Chapter 3

Circles

Looking through a scope is like narrowing the whole world down to a small, sharply defined circle, every detail as clear as under a microscope. My world was a small, sharp circle with crosshairs at the center. Dots—'mil-dots'—sit at regular intervals along the crosshairs like birds on a power line. You can use mil-dots to get a fairly close estimate of range by making a comparison to something in your sights that you know the size of.

I didn't really need to use the mil-dots that often, our topographical maps were very accurate, and I spent hours memorizing the area I'd be shooting from and into, all the ranges engraved in my mind. Still, I practiced the quick calculation in my head every time until it got so automatic I didn't even think of the calculation; the answer was just there.

When I looked through the scope, had that small circular slice in my head, I was calm. Everything was clear. I knew exactly what to do. I was in control.

I took the shots, then moved my cheek away from the stock of the rifle so I could watch as Sam and Jean and a couple of the others ran into the building. I kept watching to make sure they wouldn't be interrupted, and it didn't take them long. Less than five minutes later they were out again.

Once they were safely under cover, I started back to camp. I was almost there when the reaction hit… cold sweats, shaking, heart pounding… When they first started, about six or eight missions ago, I tried to shrug them off as being caused by something I'd eaten. Or an effect from the radiation meds. Or… well, anything else except what they really were. I knelt, leaned my shoulder against a tree and gripped my rifle tightly, waiting for it to pass. I breathed shallowly, trying not to throw up.

I didn't understand why I'd have those reactions. The Cylons had killed nearly all of us, attacked without provocation, destroyed everything. They were made, not… not born; they were manufactured like machines were manufactured. They weren't people.

But something in me rebelled from the killing, no matter how much I tried to rationalize it. I'm not trying to justify what I did, just—explain it. But even then, even in the grips of physical evidence, my mind still tried to deny the cause for it.

When I was recovered, I finished the trip back into camp, going to clean my rifle. It was dim inside the small building we used as an armory, but I could dismantle, clean, and reassemble my rifle with my eyes closed. In my sleep. Sometimes I did do it in my sleep.

Sam opened the door and stuck his head in. "I didn't think you were back yet," he commented, coming all the way in.

Belatedly I realized I'd forgotten to check in with him as soon as I'd returned. It always took me longer to get back to camp than the rest of them… it would be bitter irony if I was caught by the Cylons when I was leaving the scene, so I took just as much care exfiltrating as I did infiltrating. I always checked in with him as soon as I got back, though. Or had, up till this time.

"Sorry," I said, not really looking at him, or at what I was doing. "I, uh, I…"

"Do you feel okay?" he asked with concern, sitting across from me at the small wooden table. "You don't look so great."

I grasped at the excuse. "I think I must have eaten something bad," I said.

He didn't reply, just looked at me steadily.

"I'm fine now," I said defensively.

"Yeah," he said.

"I did the job," I told him, annoyed.

He nodded.

"What the frak do you want?" I asked with anger. "I took out the Cylons, we all got back okay. You're not my frakking father!" I was gripping the barrel of the rifle so hard my hand hurt.

"Dan," he said quietly.

"Leave me the frak alone!" I yelled. I was finally able to let go of the rifle, and I got up fast, taking a step, turning away and smashing the side of my fist against the wall.

He was silent for a long moment, then I heard him get up and go to the door. "Dan," he said again, even more softly.

"I'm just—tired," I said, and it was true. My anger left as quickly as it came, and I felt exhausted. I leaned my forehead against the rough plank wall. "I'm just tired," I repeated.

He sighed. "Get some rest," he said, and left.

Oh, hell, had I just yelled at Sam? I banged my forehead once against the wall. What the frak was wrong with me? I went to finish cleaning my rifle, and to try and get some rest.

PT the next morning was hard, but it always was. I slogged along at the back… I'd given up on my daydreams of Jean long ago. She would never see me as anything more than a tool. To her, I was Nemesis, my rifle. I delivered vengeance from a damn long way away.

And at any rate, I no longer had the energy to even think of involvement with anyone.

I was late getting to breakfast—only bland oatmeal, but at least it was piping hot. I put the bowl on the table and sat, resting my elbows on the table while the oatmeal cooled.

"Dan!" Jean said sharply.

I jumped, startled, and realized she must have said my name more than once.

"Yeah," I swallowed, my heart pounding.

She sat across from me, frowning. "Are you all right?"

Oh, not her, too. "I was just waiting for my oatmeal to cool off," I said, putting a spoonful into my mouth. It was completely cold, though, and I swallowed it with an effort. How long had I sat there staring into space, my mind a blank?

"Dan, you can take a break, you know," she said calmly.

I looked up at her. "Take a break?" I asked, bewildered.

She breathed in and out deeply. "You're getting worn out from the shooting," she said gently.

"No!" I protested. "I'm doing fine. I haven't missed one shot!"

"No, you haven't missed," she agreed slowly. "But I can see how it's wearing at you. You should stop for a couple weeks, take it easy."

"But I'm the only sniper," I said, trying to stay calm and persuasive.

"There are--," she began.

She was going to say more, but I started panicking a little, and before she could go on, I blurted, "Shooting is the only time I'm okay."

"What?" she asked, started.

Damn; I hadn't meant it to sound like that. "I mean, it's… what I can do. To help. So I feel like I'm contributing." My effort at trying to change what I'd said sounded feeble, at least to me.

It must have sounded feeble to her, also. "Dan, you said shooting is the only time you're all right," she said softly.

I tried to explain it to her. "It's all so clear, when I'm shooting. All the details, I can see them all. I'm… it's all in one piece, then. In control. You can't…" I swallowed, trying to sound reasonable. "You can't take that away from me."

She gazed at me for a long moment. I couldn't decipher her expression—pity? Sadness? Pain? Or was it just disgust? Finally she just nodded, got up, and left.

"Frak," I said, and forced myself to eat the cold oatmeal.

I went to check the duty roster, to see what details I'd been assigned to, but after looking down the list three times I still didn't see my name—then I remembered, day after a mission, none of us who'd gone out would be assigned camp details. So I took my rifle and went up the rough hillside behind the camp, and looked though the scope. We didn't have enough of the special boat-tail rounds for me to practice with, any more, but I didn't need to practice any more. I never missed. So I just sighted through the scope, in control, looking at clear circles of the world a thousand and more yards away.

I'd fired plenty of times from a thousand yards, and even further a few times. The record, from what I could remember, was over 2,500 yards, but I wasn't looking for a record—unless it was the record for never missing.

I looked through my scope, examining the distant details of the landscape before me, dividing it up into circle after overlapping circle. I calculated the range, estimated wind speed, elevation, air temperature and the temperature of the rifle's barrel, dialing in the scope and then moving on to the next circle, doing it all again. It was a soothing routine, and I didn't realize how long I'd been at it until dusk fell and it was too dark for me to see clearly.

I stood slowly, cold and stiff, and folded the rifle's bipod. Maybe I'd be able to sleep tonight…

I wasn't the only one who had nightmares. Rich, a survivalist who'd joined Sam's team shortly after I had, told me his sleep remedy. A couple shots of Gerry's booze worked every time, or so he said. It did work, too--at least until lately; but lately the nightmares would wake me up again later on in the night. Rich shared one of the small camper's cabins with me, and he always had a canteen of Gerry's poison there. I never asked Rich, and he never said anything about how I helped myself, but the canteen was always there, and it always had some of the home-brew in it.

It was closer to dawn than midnight, but I took a couple of gulps and picked up my rifle, going outside to cool off and calm down before I tried to sleep again. It was one of those nights that was cool and breezy--enough to rustle the leaves on the trees and the dead leaves underfoot.

"Dan?" it was Sam; I hadn't heard him, and I jumped, my heart pounding again.

"Yeah," I said, sounding hoarse. I swallowed twice and cleared my throat.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked.

"Just… getting some air," I said. I wondered what he was doing out here.

He stepped closer to me. I couldn't see his face in the darkness and had no warning when he suddenly grabbed me by the shoulders and slammed me up against the trunk of a tree. The back of my head bounced off the tree and it hurt.

"You've been drinking again," his voice was tight and quiet and furious.

He was pressing his forearm against my chest, putting his weight behind it. I'd been holding my rifle diagonally across my body, and he trapped it against me, and that hurt, too. I panicked and tried to fight him, but he was bigger than me and a lot stronger and he held me tight against the tree.

I thought he was trying to take my rifle away, and I held it more tightly, trying to get away from him. Somehow in the struggle the scope got jammed into my ribs. I gasped with pain, seeing stars, and my knees gave way.

He was saying in a rough voice, "No, no, no, don't kill me, don't kill me—," but no, it was my voice saying the words.

Sam was on his knees next to where I'd collapsed, and he was saying, "Oh frak Dan, I'm sorry, I'm not going to kill you, oh frakking hell…"

When I realized what I was saying, I stopped. At some point I'd bitten my tongue and I could taste blood. I got to my feet, took a couple staggering steps, then fell to my hands and knees, throwing up the booze I'd just drunk. The bitter alcohol made my tongue sting where I'd bitten it. When I was done I sat back on my heels and wiped my mouth with the back of my left hand. I was still gripping my rifle with my right hand.

"Dan," Sam said softly from behind me.

I turned, still on my knees, to face him.

"I'm not going to kill you," he said, so quietly I could barely hear him.

"I know," I said. "I, I'm sorry… I don't know why I said that."

I watched him as he breathed a couple times. Finally, I said, "I didn't have much to drink. Just, just a couple gulps. To help me sleep. I'm fine."

He sighed. "You're not fine, Dan."

Anger stirred in my gut, then faded. "My shooting is still good," I said.

"Yes," he nodded. "But that's the only thing."

I wanted to argue with him, but I knew he was right. I made my death-grip on my rifle relax. I couldn't meet his gaze. "What am I supposed to do?" I asked him bleakly.

He shook his head slowly. "You need to talk to someone," he said.

I looked up at him, then. I couldn't tell him, what would he think of me? Hell, he was my hero, the one person I looked up to as much as my dad…

He must have seen something in my face even though it was dark, and he said, "Talk to Marin," he said—our 'doc', although she was really just a medical assistant. "Or talk to the cleric."

Marin wasn't much older than me, maybe four years older, dark-haired and quiet. She'd been with the Buccaneers when they'd come up here, on the team's medical staff. The cleric had joined us only recently, an older man with the kind of face you instantly trusted. I'd seen him around on occasion, but I'd never spoken to him.

I couldn't see myself talking to either of them, but I nodded slowly, looking down, running my hands over the stock of my rifle.

"I can't let you go back out until you get a grip on this, Dan," Sam said gravely.

My anger flashed again. "You can't—don't take it away—," I bit my words off.

"I can," he sounded grim. "Jean told me what you said to her… I can't let you go back out until I'm sure you won't flip out." He was looking at me steadily.

"I won't flip out," I tried to sound calm, but instead it came out desperate.

"Can you guarantee that?" He was the one who sounded calm. "Can you promise me you won't get the shakes before you start shooting, instead of after?"

I stared at him. I couldn't promise…

"I have everyone else to think of, too," his voice was again grim, and it suddenly occurred to me how much we all depended on him.

I nodded, climbing to my feet. My head was throbbing where I'd hit it against the tree, my tongue hurt, and my ribs hurt. I was so incredibly weary, I wasn't sure I could make it back to my cabin, but I did.

I didn't get back to sleep. I lay there on the narrow cot and stared up at the ceiling, my rifle clutched to my side. It got light out. Rich woke up and said to me, "You going down to breakfast?"

"Maybe in a little bit," I replied.

He nodded and left.

Time passed. A fly came in and buzzed around then left. I stared at the ceiling and thought of detailed circular slices of the world with crosshairs at the center.

The setting sun was sending slanted rays of light through the small window when someone knocked on the door. I watched dust whirl around in the sunbeam. The door scraped open and someone came in, but in the contrast from the sun shining on the opposite wall, and the darkness around the door, I couldn't see who it was.

"Dan?" he said.

It was the cleric.

"Yes," I acknowledged.

"Can I come in?" he asked.

"You are in," I pointed out.

"Ah. Yes, right," he sat on the stool in the corner, leaning back against the wall, almost invisible in the gloom.

I couldn't think of anything to say, and he didn't speak for a while either. After a bit, he asked, "What's her name?"

I knew he meant my rifle. "Nemesis."

He nodded. "Apt," he commented. "They tell me you're very good with her."

Flatly, I said, "I have killed seventy-eight skin jobs with her."

"You've never missed," he said.

"Never," I agreed.

He fell silent again. Finally, he questioned, "Do you know why I'm here?"

"Sam said I have to talk to someone," I replied.

Patiently, he asked, "And why does Sam think you need to talk to someone?"

I stared at the ceiling. I didn't think this would help. But I didn't understand a lot of things. "How does everyone else handle it?" I asked abruptly.

"Not everyone does," he said, crossing his arms.

I thought about that. The most we'd had on our team was a hundred and three… we were down to seventy-four now, and not all of those gone had been killed. Some had just disappeared.

He waited without speaking.

"You're a cleric," I growled. "Aren't you supposed to say a prayer or something?"

"Do you think that would help?" he replied.

I blinked. I hadn't ever really considered it. "No," I finally said.

Again he was silent. The splotch of sunlight on the wall moved. I stared up at the ceiling.

I sighed. "I get the shakes," I said. "I have nightmares. I… can't sleep. I get pissed off at people I shouldn't be angry at. I get bad headaches a lot. Nothing seems real, except for what I can see through the scope." I touched it with my fingertips.

"Why is that?" he queried.

I breathed. "Seventy-eight," I said softly.

He heard me, though. "You have killed seventy-eight skin jobs."

I nodded.

"They are the enemy," he said, as casually as if commenting that it looked like it might rain.

I closed my eyes, then opened them. "They… look like people. Through the scope." I felt sick to my stomach again.

"So enemy or not, you are killing people," he stated.

"Yes," I agreed.

"Right, then," he nodded and stood, going briskly to the door.

"Is that it?" I asked, startled, sitting up, the rifle across my legs.

He paused. "I can say a prayer if you like," he replied with irony.

"But…" I was confused.

"You look the enemy in the face through the scope of that rifle," he said calmly, nodding to it. "And you have no problem facing that enemy and doing what you have to do."

I breathed in and out. "My enemy is on both ends of the rifle," I murmured.

"Yes," he said, in exactly the same tone of voice I'd used. He gazed at me. "You are the only one who can decide how you will defeat your enemy… but you must have a clear sight of that enemy first."

I nodded slowly. He nodded back, and left.

"I have killed seventy-eight people," I said quietly in the empty cabin. I lay back on the cot. My world was a small, sharp circle with crosshairs at the center. I closed my eyes and looked back at myself from the other side of those crosshairs. Every detail as clear as under a microscope.