With the Weapons of a Woman
by Soledad
For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.
Author's notes: The various ship classes mentioned in this chapter are from the BSG Technical Manual website, as before.
Leonyte-at-the-Sea and the Cathay-Six blaster were invented by Karen. So are the leporid, a small animal akin to a rabbit, and glassite, a sort of unbreakable glass.
The New Art is the colonial version of art déco or art nouveau.
Chapter 03 – The Rising Star
The Rising Star, constructed in the once-famed shipyards of Leonyte-at-the-Sea, the now-gone capital of the planet Leonis, was one of the newest – not to mention the most comfortable – ships that the military could draft into the rescue mission. Not the most practical one, though. For all intents and purposes, she was a luxury liner, chartered to fly romantic tours around all Twelve Colonies… nothing more, nothing less.
Consequently, she was also the most vulnerable ship in the ragtag fleet of colonial refugees. Meant primarily for short or medium range flight, this class vessel was rather frail and had less advanced scanner equipment than other commercial transports. She was also unarmed, with a hull barely a metron or less thick, and she had no EM-shields, either.
In short, she was a flying rat-trap – albeit a beautiful one, shimmering in pearly white like some enormous seashell before the blackness of space. Her aerodynamic design – commonly known as a "lifting body design" – allowed her to make water landings, where she could drop off or take on new passengers. This was also the reason why her scramjet intakes were featured on top, unlike those of other ships.
Usually not one for minute technical detail, Serina happened to know this, as she'd been the one making the report of the Rising Star's shakedown cruise a couple of yahrens ago. She hadn't thought that her familiarity with the ship – including her layout – would come in so handy one day.
When they landed in the Rising Star's shuttle bay, however, she could see that this was a very different ship from the one she remembered. The hangar, originally designed to hold twelve civilian space shuttles, was now crowded with at least three or four times as many vehicles of various sorts. Black-clad members of Council Security (and how in Hades had they survived the destruction of the Atlantia? Weren't they supposed to guard the Quorum members?) were trying desperately to bring some semblance of order into the chaos – with very meagre results.
"They've always been so fracking useless, and a catastrophe like this didn't improve them a bit," Patroclus growled under his breath. Serina suppressed a smile. It was strange how everyone, even the aristocrats generally disliked Council Security. One had to wonder why the force hadn't been dispersed of a long time ago.
Patroclus grinned at her humourlessly, and then he turned to the shuttle crew.
"You know where to take the supplies," he said. "If anyone tries to lay hand on them – shoot them. Nothing of this goes to anyone, except through me, understood?"
The men – Serina had just realized they were carrying Cathay-6 blasters: sleek little laser weapons with more firepower one would expect them to have – nodded in unison and started offloading the boxes filled with medical supplies that they had removed from the ruined hospital near the evacuation site. The number of the boxes surprised Serina a little.
"I never knew civilian shuttles could carry so much cargo," she said. Patroclus gave her another crooked grin.
"They can't; not as a rule," he admitted. "I took a calculated risk, or else I'd have to leave too many supplies behind to take you and the boy in. Overloading the shuttle beyond safety limits or making Sire Uri mad at you… I know which choice I'd make every time. Come now; we're going to find some quarters for you, and then I'll have to report in. I'm sure Sire Uri will want to see you as well."
Serina picked up the strangely listless Boxey who hadn't spoken a word since they left the planet and followed the tall young man across the shuttle bay. Patroclus weaved his way through the crowd with practiced ease and led her down a long companionway in which refugees had been crammed into many improvised living quarters… small cubicles, really, separated from the rest of the large, empty cargo bay by makeshift walls of any possible materials at hand. In each such cubicle stood a small cot, barely enough for one person, yet each was used by at least two or three.
Living conditions clearly weren't luxurious on the lower decks of the former luxury liner.
"The five lowest decks are already crammed full," Patroclus murmured, "but we'll try to secure a cubicle for you and the child on Level Six… until you find something better."
Serina seriously doubted that that would be possible – she simply wasn't important enough for exceptional treatment, not without her mother – but she gave no answer. A small cubicle, shared with the boy, was still a thousand times better than staying behind on the burning planet, waiting for the Cylon death squads to put her out of her misery.
They went to the clerk responsible for the lower decks, a short, silver-curled man by the name of Chella, who had the face of a frightened leporid and pale blue eyes like water. The man soon found them an empty cubicle, where Serina could leave Boxey for the time she'd be visiting Sire Uri, as she remembered well enough the politician's dislike of small children. Considering that the lower decks were full of juveniles and their caretakers, the Sire must have been displeased enough as things were standing. No need to provoke him by taking another child with her.
Boxey accepted the news with the same listless disinterest with which he'd made the whole trip from the planet to the ship. At least he wasn't howling for his daggit any more.
"I'll be back as soon as I can, sweetheart," Serina murmured, kissing the top of the boy's tousled head. "Everything is going to be all right, you'll see. We're safe now."
The boy didn't answer, just kept staring at the ceiling. He didn't even glance after them when they left the cubicle.
"I don't know what's wrong with him," Serina sighed.
Patroclus glanced back at the unresponsive child with professional interest. "A mild form of shock, I assume," he judged. "Has he eaten or slept properly since the bombing?"
"As well as any of us," Serina replied. "There was very little food in the shelter where we spent the last two sectons, and even water was rationed. But the other people were kind to him and gave him whatever they could spare."
"Who is he anyway?" Patroclus asked. "Because I know he's not your kid. He's too old for that – at least a yahren, or even more."
"No, he isn't," Serina admitted. "I don't really know who he is; only that his name's Boxey. I found him in the rubble during the Cylon attack. At first, in the shelter, he talked with people quite a lot, but since we left the planet…" she shrugged.
"Did he talk about his family, where he comes from?" Patroclus asked. "He seems Caprican, but I don't think he'd come from an old bloodline. We can do some tests later, though; perhaps we'll find relatives of his."
Serina shook her head. "I think he's blocked out all memories. All he ever talked about was his daggit: a scruffy little creature killed while they were running through the streets. He doesn't know it's dead, though; thinks it's just lost."
"Let him his dreams, then," Patroclus suggested. "What else does he have left?"
"He does have me," Serina replied with determination.
Patroclus gave him a compassionate look. "What happened to your little boy? I've been out with the Rising Star for so long; I couldn't even catch up with the gossip from home."
"Not that the gossip shared in your circles would tell anything about me," Serina returned bitterly. "But Maboc's dead. Last yahren… have you heard of that epidemic fever going around among the small children in Caprica City?" Patroclus nodded. "Well, Maboc got it, too… it whisked him away in mere days."
"So you took in this boy instead him?" Patroclus asked.
Serina nodded. "I couldn't just leave him behind – he hasn't got anyone but me. I'll do my best to raise him as well as I can."
Unexpectedly, he smiled at him, and it was a smile she remembered from before.
"I'm sure you'll do a great job," he said. "You've always been like a lionet when it came to children. Come now, let's face Sire Uri together – everything else depends on what kind of bargain you can cut with him."
He led her to the elevator that went directly to the elite level of the Rising Star: a cylindrical cabin made of that particular kind of glassite that was transparent from the inside but looked like simple metal from the outside. It also had a bench with velvety padding running around the cabin, and as soon as the doors closed behind them, the lights dimmed and quiet, soothing, intricately melodic music started to emanate from the cleverly hidden speakers.
Serina recognized the melody: it was an ancient chant from Leonis, celebrating the wonders of the harvest, which made sense, considering that Sire Uri, builder and owner of the luxury liner, was a Leonid. He was also known as a great connoisseur of all kinds of art and beauty, and even such a simple, utilitarian thing as an elevator cabin was proof for that.
A golden light switched on suddenly above the doorway, signalling that the elevator was about to stop at the primary elite level. When the slide doors finally opened and they stepped out into the softly lit corridor, Serina took a deep, involuntary breath. Yes, this was the ship she remembered. The ship of the maiden voyage of which she'd made her report – the first one broadcast to all Twelve Worlds.
Unlike the lower decks, originally designed to contain food supplies and other cargo, the elite level had a been decorated in the manner of the New Art – the Renaissance's artistic reaction to the former utilitarian styles, preferred due to hundreds of yahrens of warfare, when resources had majorly been used for defence purposes. It had been President Adar, who, following his election to the Quorum of the Twelve, had taken a more moderate approach to the war with the Cylons. The old man had truly, honestly believed that peace had never before been accomplished because the military had too much interest in the continued conflict. Thus he'd cut back the budget for defence considerably, and called for the Renaissance to usher in a new golden age.
The resources taken away from military purposes had made the great public works projects possible in the first place, orchestrated by Sire Uri as the governor of Caprica, and all manifestations of art, kept on a small flame for such a long time, burst into bloom within a few yahrens. The New Art, like most of the creative input during the entire history of the Colonies, originated from Aquarius, but it spread quickly over to most other colonies. Especially the Leonids, who could never warm themselves for the monolithic architecture and pyramidal designs preferred on Caprica and Sagittara, embraced the new style with full enthusiasm.
That style dominated the corridor leading to the Club Elite – the separate area housing Sire Uri's private Quarters and the guest chambers of his friends. A beautiful style it was, with organic, especially floral and other plant-inspired motifs, as well as highly stylized, flowing curvilinear forms. There were sunburst designs in gold above each doorway, framed by slender columns in sky blue and deep blue; the arched ceilings were semi-transparent, made of stained glassite, and the gilded candelabra along the walls made the impression of true lanterns, although they were not, of course.
The guard standing in front of the Club entrance was wearing a livery of deep blue, with golden embroidery on the stand-up collar and the cuffs that showed the same design. The true achievement of the New Art was that if could be adapted to every little detail of life. Serina felt embarrassed, almost ashamed of her stained grey tunic surrounded by all this exquisite beauty. Oh, she'd match the surroundings so well, if she only had any proper clothes! But as things were at the moment, she had to accept the situation, as little as she liked it.
The guard apparently knew Patroclus, because he stepped out of their way without asking questions, allowing them into the great ballroom of the Rising Star. At least Serina's memory told her that this place had originally been designed as a ballroom. Right now, it looked more like the court of some legendary prince. Complete with courtiers and their ladies.
She recognized most of them, of course. Like herself, they came from the lesser nobility, as the heads of the Great Houses had died aboard the Atlantia. All of them, with the sole exception of the far-sighted Commander Adama, who'd never trusted the sudden peaceful turn of the Cylons. Sire Uri's court consisted of younger sons of the younger sons, ambitious yet less influential politicians of the second ranks and the likes.
There was Siress Aeriana, for example, the new First Matriarch of the Submitters, now that venerable old Hahti was dead. A sleek, dark-haired woman of middle age and middle height, with jewelled black eyes that could mesmerise anyone they caught unawares like those of an opiuchian… and every bit as cold.
She was flanked by two female guards that could have been the younger copies of herself, clad in skin-tight black leather and wearing half a dozen different weapons, not counting those hidden somewhere on their bodies, unlikely as it seemed by that outfit. In theory, weapons were not allowed aboard luxury liners, but nobody in their right minds would dare to challenge an Aerian amazon about her weapons. Especially not any male who didn't want to be neutered on the spot.
There was Sire Geller, the late Aquarian ambassador's chief aide: an elderly, servile and not very bright man, who could nonetheless count on being elected to the new Quorum in the not-too-distant future. While Aquarius had never sported all that many noble houses, the few still existing patricians – like Patroclus himself – were highly respected and had many privileges. Even more so if they could prove some however far-fetched relation to the long-extinct Royal House.
The only such person, to Serina's knowledge, was young Darius, son of the legendary Devon, commander of the Fourth Fleet, who'd chosen to study art and philosophy at the Aquarian School of Enlightenment rather than follow his father's distinguished career and was a celebrated poet. Serina had met him a few times, as he was very popular and had often been interviewed in Transmission, but while she had to admit that he was gifted indeed, she found him too effeminate for her taste.
Of course, not only did Aquarians generally have two strings to their bow, with not always a clear preference for one gender or another, Darius himself was openly flit and apparently very comfortable with his orientation. A tall, slender, flat-chested and narrow-shouldered young man, with the pretty, youthful face and the waist-long, lush dark mane of a girl, people often wondered whether he was a twitter, too, male and female in one.
So far, the question couldn't be answered to general satisfaction, although many newswomen working for gossip columns had done their best – or worst, depending on one's point of view – to learn the truth. Serina was fairly certain that the gossip mill would start running again, as soon as people got over their first shock. After all, there wouldn't be much entertainment during their flight, save the one they provided themselves.
There was Sire Ixion, a middle-aged, silver-haired aristocrat from Gemini, his face smooth, ageless and beautiful, his mind said to be shrewd and ruthless. He'd long been foreseen to take over the Gemoni seat in the Quorum, but according to tradition, public offices on Gemini were worn for lifetime, and one could only get promoted when one's predecessor died. And the old councillor had sat in his seat firmly, despite his one hundred and thirty-three yahrens. It took Sire Ixion almost two decades – and the Destruction – to finally come into his right.
The man in question glanced at Serina fleetingly over the head of a scantily-clad young woman who was wearing a headdress made of scarlet feathers in Taurean fashion and gave her a tolerant smile. Serina felt her cheeks heat up with embarrassment. She'd forgotten that Sire Ixion, like many Gemons, was a short-range telepath and that she ought to keep her thoughts under tighter control around him. Fortunately, he was also known as one who didn't take offence easily, so she didn't have to worry about his reactions.
The same couldn't be said of Sire Gamesh of Libra, son of an ancient and wealthy although not particularly influential family. A close associate of Sire Uri since his youth, he was in his splendid best: a man of middle stature, who, nonetheless, looked much taller than he actually was, due to the flowing, colourful robes he preferred to wear in Libran fashion, and because of his narrow, elongated head. With his short-cropped, black hair, large, dark eyes and chiselled features, he reminded one of the ebony statues of the Lords of Kobol, standing in the Temple Quarter of his native Arbor.
He was the most beautiful man Serina had ever seen... or was ever likely to see in the future. Even among the very exotic Librans, he was a unique specimen, whose beauty didn't quite conceal the ruthless strength and powerful will behind that attractive surface. He was a political animal if there ever had been one, a charismatic leader and a skilled rhetor. Had he come from one of the Great Houses, he'd have been President of the Twelve Worlds and Libra the lead colony for yahrens by now.
Even so, he was a force to be counted with, a man with ample experience on the political playground. As Sire Uri's protégée, he had held several minor positions in government before the Destruction, and there could be little doubt that he would climb the ladder of political impotence again, sooner or later. He was born to be a leader.
Compared with him, Sire Anton, once the aide-de-camp of the late President Adar, looked like a dotardly old man, living out his last yahrens in happy ignorance. But Serina had heard enough from her mother to know that the hawk-faced, emaciated old-line politicio from Scorpia was crafty – and still ambitious enough – to surprise everyone. Under normal circumstances, Anton preferred to rule from behind the throne; but he might change his mind in the future, should things not develop to his liking.
And he had allies, too – mostly clueless ones, who had no idea that they were being used and manipulated. Like Siress Tinia from Canceria, who'd been working on a fairly unremarkable career as a politician all her life. Now that the big players had been forcibly removed from the game, she might get her choice… and she would do everything to achieve that goal.
Or like Sire Lobe from Piscera, a well-meaning but not terribly bright man, always wanting to be allied with the ones who wielded true power and so very easily manipulated. Or Sire Domra, an elderly Taurus, full of self-importance yet tragically lacking any independent thought or an opinion of his own.
Serina's mother had known them all. She'd even grown up with some of them. Just like the members of the Great Houses, the lesser nobility had mostly socialized within their own circles. And as long as Lyra had been alive, Serina, too, often spent time in their homes and got to know the younger generation that was now sparsely represented here.
As she walked up towards Sire Uri's throne-like seat, escorted by Patroclus, she suddenly realized that she was most likely looking at the future leaders of what remained from a population of billions. Considering what she knew about them, it was a sobering thought.
Serina hadn't seen Sire Uri for at least five yahrens. Not since her civil union with Boreas, in any case, even though the known fact that he'd used to be her patron had eased her way to a certain extent in the media business. But they hadn't met in person since Lyra's death. It had always been Siress Electra she'd kept sporadic contact with.
She remembered a tall, handsome man of Lyra's age, well-fed and well-preserved, with a full head of slick black hair and shrewd, intelligent eyes – and an imperious bearing that made him look much younger than his actual yahrens. Now that she was standing face to face with him, she was shocked by the damage the recent yahrens had done to the man.
His shoulders were stooped now, as if he'd carried a burden beyond his strength for quite a while. He'd lost most of his hair, and what was still there of it had turned grey. There was a definite suggestion of jowliness, a marked extension of his waistline, and his face was slack and his eyes heavy-lidded. But behind those heavy lids, the eyes themselves were still watchful and observant; he was still the aristocratic politician who'd been extremely popular all over the planed Leonis – or on Caprica, for that matter.
Had he not been hand-picked by President Adar to work with him as the governor of Caprica, he surely would have been elected as the representative of his home planet in the Quorum of Twelve.
In which case he'd be dead now, of course. Serina wondered whether he saw his escape as a course or as a blessing. Certainly, being spared was a good thing per se, but having to leave behind all the great achievements he'd worked on all his adult life as a pile of smouldering ruins must have been bitter for a man who mainly defined himself through his work and his achievements.
The man looked at them with moderate interest, and Patroclus sketched a bow – more out of mocking respect for etiquette than out of necessity. He came from the same social circles as Sire Uri, after all; he wasn't obliged to bow to him.
"We've secured the supplies, Sire Uri," he reported. "The medical cupboards and the storerooms are full – with a little luck, they will last for a while. And look whom I've found on my way back."
He gave Serina a gentle push to go forward. Serina understood the unspoken message and curtseyed, as if was custom in her mother's family.
"Sire Uri, it's a relief to see you alive and well," she said honestly. She owed the man a great deal of gratitude, after all.
The man's balding head, that seemed strangely oversized compared with the rest of his slackened body, dipped in a short nod, and his features rearranged themselves into a benevolent smile.
"And you, Serina," he said, his voice still as sonorous as always. "We've seen your report on Transmission. It was… moving, really. Moving and well-executed. Very well done indeed. I always knew you had a knack for that sort of thing. It's unfortunate that your big breakthrough was shortened so tragically."
"A terrible thing for us all," Serina agreed cautiously. When dealing with Sire Uri, it was always better to keep one's cards close to one's chest. At least until one figured out what the man was really thinking.
"We were cruising the outer planets when it happened," Sire Uri explained mournfully. "Of course, we turned back at once when we picked up Transmission, but…" he made a defeated gesture with one large hand. "It was already too late."
Not that the Rising Star could have done anything to stop the Cylon attack, of curse – aside from offering a new, tempting target. She was a luxury liner, not a Battlestar. The sharpest weapons on board were the kitchen knives. It was the sentiment that counted, though.
"Too late for us all, it seems," Serina murmured. Then she looked around, seeking the one person that should have been here but was nowhere to see. "By the way, I'd like to pay my respects to Siress Electra, unless she's retired already."
"I must regretfully tell you that Siress Uri is gone," the man put considerable emphasis on the name, as if he wanted to reinforce his ownership. "She failed to arrive at the rallying point in time to be rescued with the rest of us."
Serina was shaken. Siress Electra, the oldest friend of her mother, had been a kind woman, whose beauty had long burned to ashes, but who'd still had great interest in art and in the talent of gifted young people. She'd been like a mother to them all – perhaps because she'd never had children of her own.
Not after her first, scandalous pregnancy, that is. But very few people remembered that old scandal – or the stillborn baby – anymore, and from the younger generation, nobody had ever heard of it. She'd simply been considered as childless, and she'd certainly poured all her energies into supporting those who needed her help.
"That's a tremendous loss indeed," Serina murmured, trying to keep her grief well-controlled. Sire Uri would have taken offence, had she made a scene of it. "She was an extraordinary person and a great support for us all."
Especially for her husband, whom she'd supported unquestioningly in his public work, acting subtly in the background, while Uri had made the public appearances.
"Yes, she was," Sire Uri agreed, with just the right amount of sadness to still look dignified. "We all have our losses. But we're also alive, and life must go on. The Lords of Kobol have been gracious to spare us; and I'm glad that Patroclus has found you. We'll try to find you a nice little compartment here; although there's actually very little place to have right now. We had to crowd ourselves together quite a bit, even on the elite level. But once some of us move on to the ships of their own colonies…"
"Oh, I'm well taken care of," Serina interrupted, as he clearly wasn't going to make any promises. "I've been given a cubicle on the sixth passenger level – enough for me and my little son. As we've nothing left but the clothes we're wearing, we don't need all that much room, really."
"Still, a celebrity like you ought to do a little better than the common crowd," a handsome, dark-haired young nobleman, whom she couldn't remember to have met before, argued. "I'd be happy to be of assistance."
Patroclus shot him a somewhat unfriendly look. "Are you prepared to deal with a sullen six-yahren-old who refuses to speak because he's mourning his pet daggit, Sire Telamon?" he asked.
Telamon! So that was why she hadn't recognized him! The youngest son of one of Carpica's greatest Houses, second only to the Adamans and the House of Lares, he certainly hadn't mingled with women of questionable origins. He might have patronized socialators; but on Gemini, socialators were considered part of the elite, the counterpart of the highly respected virgin priestesses. A woman born out of a méssaliance, however, could not hope to be respected in Telamon's circles.
There could be very little doubt about the nature of the assistance the young patrician was offering. Serina tried not to take offence, but it wasn't an easy thing. She did come from an old and respected family from her mother's side, after all – how did he dare to treat him like a common concubine? Even if he knew about her former attachment to Patroclus – which he probably did, there had been no secrets in high Caprican society – it didn't give him the right to treat him like that, and in earshot of all the remaining nobility… well, most of them anyway.
Patroclus clearly could feel her rising ire, and he knew her well enough to know that – unless he acted quickly – she might do something she'd regret later.
"With your permission, Sire Uri," he turned to their patron, "Serina used to be my dependant before. I'm certain I can find a way to assist her, without the need to bring the child up to the elite level."
Sire Uri nodded in obvious relief. He couldn't refuse to help her without losing face, but he clearly didn't want a child there, disturbing the life of the elite level. He'd never liked children, never wanted any of his own, and he most certainly didn't want the child of a dependant to be underfoot.
"Very well," he said. "She's your responsibility, then. See that she doesn't lack the basic necessities. We can't offer much, but what we have we'll share whole-heartedly."
Taking in the luxurious surroundings and the remains of an opulent meal left on the tables – food rests that could have fed at least one entire level of the refugees, crowded in their tiny cubicles – Serina had to work very hard to stay calm. Offending the man wouldn't have helped anyone, and she had Boxey to consider. But it wasn't easy. Hypocrisy had always brought out the worst of her.
To hide her true feelings, she curtseyed again and murmured the proper word of gratitude. Then she allowed Patroclus to lead her out of the Club Elite.
They took the elevator again and rode it down some ten levels – not back to the hurriedly established refugee camps, though. They were still on the elite level, formerly meant for wealthy passengers… the lowest deck of the passenger area, to be accurate, where the Life Station of the ship was situated.
It had nothing to do with the similarly-named infirmaries of a Battlestar, of course. This was a deck designed to serve the needs of the rich and the pampered – with swimming pools, mud baths, massage rooms, exercise rooms and other such facilities, in which the passengers could spend their time and have their looks taken care of.
At least that had been its original function. Now, however, it had been turned into a makeshift infirmary. The therapy pool now served as the public bath, as the refugees had no other means to clean themselves. The exercise rooms were filled with pallet beds for the sick and the injured. The massage rooms were reassigned as living quarters for whatever medical personnel could be found among the refugees: doctors, med techs, nurses, caretakers for orphaned children. They were Spartan little chambers, but still a hundred times better than some cubicle on the lower decks – besides, medical personnel needed to be close to their patients.
Patroclus had his own quarters here, too, since was the doctor originally assigned to the Rising Star.
"You don't live in excessive luxury here," Serina commented, looking around in his quarters. They were nice, but didn't even come close to his old penthouse in Caprica City; the one she'd used to share with him for yahrens.
They were the standard quarters of a young doctor, nothing more, nothing less, with no regard of his origins. They consisted of a living room, with direct access to his office that could also be entered from the Life Station, a bedroom with an adjoining walk-in closet and a bathroom. The latter had the luxury of a real hot tube, though, not just the standard turbowash. There was also a kitchenette between the living room and his office, and a small storage room that he was apparently using as a lab. Nobly born or not, Patroclus was clearly first and foremost a doctor… and a dedicated one, at that.
At Serina's comment, he only shrugged. "At least I'm still living in my own," he said. "As I've been here for yahrens, I had the chance to take with me whatever small comfort I wanted to keep from home. Well, I guess this is home now. I've been lucky; luckier than most."
Which was very true, Serina admitted. People living on starships had always been pitied for spending most oft heir time far from home. Ironically, now these people were the only ones to have some kind of home. Life could be deeply odd sometimes.
"You can stay here with me if you want to," Patroclus continued, caressing her dirty face with his thumb gently.
"I can't," she whispered. "Boxey…"
"We can smuggle him into the Life Station to be close," Patroclus offered. "Or you can leave him where he's now – he's close enough, you only have to climb down one level to be with him, and we have an emergency ladder behind the lab. You can be with him whenever you want."
"I don't know," she said uncertainly, but Patroclus silenced her by laying a finger across her lips.
"Telamon is right, you know. Such a small cubicle, with no privacy at all, is not the right place for you. Besides," he added with almost brutal honesty, "I'm tired of being alone. I've missed you, and I'd gladly keep you as long as you're willing to stay with me. Just like in old times, no strings attached."
The offer was tempting. Too tempting to resist, after the horrors of the bombing, then the sectons spent in the shelter, the fear, the uncertainty… she desperately needed someone to lean on. She was sufficient enough to care for herself and the child, under normal circumstances, more so than most people, but these were not normal circumstances, and she knew she wouldn't last long on the lower decks. She needed help if she wanted to make it, and an old acquaintance, whom she could always trust was much better than trying to seek out a new patron.
"All right," she whispered. "I'll stay… for now."
That was all she could promise, and they both knew it. The future – if there was going to be one – was too unsure to begin to build anything lasting just now. But at least they had each other for the moment, and she felt a half-forgotten, familiar heat pooling in her belly as he took her face into his hands and leaned in to kiss her.
He was a very tall man; she barely reached his shoulder with the top of her head. The angle was awkward and uncomfortable, so he lifted her, seemingly without effort, and placed her on the edge of his desk. She grabbed his shoulder to keep her balance, as he began to familiarize himself with her body again. He had a good memory, apparently, finding all the right spots, even after all those yahrens, kissing her with the desperate hunger of a starving man.
This had nothing to do with their sophisticated love-play from the time they had been together. This was honest and artless and wonderful in its own way, and they both needed it, needed it more than anything at this very moment.
Well… almost anything.
"Wait!" Serina gasped when he began to divest her from her dirty clothes. "I'm… I'm absolutely filthy… disgusting. Do you think… do you think I could use the turbowash first? Or are your water supplies limited?"
"Actually, it's just a sonic shower," Patroclus kept unclothing her unerringly. "And taking a proper bath would take too much time right now. In one centare, I'm on duty again. But we can still share the turbowash, I guess – I'm filthy enough myself."
"That's very economical of you," Serina grinned at him and ran into the bathroom, excited and happier than she'd been for a very long time.
He laughed and followed her, leaving a trail of discarded clothes behind.
Only a centare later, when Serina returned to Boxey, sated and still buzzing with the afterglow, wearing fresh clothes Patroclus had organized for her from somewhere, did it occur to her that she hadn't even asked if Sire Antipas had made it, after all.
~TBC~