The Book of Pythia
Chapter One: Ashes to Ashes
The universe has a very sick sense of humor, she thought. It was the ultimate irony—a great big cosmic joke—after a horrific nuclear holocaust, the people of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol went in search of their brothers, the fabled Thirteenth Tribe, just to find that they too had nuked themselves into oblivion.
* * * * *
As the yellow sun set on this bleak, gray world, the weight of the nightmare began to blanket their minds, suffocate their souls.
The four remembered it all. The fifth knew it to be true.
* * * * *
When they had returned to Galactica, Laura Roslin's first order of business had been to take vengeance upon the only thing she could, for truly she had only herself to blame. She had believed that damned book. She had gambled the future of the fleet on the words written on those pages. And she had lost. Like the gods she no longer believed in, she had played dice with the fate of mankind.
My gods, she thought, if only they knew. And when they do know…?
This object in her hand, these pages that she had turned so many times, these words stained with blood—had betrayed her. She wanted to purify herself, rid herself of these cruel, false gods—she knew the truth now, there was only one. But she would make this one last sacrifice to the many gods.
As soon as the raptor had hit the deck and the door opened, she had hurried to her quarters on the battlestar, leaving Admiral Adama behind to deal with the aftermath of this, her disaster. On the way out of the hangar deck, she had asked a tech for a torch. Once she reached her room, she had closed the door behind her and had gone straight for that damned book, the one that had been Elosha's, the one stained with her blood.
Laura Roslin put the sacred text on the metal table, flipped through until she found the illustration of the Opera House of the Gods on Kobol—she knew what that vision meant now—and brought the flame beneath it. She watched it catch fire. Watched the paper burn. Watched the edges turn red, then curl and blacken.
To rely on something so ephemeral had been madness. It had all been madness. She had been possessed, but not by whom she had thought. The world has been turned on its head. Up is down, down is up. Black is white, white is black. Human is Cylon, Cylon is human.
Her sacrificial offering on the altar of revenge and guilt burned bright and strong before petering out. No satisfaction. No catharsis. Her soul was empty. All she was left with was ashes. The Book of Pythia was ashes. The colonies were ashes. Earth was ashes.