. It did not last long as she sat up and started coughing again, vomiting and shaking. Takashi found a towel in her bag and handed it to her. Immediately, he was there with more water for her to drink.

"Tell me where the pain is?" he asked as he rubbed her back gently, attempting to soothe her shivering.

"My chest and throat… my back… I have a headache too."

"I called Evelyne. She is coming over."

"With the SAT phone?"

"Yeah!"

"They will have intercepted the call." Her voice was just a whisper.

"Let's hope they didn't"

Helena closed her eyes defeated and worried.

"Takashi?"

He turned to her.

"I dreamt of Laura. She told me time is getting short… She told me to share her diary with the tribes."

Takashi silently held her, as she reclined back in the bed and rested.

Helena continued, barely a whisper,

"Takashi…"

"Yeah"

"Time… you know, time doesn't exist. It is just an illusion. Laura is getting very sick. Me, too."

Takashi looked at her in the darkness, searching for an answer in her eyes.

"What do you mean? It's the fever talking, Helena… You have a very high fever."

"No… I'm not delirious." She took a sharp breath. "Time has no meaning. All of this has happened before, and will happen again."

"Helena, no…" Takashi whispered back at her, tears in his eyes as he gently caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes, drifting into a dark agitated sleep.

"When I woke up, I thought it all was a bad dream. But the sensation of air against my scalp, the absence of hair, this lack of heaviness and my neck exposed, reminded me that I was now a full cancer patient. I was physically weak. My limbs seemed to be made out of lead, heavy and stiff. Bill had gotten up and probably left to CIC. I got up and put my presidential clothes, and I took the wig out of my bag. With a deep sigh, I placed it on my scalp and look at myself in the mirror of the head. I hated it. I could not recognize myself. Straight stiff strands of fake hair, so unlike my hair, my real hair! The wig was terribly itchy. I supposed I would have to get used to that too. I felt so drained, that I realized that naps would not be enough anymore to replenish my energy. I hate to be pessimistic, but I'm afraid it's going to be downhill from here. I don't even have the luxury to complain; there is no rescue coming, no cure, no sick leave, no replacement.

'Pathetic' I whispered to myself."

"Resolved, I made my way to find the chief and present my condolences to him. I was told he was at Joe's bar and I went there. When I entered the noisy place, all conversations shut down and the deep silence, only broken by music from radio, unsettled me, as all heads turned to me, staring. It was immediately followed by whispers. I realized nobody had seen me with that wig on, an acute reminder of my cancer. Very straight, I crossed the room with all looks on me. While everyone knew, it was a completely different perception to acutely witness it. There was no more hiding from cancer. I found the chief, drunk, folded in stupor by the bar. My guard shook him awake. He jumped when he saw me, his eyes red and swollen. He tried to straighten his appearance, quite unsuccessfully. I felt terrible for him. I never quite had the time to get to know him as much as I would have liked. I remembered New Caprica and when they had their son. We all bonded then on New Caprica. The resistance. The occupation. I did not know Cally very personally either. On New Caprica, we did talk once in a while, after she had the baby and I visited her. I gently talked to him, telling him how sorry I was for the loss of his wife. And because I did not want to embarrass him further, I just left him and walked back to Bill's quarters.

People stopped on my passage, looking at me in silence, moving aside, opening a clear path for me in the crowded corridors. I tried not to notice. It was strange. I felt as if I was watching myself from outside my body. This woman that did look like me, but had different hair, a transformation noticeable enough for everyone to see."

"I am getting sicker. In fact, I'm dying."

"I could pretend that I will not die. But the ache is in my muscles, in my bones. Cottle does a good job pretending. But we know. We both know; the treatment is not working. It's a mere distraction, some hope… to live some few hours longer. For Bill."

"Two days! Today, I went to see Cottle. It was not a treatment. He just put me in the MRI, as part of my assessment halfway through the treatment. His silence, the shadow in his eyes… Cottle never really could lie to me. We understood each other like old friends, like warriors in the same battle. It was always simple between us. There never was shame, or complicated feelings, just simple understandings. There was no need for syrupy bedside manners, for half-truths, for semi-lies. No. I thought I would be more upset than this. The first time I had cancer, and then when it came back, it was hard. Now, I was strangely detached. I had even managed to be surprised at myself. Knowing that my death was approaching was freeing in a way. It was liberating. Was I scared? Not really. I had seen death up close before. As a president, I had unfinished work, however. Likely, as the prophecy went, I would not see Earth. If I was indeed the Dying Leader, that was it; I was comforted to know that my death would come, and then my people would finally be free. Admiral atheist would probably disagree with me. He would tell me, just like he did when we fought, that I was probably deluding myself. The irony! To think that I may be the one prone to delusions, when he was the one drinking himself to sleep to avoid looking at me, when everything about my physical appearance was a reminder of my death. It was easier, when I had hair, to be able to forget it. We knew. He knew. When I had hair, he could still work with me and pretend everything would be okay. He could still look at me and see me… me… not the cancer inside me. And in his look, there was tenderness, sometimes love, and sometimes even desire. But there never was pity. Now, it was implacable. I could see it when he looked at me. I would put the ugly wig away as soon as I got in his quarters far from public eye. He saw the absence of hair. The absence of eyebrows. The absence of hair everywhere on my body. I got undressed in the bathroom to shower. His eyes drifted to my lower abdomen, as a slow blush crept up his cheeks. He averted his look. His eyes searched on my chest for my ribs protruding, as more evidence of my weight loss. And his eyes filled with pain.

'Please, leave.' I said sharply.

He turned around and I heard the tell-tale noise of his alcohol carafe hitting the border of a glass. I turned the shower on, in a rage, slamming my fist against the wall. I saw my cancer move into his heart, his soul. It was eating him alive. He refused still to consider my death. He fought it. I did not want to fight it anymore. Yet, each time he looked at me, that was the only thing he saw. When he looked at me, his soul was torn apart. I stepped in the shower. When I got out a few minutes later, he had left."

"When he came back in the late evening, I was sitting in my pajamas at his desk attempting to work as my body was rebelling against my self-imposed discipline, and I was feeling each one of my muscle shaking and aching. I could feel the bones of my hips and pelvis aching against the wood of the chair I was sitting down on. As I lost weight I also lost some of the comfortable padding of my buttocks. I never thought bones could hurt as much. I'd have to find a pillow to sit on. It took strength to push the ball point pen against the paper. Incredible! Such a supposedly easy task: writing. I was so weak, that I would have to consider using an ink pen, as the ink would flow effortlessly onto the paper. He looked into my eyes, as if he was looking at me for the first time. And he bent to kiss me. When he kissed me, and touched me, he did it carefully, as if he was making a memory. I let his lips brush against mine. I let my eyes close and I lost myself in his touch, his hand cupping my cheek, sliding down on my neck. I opened up to him, letting him taste me. It was soft and loving. When I looked in his eyes, I saw tears. And it undid me.

'No,' I said, shaking my head, 'don't'. My voice rose one octave, as I was fighting my own emotions. 'Don't pity me, please.'

He looked at me, "Laura…'

'You can't look at me like this… I have had cancer since you've known me. You have not known me without it. It was always… there! New Caprica was just a pause. Just now… Now, you can see it on my body. Now, it has become real!' I pointed at my wig. 'Now you are thinking you will lose me. I've seen this look before. I've seen it on people visiting my mother when she was dying. Bill… I'm still there. And I will die. I want to be ready for it. I need you to help me be ready for it.' He was shaking his head, looking down.

'Look at me, Bill.' I said softly, lifting his head with my fingers on his chin, until his eyes met mine. 'I'm still there. And I need you. I need you to help me get ready. I have a lot of work to do. I need you to be there with me. Can you?'

'Yeah…' He whispered, unconvinced. I knew that, paradoxically, he was also in complete denial about my death. He knew it, but then he also refused to see it in reality. He was in pain. I could feel his pain. I took his hand and moved next to him on the sofa, where I let him lay his head on my chest.

'Bill, we have to –learn- each other.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, we do not know each other, really. We have shared a life on the run, in these ships. I don't know what kind of food you like. I don't know what you would wear aside from those uniforms, what you would do on your time off. There are so many things, I do not know about you.' I felt him smile against the fabric of my shirt.

'It's true' he admitted.

'I used to like to sleep late on weekends. I'd forget everything. Turned off the radio and the television, and I would sleep. I used to spend the day slowly, enjoying the time off. No rush. No appointments. It was sacred to me. Just peace. A late brunch and long walks by the river or the ocean. Sometimes, I would paint. I used to have such busy week days, with meetings and meetings non-stop. Saturdays were often busy too. In politics, it never seems to stop. I used to hate that. Whenever I could, I would take the Sunday off. My staff knew not to try and reach me, unless something really bad happened. I used to leave for the whole weekend too, sometimes. Step in my car and disappear!' I laughed and he did too.

'Where did you go?'

'There was a little guest house by the sea, a bed and breakfast, right on the beach! It was lovely, by the town of Ionia, on the Thessalia peninsula. Do you know it?'

'I've never been there, but I heard it was very pretty.'

'I loved the sea, even in winter. I would escape for the day or maybe two. I turned off my cell phone and just walked on the beach, collected shells, or settled for the day with a good book, a nice mystery novel.'

'Alone?' He whispered.

I smiled.

'Most of the time, yes' I giggled at the memories of those other times, 'sometime, not.'

I looked up to him, 'what about you'

He sighed 'I had a pretty quiet life, you know. Going home after duty tours. My wife hated when I was away.'

I could tell that he did not want to talk about it.

'Sleep?' he asked.

He helped me stand up and wrapped me in his arms. He led me to the rack and we lay down together. I was very weak and tired. He held me against his chest, as I fell asleep."

"The next day was an early start with Cally's memorial service at dawn, which, as the ritual called, took place in the earliest hours of the morning. I put my wig on and a formal suit. Bill led me by the arm, walking slowly through the corridors of Galactica to the chapel. There were only a few close friends of Chief Tyrol. They placed traditional statues of the Gods. It was very simple and dignified, with the chief saying a few heartfelt words about the woman he loved, the mother of his child. I sat next to Bill. I thought about our conversation from the night before, how we decided to –learn—

each other. I loved the simplicity of this service. No pedantic readings of the scriptures. Just friends and family sending back Cally to the universe; a simple return to our origins. We belonged to the universe and returned to it, as each one of our atoms made the universe. Our energy never dying, just its manifestation changing.

'I like this service,' I whispered to Bill.

'It's not for me, I'll tell you that,' he answered back, missing my point completely. It was not a discussion of his atheism or my spirituality. It was a discussion of my death.

'I know,' I replied, 'But I want you to know what I like.' I saw him move to look at me. He did not reply. When everyone started moving, we got up and he avoided my eyes. I was the president again, followed by Tory, and I gave my condolences to the chief, who was shocked in grief. Bill led me without a word out of the chapel and back to his quarters. His silence was telling. He needed to get used to the idea of my death and my last wishes. I needed to teach him about me, about the Laura Roslin, which he never got a chance to know."

"There was an accident later that day, when the chief, distracted, forgot to change some part on a raptor. I would not be able to explain what the problem was, as I'm not an engineer. Truth is all of us have been asked to perform in the most difficult circumstances. On Caprica, he would have been granted leave of absence for the death of his wife. Here it was relentless. We had to go back to work and pretend we were alright. He was not. We were not."

"Bill was on CIC, when I heard that Baltar refuge had been attacked by some men from Dogsville, a group of religious fanatics called the Sons of Ares. Dogsville is this village made from all kinds of colonists, who had lost their ships after New Caprica. They were just staying in lower parts of the ship, having created some sort of small town. A lot of violence was brewing among these groups. They were living in horrendous conditions and there was so little I could do. Rotate people in various jobs, try to keep everyone invested in our future. Which future? What kind of future could all of these people expect inside those ships? We had to find earth; yes, that was the only way. Baltar now lived in some part of the ship taken over by his religious cult, women for the most part, who elevated him to the state of a God, a deity, performing sex with him (what a surprise) and venerating a single God, away from the traditional religion of the twelve colonies. The Sons of Ares were religious extremists sworn to protect the old religion, the Gods, and they attacked Baltar's group, destroying his refuge. We. Could. Not. have a religious war aboard this ship. Baltar, of course, retaliated, taking some of his acolytes and destroying the chapel, the same temple where we had Cally's memorial service as a matter of fact, and to add to the offense: during a service. Fantastic! I heard all of this from Dr. Cottle, who had called me in for a blood test. He was grumbling his way around, upset at the whole situation. What could we do? We could not park guards around Baltar's groupies around the clock. Now of course, they arrested Baltar for desecrating a temple, and having him in the brig was somewhat of a relief.

I was surprised to see Bill in sickbay, as I was about to leave. He thought I had a doloxan session and was ready to come and read to me. A new book from his library: 'Searider Falcon'! A classic! I had not read this in a very long time and flows of memories associated with reading the book as a student came to my mind. 'Searider Falcon'! I had read this in Caprican literature class in school, poetry in prose, analyzing the rhythm of the lines, the rich and colorful vocabulary, down to its punctuation. I enjoyed it so much. If only I still had the paper I wrote on this book for that class! I would love to read that again. As I recalled my assignment on the first part of the book, I realized I surprisingly could not remember the end. When I asked, Bill told me it was his favorite and that he never read the end. He did not want the book to be over; he liked it too much. So, he said he was saving it. That was so sweet, really. I would love to read it again with him. I loved this idea of this book, forever suspended in time, eternal… Its ending never to be known by either of us, the journey more important than the destination.

'Maybe I should do that' I said, but then, I caught his look, his gaze full of meaning, knowing I was dying. I could see his love and his sadness. The book, for me, would have an end. I looked down, awkward at this sudden change of mood.

'That's a bad idea, maybe not.' Seeing my embarrassment, Bill changed the conversation, picked up my bag and we discussed Baltar and his arrest on the way to Bill's quarters.

Maybe the end was not important anymore. Maybe just the journey had a meaning."

Thank you for reading and thank you for your patience.

Please leave me some feedback 3