See Disclaimer, part 1. Special thanks to my betas: SVR and Ellisandra.
Colonial One
3 months before the occupation.
"Crop failure. Again." Baltar stabbed the report in front of him with his index finger. He grabbed a cigarette, jammed it into his mouth and lit it with a quick flick of the lighter in his other hand. In the process, his elbow sent a teetering pile of reports to the floor. He hardly noticed. "The sad irony, Mister Gaeta, is that I could have fixed that. Tested the soil. Engineered the crops. Instead I'm stuck here, answering to a thankless group of Ministers who do nothing but whine like spoiled children."
He took a frustrated drag from the cigarette and considered his office. It always smelled faintly of sex, cigarettes and mold. His home on Caprica had been built to capture the morning sunrise at its most spectacular and to showcase the landscape that the sprawling home had overlooked. It had been a refuge, an oasis of calm for a chronically busy and cluttered mind.
It wasn't that New Caprica lacked beauty. Not entirely. The mountains and valleys boasted some spectacular views that were made unnecessarily dull by the overcast skies. As President, he had yet to even begin to have the time to investigate the possibilities. He had promised the people solid ground under their feet and open sky over their heads and he had delivered. Now, it seemed, he was the only one still living in a metal box.
He had attempted to find his solace in the physical beauty of his many aides and consorts and everyday saw him sink further into their embrace.
Gaeta bent to gather up the papers on the floor. "It's not that bad, sir. There's no reason to lose hope."
Baltar snickered loudly. "I've waited nine long months for a reason." Do you hear me? Have faith, Gaius. That's what you've always said. You never said anything about patience. He ignored Gaeta's confused look. "Is this what I was meant for? To waste my time on failed crops, blown out power grids and lazy workers. This is God's almighty plan for Gaius Baltar?" What have I done? What have I done to lose you this time? You're probably waiting, yes, waiting until I'm at my most desperate. Well you won't be disappointed. "I almost wish she'd gotten away with it. Rigging the bloody election. Then at least I'd have been spared this." He swept his hand as if to indicate the entire planet and everyone on it.
Gaeta looked expectantly at him, as if he were waiting to say something.
"Yes, Mr. Gaeta. Rant over. Where are my pills?" The young aide produced the bottle from under the desk.
"You may want to wait before taking those, Mister President." Gaeta had not let go of the bottle. Frak off. Baltar snatched it away from him in disgust.
"Why?"
"The ceremony? The first baby born on New Caprica?'"
Baltar covered his face with both hands. He sat for a moment and then said between his fingers. "Oh give up, I'm not going. Find Markos, or better yet, Zarek." Maybe I'll do nothing … maybe I'll just sit here and wait for a sign from God.
"But the speech – I wrote it for you."
"You have time, Mister Gaeta. Make it less brilliant, shouldn't be hard." Baltar popped the lid on the amber bottle and took the pills dry.
Tent City
3 months before the Occupation.
Laura stops. She knows this place. She knows this path, has walked it again and again in her mind. The sun remains oppressively low in the sky and her body is burnt and swollen from the endless radiation. She considers her blistered feet and how, even as she stands still, they sink lower into the sand.
She lifts her face, resolute in her decision to turn back this time.
An oracle stands before her and she stumbles backward. The woman's face is pale, sickly and gaunt and it's distorted by the waves of heat that rise from the sand. Her heavy robes are tattered and dry and she looks as comfortable as if it were a balmy spring day.
You're not real None of this is real. Laura blinked rapidly but the woman remained.
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene -- one step enough for me.
The woman did not move, nor did she speak. Laura's tongue is thick and dry and clings to the inside of her mouth.
Why? Her mind answered the disembodied voice. Why walk willingly to my death?
The oracle extends her arms towards Laura. In her gnarled fingers she holds a steaming stoneware cup.
It is an ancient story, embedded in the fabric of time. Have faith.
When the steam from the cup reaches her face, Laura's anxiety begins to bleed away. She accepts the heavy glass; it is cold in her shaking hands. There is no one to stop her as she brings it to her cracked lips. Though still steaming, the liquid that spills over her chin and down her throat is soothing and cool. Her heart rate slows. Her breathing calms. Fear, pain, other physical sensations, they slide from her skin until it feels as if they exist only in the shadow that follows her on the sand.
The cup is soon empty and the oracle gone. There are no prints in the sand, no signs that anyone ever stood before her.
Still clutching the cup, Laura begins to walk again. Forward. The sand, under her feet, grows deeper …
She was cold. She was sitting bolt upright on her makeshift bed, the blankets twisted around her legs. The tent was dark and quiet. Trembling, Laura rubbed her hands repeatedly over her arms and, for a few dragging seconds, allowed the fear to grip her mind and body. The path never changed. The result never changed. How foolish was she to hope? To think that she could have something that the Gods never intended. A future.
"Laura?" A bright triangle of light forced her to turn her face away as the tent flap was pulled back.
For a second she convinced herself that it was Bill, but the acrid scent of cigarette smoke told her otherwise.
She rolled up her sleeve, already knowing the reason he'd come.
"The worst of this should be over. Have you been able to eat anything?" The alcohol was cold on her skin. A rubber tube wound around her arm and she hardly felt the prick of the needle. She watched impassively as her blood flowed into the small glass vile sitting in his upturned hand. She almost expected to see sand.
"No."
Tent City
3 months before the Occupation
"Mmm … so … what do you all think of this place – wish you'd waited for Earth?" Ellen Tigh sat back and turned a heavy glass tumbler in her hand. Adama watched the clear liquid inside nearly spill over the edge. Laura Roslin, Kara and Sam Anders, and Tory Foster all looked taken aback. When no one was quick to answer, Adama said:
"Kind of hard to make a comparison, don't you think?"
She rubbed a well-manicured hand over his forearm. "Of course, Bill, of course. Baltar really is a slave driver, though. Ordering people to report to designated work areas. Assigning tasks at random. No scheduled breaks, no pay … all for the greater glory of New Caprica!" She raised her glass in a mock toast and took a long drink. She licked her lips. "Don't you have any pull with him, Bill? He'd listen to you, you know? He really needs a good kick in the--"
"I'm sure the Admiral has his hands full coordinating the orbital patrol." Laura's voice was flat. She did no more than pick at her food. He had noticed that she just cut the overcooked vegetables into smaller and smaller pieces, but rarely brought them to her mouth. Though she looked significantly better than when he had last seen her, there was fragility to her, a nervousness that she had trouble hiding, at least from him.
Ellen's tent was somewhat larger than average and Adama wondered what kind of strings she had pulled to get the extra space. It always seemed that Ellen knew somebody. They all sat on cushions around a low wooden table. Shadows flickered over everyone's faces from the thick, drip heavy candles that filled every available space on the table and every other surface in the tent. Most were scented and the air in the tent was warm and thick.
The ceremony had been nice; there was something wonderfully hopeful about the birth of a child. He thought of the Tyrols, unable to come tonight because Cally was having a particularly bad time with the symptoms of her pregnancy. He remembered Carolanne's morning sickness very well; he had thought it was poorly named, as it certainly wasn't limited to the early hours.
Zarek had represented the new government and Adama tried to remember the last time he'd even seen Baltar.
Ellen had turned to Roslin. "Yes, well it's nice to see more than one person is where they belong. I hear nothing but good things from your students, by the way. They miss you, but we all know how awful food poisoning can be … I mean … I ate a bad cucumber once and I swear … I thought I was going to die. You're in your tent a lot though, I would think you'd be in the public bath most of the time."
Tory's mouth opened and Laura silenced her with a quick glare.
"If I could have made it there, I would have." Laura said, turning her glare on Ellen.
"Yuck." That was Kara. Her single word was enough to draw Ellen's attention.
"Hmm … you two lovebirds." She reached across the table and squeezed Sam's hand. How long until there's a ceremony for you? You have gained a little weight the last few months, Kara."
"Frak y—"
"Not anytime soon." Anders cut off his wife. His hand was firm on her shoulder and it kept her seated. "But we're hopeful for the future."
Ellen burst into a bright smile. "That's wonderful. Children are such a blessing, don't you think, Bill?" She took another long sip from her glass. "I hear Lee is expanding into his new position." She giggled. "How are things up there?" She pointed at the ceiling of her tent and giggled again. "How's my Saul?"
Adama ate a watery green bean. "It's routine. We're working with a reduced staff so everyone just has that much more to do."
"You mean its boring," she slipped a hand over his shoulder and slid her fingers up his neck to his ear. Slowly, she ran them along his earlobe and the over the whorls of his outer ear. "Do tell him to come home, Bill." Her breath was against his cheek now. "Tell him what he's missing."
He grabbed her hand, meaning to guide it back to the table, but she just smiled and laced her fingers with his. "I've missed you too, Bill," she said sweetly.
Kara had finally managed to stand up. "Ellen, thank you for dinner. Sam and I are on the early detail tomorrow so you'll have to excuse us."
Ellen stood up and winked. "The night is young; I understand." She circled the table until she was close enough to Anders to speak into his ear. Even in the candlelight, Adama could see Anders' face turn a bright shade of red.
He coughed loudly.
"Um … right." He tried to step away from her but she had a grip on his arm. She used it to pull him down and kiss both of his cheeks.
"Lovely seeing you! Take care of that cough!" she called after the couple as they left the tent.
Adama had already stood up with Roslin and Tory and all three attempted to collect the dishes from the table.
"Oh … no, no, no!" Ellen was pulling the dishes from his hands. "I can handle this. Does anyone want another drink?"
Everyone looked at everyone else. A chorus of no thank yous followed.
"Well, all the more for me then!"
Laura and Tory said their thank yous and goodbyes and Laura tolerated Ellen kissing the air beside her cheeks. Adama watched Laura go. Ellen, of course, noticed.
"So," Ellen put her body in the way of his view of Laura. "Are the rumors true?"
"Excuse me?"
"Has Bill Adama actually given up his vow of celibacy?" She frowned. "That food poisoning spell –or whatever it was-- must have been a bitch, though."
"Good night, Ellen." He pulled her arm from around his waist. "Thank you for dinner."
"I'll take silence as a yes, you know." She called after him as he finally emerged from the tent.
It was dark. The air was still and cold. There was some fluorescent lighting lining the main concourse and he was able to catch a glimpse of auburn hair heading away from him.
"Excuse me, Admiral?"
Adama turned. Jarek Markos cast a wide shadow over the ground. He wore no coat and his sleeves were pushed halfway up his bulky arms. Adama resisted an urge to look back over his shoulder to see where Laura had gone.
"It's late." Adama grumbled.
"This won't take long. Please, follow me." Markos turned without waiting for an answer and began to work his way past the many closed up shops that lined the main concourse.
Bill sat on the edge of her cot and tried not to look cold. It was early morning; the sky was dark and heavy with cloud. She had let her fire die because she had meant to make the journey out to the river. Though the settlement was mostly quiet, the thin walls of the tent allowed the muted cries of a child, a whispered conversation and a moan of passion to pass into her space. The lack of privacy had been unnerving at first but she soon found that she noticed the interruptions less and less.
"We can't talk here, can we?" Bill said, glancing at the dull green fabric. "It's bad enough I've got Baltar's lapdog breathing down my neck."
She glanced at him, relieved, as she worked to put on the heavy boots that Kara had lent her. Any delay in the conversation they now had to have was welcome.
"What did he want?" She asked the question though she no longer really cared. Baltar's administration was rife with opportunists of every sort and its problems were too numerous to count. The people had made a choice and with it they had released her from the political grind. It was better to leave well enough alone than to burn through her days coming up with recommendations that would be summarily ignored.
"He wants to have an evacuation plan in place. In case the Cylons return."
"It's been a long time, Bill."
He took off his glasses and slowly folded them. "I know. He was humoring me … eating up time. "
"When are you scheduled to return to Galactica?" She could feel his eyes on her as she finished lacing the second boot.
"Less than an hour …"
Frak. You just got here. She continued to adjust the laces, unwilling to let him see the disappointment on her face. His hand settled lightly on her shoulder. She trembled a little at the contact and felt an embarrassed flush reach her neck.
"Laura, where can we talk?" His voice was soft but there was an undercurrent of impatience, of command.
There wasn't a lot of room in the tent and her body brushed against his as she went to collect his coat from the back of her only chair. His hand slid from her shoulder, but she felt it ghost like along her side.
"Take this. It's cold where we're going." She pushed his own wool coat into his hands and he watched as she pulled a second sweater over her head. It caught momentarily on her glasses and he chuckled softly. When her head surfaced, she saw him holding the coat out towards her.
"Laura, I—"
"Trust me; I'm used to it. This place makes a night on Kobol seem like a resort stay."
He didn't argue any further, pulled on the coat and followed her out of the tent. He paused only a second at the tent flap when he caught the faintest scent of flowers. He smiled inwardly at the evidence that she had indeed been wearing the coat.
The tent city stood in shadow. As they moved past the muted artificial light that came from some of the grounded ships, Bill wondered how Laura was able to tell where she was going. The grass crunched slightly under their feet, the result of an early frost. Her small hand pulled insistently on his and soon all sounds of civilization dropped away leaving only the rhythmic hiss of insects and in the distance, the sound of water churning over rock.
After about twenty minutes, she led him up a rise and he could smell the water soaked foliage that clung to the banks of the river. The water was as black as ink. She was right; it was damned cold. He was sure that if it had been lighter, they would have been able to see their breath.
She settled him beside her on what felt like the bark of a large fallen tree. Her hand slipped out of his and he felt a small stab of regret.
"There wasn't time." He heard a hitch in her breathing as she breached the issue that had been hanging between them since he'd arrived for the ceremony.
"For what, Laura? What happened?"
His voice was measured, soft and she felt the comfort of it in the same way as she had the warmth of his coat. She knew he was looking at her and wondered how much of her profile he could make out.
The week in question was a jumble in her mind. Trying to remember it was like trying to remember her earliest childhood memories. It was impossible to distinguish what had been real and what had been merely dreams. Hearing Bill's voice now in the dark brought back the worst of the visions but also a sense of hope as his voice had broken through them with a single word.
She hesitated and skimmed her hands over the material of her long skirt, attempting to smooth creases that were far too deep to respond to her ministrations. Just start talking. You just need to start.
"Ahh … mmm," she cleared her throat and ran her tongue over the dry skin of her lower lip. "Do you remember Royan Jahee?"
There was a pause and she knew that she had put him briefly off balance.
"That sniveling pain in the ass from Demand Peace? Yeah." He said then.
The edge of Laura's mouth lifted in a brief smile. "I was barely out of bed when I went to see him, Bill," she paused and finished, her voice barely rising over the hiss of the wind in the trees, "and forty eight hours before that …"
His hand settled on her forearm and she felt the light squeeze of his fingers through the heavy sweaters.
"I couldn't look back, Bill. Hera, the black market, terrorists on the Rising Star and then the election, there was no time." The sky behind him had begun to brighten.
Her eyes drifted down to her hands where they twisted nervously in her lap. She took a deep breath. Her next words would change his impression of everything that had gone between them since her cure. She pushed down her nerves and the churning in her stomach and forced the words.
"Chamalla is addictive."
She felt him shift beside her. The words seemed to hang in the air, stark against the soft pink light lining the horizon.
"Yes, it is," he said quietly and she thought she could detect a hint of disappointment in his voice. "You didn't stop taking it." It was more of a statement than a question yet she answered him anyway.
"No. I didn't. Not until last month." A heavy weight seemed to leave her chest as the words came out. "The withdrawal is …unpleasant."
Bill was no stranger to addiction. As the first Cylon war dragged on, and his reaction times slowed, he had started using stims. He rode the rush while he was on missions and drowned the inevitable crash in sweat and alcohol. Eventually, the crashes got so bad that it was just easier to stay on the stims.
Injury and a temporary loss of flight status had forced him into withdrawal. He'd found himself horribly anxious, unable to sleep and wanting stims more than his next breath. He still had the vivid memory of an unbearable itching under his skin. He had cut into his arms to try to get relief, with a nearly fatal result. The fleet had been there for him, though, with a program and drugs to ease the transition.
From what he had seen in her tent, Laura had had no such help. It was heartrending to think of her in that kind of hell.
In the aftermath of the attacks, withdrawal drugs were in demand as sources of addictive substances quickly dried up. Galactica had a reserve for pilots and he wished that she had asked. Cottle would have had to know that he would have released some for her.
Laura wasn't looking at him and he could feel her body shaking slightly against his. He had been silent too long. She flinched when he placed his hand under her chin, but didn't resist when he turned her face towards his.
"You did what you had to do." He held her gaze, watched as a single tear came to rest at the edge of her eye. "A lot of us have done things we're not proud of. It's a product of war."
The addiction he understood, but this was chamalla. He asked the question that burned in his mind.
"What did you see? That day."
Laura shook her head and reached to pull his hand away from her face.
"It doesn't matter."
Frustrated that she had offered the answer he had expected, he allowed her to remove his hand and turn her face away. He dropped his head and studied the decaying leaves that covered the riverbank. Most were too heavy with water for the swirling wind to pick up. His mind was already saying the words yet it took effort to force them out.
"It does to me."
It was times like this that she wanted the chamalla most of all. Visions aside, chamalla had meant distance. Distance from feelings, from pain, from the daily hardship of existing in her cancer ravaged body. She had become used to that distance. It allowed her mind to focus on the decisions that had to be made. And chamalla had made it easier to ignore the cravings of her heart.
Did he know what he was doing to her? Sitting there with his body brushing hers, his voice rough and deep enough to cause shivers to run through her that had nothing to do with the cold. The vivid memory of his kiss that night out on the sandbags played in her mind and she ached to know what his kiss would feel like now. Without the numbness of the chamalla. Without the distance.
He stood and walked a few steps towards the river and she wondered if her continued silence had angered him.
Why would you push me on this? You don't believe.
It was frustrating. In the weeks during which she had considered this conversation in her mind, it had never gone this far. It does to me. She ran her eyes over the strong lines of his back and in that moment realized that what he had said had nothing to do with the Gods or whether or not he believed in them.
Slowly she stood and walked the short distance between them. She put a hand on his arm and gently but firmly forced him to turn towards her. Not touching him, she took one step closer.
"I see an endless desert." She set her cheek against his so he could feel the words, feel the heat of her breath on his skin. "I am walking alone. I know my destination and yet I can't see it." She felt his hands settle on her waist, the pressure barely detectable through her thick sweaters. "The heat of the sun is unbearable and I can feel my skin scorching and peeling. Every step becomes harder as the sand deepens and it's not long before I fall. The sand consumes me then, invading my body and burying it under its weight." Her body wss shaking and his hand gently stroked her back. She closed her eyes and slid her mouth across his skin. Her next words were spoken against his lips. "It's always the same. I never—"
She gasped as he pressed forward, taking her mouth with an aggressiveness that caused her knees to buckle. His grip on her waist prevented her fall and she felt tears run along her face at the sheer intensity of his kiss. She was almost dizzy as he pushed her back, supporting her until she felt her back pressed against something uneven and rough. Tree. He slid his hands up her body to her face and broke the kiss.
"You're afraid," he said between breaths. "Afraid that this won't last. That somehow you don't deserve the freedom that you have now." He pushed forward again seemingly unable or unwilling to release her lips long enough to finish his thought. The kiss was salty with her tears. When he pulled away again she found it hard to catch her breath. "I wish we had more time. I want you to know something." He held her face in his hands. "When the time comes, you won't walk alone."
Continued in part 4.
The first two lines spoken by the oracle are taken from Cardinal Newman's "The Pillar and the Cloud." Thanks for your comments -- they are very appreciated.