The door to the Adamas' room had barely closed before E.B. had screwed up his brow in a knot of haughty outrage under his greasy top hat. The ragged lace cravat fluttered wildly as he leaned over the hotel counter and bobbed his head at Richardson.

"Did you see that, Richardson? The scarlet-haired strumpet now takes her men two at a time, and blithely disregards that the newcomer is, by his appearance, of an age to be her father. If I believed in the supernatural, I would swear that the spirit of past depravities lurks within those walls, fouling the morals of all who spend their hours within!"

Richardson glanced up the stairs at the room in question, shrugged, and went back to scrubbing the dining area tabletops. "Maybe he is her Pa."

E.B. seemed to deflate at the rational explanation, then rallied. "If that is the case, and he's not here for a licentious ménage à trois, they should be down here even as we speak, arranging payment for a third guest in their rooms." He licked his thumb and turned the page of the ledger in front of him, muttering about scoundrels and chiselers.

##################

Laura sat at the edge of the embroidered seat of her chair. Across the low tea table from her were Bill and Doctor Cottle, watching her pour three cups of tea with a steady hand. Cottle's chuckle made her freeze for a second, then she resumed her pouring.

"Care to let us in on the joke, Doctor?"

Cottle took the china cup and saucer from her hands. "I'm amazed at how quickly you've acclimated to a strange environment. The clothes, the mannerisms…you both seemed to have adapted fast." He cocked an eyebrow at Bill. "And you've lost weight."

Bill nodded. "It's a lot more physical here. There's some rudimentary automation, primarily by steam, no electricity—"

"No, they've been experimenting with electricity in the cities, they just don't think it's very practical yet," Laura broke in. "The medical care…it's very basic. No antibiotics, no x-rays…vaccines are pretty new, I think."

Cottle drank some of the tea and looked around the room, taking in the wind-up clock, the small stove that kept the kettle of water warm, the oil lamps. "Can you imagine watching all that unfold in front of you? It'd be like living in a museum."

Bill put his teacup down with a rattle. "I did live in a museum for a few weeks, remember? There were public heads and gift shops. And you could leave when you'd had enough." He glanced back at the bedroom and then at Laura. "But there are benefits here that more than make up for the inconveniences. At least in our case—Laura's case."

Her expression turned frosty. "I think that's my decision, Bill, as to how much weight that carries. Like you said, it's my case." She turned back to Cottle. "It's great that your research indicates this is a habitable planet, Doctor. But we've all been down this path before. Who's to say it'll be safe in the long run? And if we're found by the Cylons again, we could not only be wiped out, we could be bringing all that down on a planetful of people when it's not even their fight."

Bill straightened in his chair. "With the atmospheric interferences, there's a chance this place would never show up on their DRADIS at all."

She leaned forward, speech clipped. "It might make the planet hard to find, but it doesn't cover the whole solar system. Isn't that what you said when we jumped into orbit?"

"Yes, but—"

"Admiral? Madam President?"

They both turned to Cottle. Laura felt a quick chill as she looked at his eyes.

"What?"

He sighed. "There's a solution, but you're not going to like it."

She could tell Bill felt the same chill as she did.

Cottle reached in his pocket and pulled out his cigarette case, took one out, and flicked his lighter. He waited until he blew a long puff of smoke before he spoke.

"Well?" She had a bad feeling about this.

"Madam President, you could stay here, keep the cancer from coming back, as far as we know…as I said, it looks like you've adapted pretty well. And Admiral…you could come back, protect the Fleet while the Quorum decides on a move."

Laura was on her feet before she realized it. "Absolutely not. We will present the facts to the Quorum—to the Fleet, and we'll abide by their decision."

She was surprised by the bitterness in Bill's face as he all but snarled, "Because letting the will of the people govern this kind of issue worked so well on New Caprica."

"You were all for majority rule at the time, as I recall. And don't you dare talk about how things went on New Caprica. You've"—she broke off, feeling the stench of detention filling her lungs. "You don't have the right."

Bill shook Cottle's hand off his arm and got to his feet as well. "I have the right to relieve you from office if you become unfit to serve, and I think your wanting to go back to essentially commit suicide is strong enough evidence of that."

"Doctor Cottle." She looked at him with a steady gaze until he rose to his feet. "Do you think, in your medical opinion and as a senior officer, that at this time, I am unfit to serve as President?"

She watched him stand there, expression grave and worried, next to a stone-faced Bill Adama. Cottle started opening his mouth when fists began beating at their door.

"Mr. Adama! One of your new compatriots is creating a disturbance at the Number Ten saloon! Mr. Adama!"

Bill swung the door open on a frantic E.B. Farnum. "What the frak—?"

Farnum was wringing his hands as he darted probing glances around the room. His face seemed to fall as he saw everyone fully clothed and taking tea.

"It's the one-eyed old drunk that followed you into town. Shall you deal with him yourself, or shall I inform Tom Nuttall that he may be shot under color of law for creating a disturbance?"

Bill looked helplessly at Cottle and Laura. "Saul must have gotten someone to bring him into town."

"What's he doing here? I didn't even know he was on the—"

She stopped as she caught Farnum's curious expression. "You better go, Mr. Adama." She stepped back. "We'll continue this when you get back."

"Doc, are you coming?"

Cottle looked worriedly at Laura then turned to Bill. "Sounds like I might be needed."

Bill and Cottle pushed past Farnum and headed for the stairs.

"Mrs. Adama, might I take this opportunity to inquire about your plans for payment of your guest's—or guests'—stay?"

"Mr. Farnum, you are the second-most incorrigible weasel I've ever met in my life." His astonishment made her feel fractionally better as she slammed the door in his face.

#############################

"What the fuck is going on out there?" Al slammed his coffee cup down on the rough downstairs table.

Thank God Dan was back. The new imponderables of the Adamas' mysterious friend 'Doc' and who he was to them were bad enough, but this new wrinkle of the one-eyed cocksucker who hitched a ride into town with Johnny was giving him a headache.

Dan lumbered over to the table, a dark scowl on his face, and gestured for Jewel to bring him some coffee.

"You can come get it your own fuckin' self if you can't ask for it right," Jewel answered in a soft slur, jaw set as she awkwardly crossed her arms across her chest, wrists bent in like talons.

"Jewel. Get Dan a cup of fuckin' coffee and bring the pot over here," Al called as she turned away and shuffled towards the kitchen.

He raised an eyebrow and looked at his right-hand man. "Talking to the gimp directly suddenly seems overly fuckin' complicated to you? What's got you out of fuckin' sorts?"

"Tom Nutall's 'bout to throw his apron over his head, he's so bent outa shape over Adama's friend. What the hell'd Johnny drag him into town for, anyway?"

Al rubbed his moustache as he thought. "I'm guessing Johnny figured a man out that way, near where Adama sneaks off to on a regular basis, might be someone known to him. Further, Johnny, bein' the mental giant that he is, doubtless assumed that a man carrying himself similar to Adama would of necessity be considered friend, not foe."

Dan snorted. "Adama ain't never tore up a saloon."

"That we know of." Al looked out the Gem's open door. The scene unfolding before him gave him pause. "Speak of the devil. There's Adama and his doctor friend out in the thoroughfare, headed to the Number Ten."

Dan looked as well. "And there's E.B., bringing up the rear, gettin' his nose all up in it."

The chair screeched against the sawdust-strewn floor as Al pushed his seat back. "No sign of Mrs. Adama, looks like." He brushed his hands down over his worn vest and jacket a few times.

"What do you think, Dan? Adequately clean enough appearance to call on the wife?"

Dan looked at him doubtfully. "I…guess. Sure, boss. But you think he's gonna appreciate you callin' on his missus like that, minute he's out the fuckin' door?"

Using the barber's mirror in the corner, Al brushed his oiled hair back and went over his moustache again. "Any luck, Dan, and I'll have been and gone before he finds out, leavin' it to his wife's fuckin' conscience to determine what he'd be told."

He headed towards the door, then stopped and motioned Dan to come to him. "Should the moment arise, as you monitor the situation, that it seems meet to offer the newcomer a bottle and some pussy, take it upon yourself to give a generous discount. Offer the same to Adama, who won't accept, and to his doctor friend, whose proclivities and preferences are as of yet unknown," he said.

"Al! What about your fuckin' coffee?" Jewel yelled from the kitchen entrance.

He snorted. "Maybe Mrs. Adama'll offer a cup of that fuckin' black Darjeeling."

He shot a look at Tom Nutall's Number Ten saloon. Adama and both of his associates seemed to be inside and he hadn't heard any gunshots yet. The day was pleasant enough, a crisp edge of fall taking some of the stink out of the air.

Adama had mentioned yesterday that a friend or two from his last posting might be joining him, that they would be new to civilian life and might say or do things that seemed odd to people of the town. Al thought he recognized that for the steaming pile of horseshit it undoubtedly was. More likely they were deserters or fleeing uncovered misdeeds. Doctors were notorious for digging up bodies to further their anatomical knowledge, and he hadn't met many honest men who were lacking an eye.

As he walked into the dimness of the hotel, he wondered again what misdeeds were in the lovely Mrs. Adama's history. The weight of his favorite knife inside his boot pressed reassuringly against his calf as he started up the stairs. His was the longer reach and likely the greater experience, he knew, but she seemed the type that wouldn't shrink from fighting dirty. Not if she felt she had to win.

#############################

Laura had seen the swarthy pimp come out of the Gem and head towards the hotel as Bill and Cottle had reached the other side of the street. She had hoped he might be on his way to the bank, but no, he'd been walking straight and steady towards the hotel entrance as she watched from her window. She could already hear his boots on the stair treads. She was surprised at her sense of relief, knowing it was Al Swearengen outside her door. At least he wouldn't be trying to relieve her of office or giving her sad, worried eyes.

His knock was softer than she expected, and she realized one less knuckle would make a quieter knock. She opened the door as if she'd been expecting him.

"Mr. Swearengen." She stood at the door, watching his shadowed face as she waited for him to say what he wanted.

"Mrs. Adama, how do you do?"

"Bill's not here at the moment. If you need him, he's over at the Number Ten."

"Yes, I know. May I come in?"

This overly formal Al was more disconcerting that the blustering, threatening Al had been, and she had to admit she was curious about his purpose. If it hadn't been for him, she might still be in the dark about Bill and Cottle, and her own condition. The thought made her angry all over again as she swept her skirts to one side and stood back, letting him in.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Swearengen?"

"Do you mind if I sit down?"

Oh, Sweet Lords of Kobol. She didn't have time for this.

"Please, have a seat. But Bill's not here, so—"

"That's why I'm here. Thought it might be time for us to have a chat, just the two of us."

She raised an eyebrow. "What brought this on?"

He settled into his chair across the low table from her. "I figured you'd be pissed off after the blow-out at Alma's. Didn't count on you being so undone that your husband would have to call in reinforcements."

Laura stiffened. "That's not the case here. You don't know what you're talking about."

"No? You two don't have a friend in the world, then within a day or so of the two of you havin' a fallin' out, two more strangers, friends of your husband, show up in town. That don't strike you as havin' a connection? Because frankly, I'm at a loss to interpret it any other way.

"Say, you still got some water in the kettle over there?" He nodded at the pot-bellied stove.

"Uh…yes. We were—"

He got to his feet. "All the ruckus of the morning made me miss my second cup of coffee. Seein' as how you've got the accouterments set out already, how about making another pot?"

Without waiting for her answer, he went over to the stove and picked up the kettle by its wooden handle.

"Mr. Swearengen…"

"I'll just set this here, as I'm sure you know more than I do about how this works." He seated himself again and fixed his dark gaze on her.

She grudgingly poured the fresh hot water into the china teapot, increasingly curious about this visit.

"I don't know how long your husband generally takes to sort out his drunken friend, so I'll get to the point. I take it you're bein' hard-headed about stayin' put where you're safe, something in you instead drivin' you to go back where you came from, some kind of call of duty or similar bullshit. Is that the gist of it?"

Her hand shook as she measured fresh tea leaves into the pot.

"I have certain responsibilities to others where I came from. I'm expected back, to take care of those responsibilities." She stopped, unable to imagine how to convey the seriousness of her role in the Fleet, and wondering why she was even trying.

"Your man says you're likely to die if you return. I confess ignorance in a variety of areas, so maybe you could enlighten me as to how this works, exactly. In my experience, death has a way of interfering with carrying out responsibilities, unless you leave one hell of a will."

She looked away from the piercing eyes and checked the steeping leaves. His mix of sympathy and sarcasm was disconcerting. "It may be that I have enough time to do what I need to do. That's what I'm hoping, anyway."

He nodded gravely. "So, then, duty'll be served, you'll be dead…and what about him? I'd thought there was a lot of heat between you two, to hear E.B. tell it."

He looked around the room, pointedly glancing at the four poster bed visible through the folding doors. "I figured maybe you're not married—mind's not made up on that point—but I thought he was more to you than somebody to fuck while you're on the road. Seemed like there was more history between you two than that."

Her lips twitched as she began to pour from the teapot. "There is a great deal of history between us. But that doesn't give him the right to make decisions for me like this."

He raised an eyebrow as he took the offered teacup from her. "No? You one of those suffragettes? Last I heard, if you are married, he's got every right to make those kinds of decisions for you. More important, it seems like he's got your best fuckin' interests at heart, with no ulterior motive than I can discern."

He blew on the surface of his tea. "Rare enough, these days. You sure you want to turn your nose up at that, it not bein' likely that you'll get another chance?" He looked at her over the rim of the cup.

There was just enough kindness in his eyes and in the gentleness of his last words to make Laura's throat tighten. The last thing she needed to be thinking about was lost chances. She'd already gotten more than she'd dreamed possible when she'd huddled on a concrete floor in detention, or when she'd been in sickbay, getting ready to let go of life. She was ready to be grateful for this respite, and go take up the mantle of the Dying Leader.

Almost ready.

She took a deep swallow of tea and put her cup down. "I heard about last year. I know you understand doing what you have to do for the greater good. I know—"

His face darkened. "Pardon my French, but you don't know a fucking thing or you wouldn't be running your yap about last year."

His brow knitted as he seemed to be searching for the right words. "Mrs. Adama, a man like me…my time is about done. It's a new fuckin' age, and while I'm not looking to take the fuckin' easy way out, fact is, few enough would cry over my coffin if it had come to that.

"You, on the other hand…" He examined her in the clinical way she'd noted before, like he was assaying her value. "Adama seems to think the sun rises and sets on your ass. Sad thing, to toss that aside like it's nothin'. And you yourself seem to think you got people back home who think you're important. They gonna enjoy seein' you dead and buried?"

He set his empty cup down deliberately, centering the cup in the saucer. "You think you'll be remembered, that these folks will write stories about you, rend their garments and the like when you're dead?"

He turned his eyes towards the window and the sliver of Deadwood it showed. "Bullshit. You go back and do your duty, I guarantee you'll be old news before the first worm comes callin'. Now, I don't know what this fuckin' duty of yours consists of…a sick father, brother in prison, mother's in the poorhouse, whatever the hell it is, but if you can't go back safe, you're just addin' to their fuckin' misery, as they'll have whatever the fuck their problem is, and they'll be heartsick over you, comin' back just to die in front of 'em."

He leaned forward, green-flecked eyes glittering. "I didn't take you for that kind of selfish, self-important cunt, at least not after I got to know you." He sat back with a sigh. "But on occasion, I've been known to be wrong."

Laura's steam had been building while he chastised and sneered, and she felt her temper getting to a dangerously high point. His crude speech, wrong in the details but echoing Bill in sentiment, niggled at her brain like the worms he'd taunted her with.

And the terrifying thought went through her mind: what if she was wrong? What if the scrolls were wrong? If she went back after being lost here, after going through New Caprica, just to sicken and die…would the people understand, she wondered? Or would it be a disheartening blow?

The room seemed to whirl with the faces of the Fleet, the faces of the settlers lost on New Caprica. She was on her feet, needing to lash out, needing to bleed off some of the pressure that was pounding in her skull. A tiny voice urged caution, and she shoved it out of the way, furious with him, her fate, and

"…the godsdamn prophesy!"

She realized in horror that she'd said the last part out loud.

AL's eyes narrowed. "Excuse me…the what?"

She held on to the back of the chair and stared at the boss of the town, and a weariness hit her as bad as any she'd felt on New Caprica.

Frak it.

They'll be gone in twenty-four hours anyway. At the worst he'd think she'd lost her mind, if he didn't already.

"There's a…prophesy, where I'm from. Most of the people there believe it. A prophesy about me."

His look turned satisfactorily wary. "What, you think you're Joan of fuckin' Arc, come to lead an army for the Lord? Does that Doc with you know you're havin' these thoughts?"

"I don't know who you're talking about, but no, not an army. A dying leader is prophesied to lead my people to a new home." She sank down into her chair, and realized it felt good to say it out loud, even if he thought she was crazy. "If I go back, there's something there that will make me sick…that'll kill me. But before I die, I'm supposed to lead my people to a place where they can live in peace."

Now it was his turn to stand. "So, you're supposed to go back, get sick, and hope that this fuckin' prophesy shit works out so you find a new home for your folks, before you kick? Am I hearin' this right?"

"That's the gist of it, yes." This was starting to feel like a bad press conference.

He frowned. "Adama go along with this…notion of yours?"

"He didn't at first, but he's come to believe it, too."

"If he believes it, how come he's been lying to you about being able to go back, after he got in touch with his friends? That don't tell you maybe he's not on board with this as much as you think?"

Laura looked down at her hands, knotted together in her lap. "I think we both enjoyed being together here, without that hanging over our heads. It felt good to not think about it for a while."

"And you were happy enough to not be the dyin' fuckin' leader while you was here, from what I could see." He began pacing back and forth in the small front room.

"So, let me ask you this, Mrs. Adama, as someone with some background in deployments and maneuvers, who's solved a few problems in my time…how many fuckin' people are you supposed to find a new place for, while you're busy dyin'?"

She barely whispered a figure under her breath. His frown told her he hadn't heard.

"What was that?"

"About forty-one thousand."

A smile played around her lips as she anticipated his reaction once the figure sunk in. She'd be a legend, the story of the madwoman who thought she was a mythical figure in charge of thousands of people seeking a home. A madwoman who had vanished as suddenly as she'd arrived.

"Mrs. Adama…"

Here it comes, she thought. A polite leave-taking and probably a visit with Bill about his wife's insanity.

He stood in front of her, stoking his chin and looking again out the window.

"Let me think on this a while. You and Adama come on over to the Gem after he gets his friend sorted out."

Pausing at the door, he turned a final time.

"And Mrs. Adama…thanks for the tea."