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The air seemed stuffier than she remembered, the ceilings lower, the spaces a little narrower. Heads with flushing toilets and hot showers made up for some of the restricted feelings, but then there was the food…and the meetings. The endless meetings to explain, cajole, to reassure and debate.

Laura put her increased weariness down to the heavy schedule she returned to, and tried to build her weekly visits to Doc Cottle into her routine. She tried not to notice his grimness when he went over her vital signs and test results. Nothing had been found…yet.

And he added that godsdamn "yet" every time.

"Uh, Madam President?"

She came back to herself, guiltily aware that she had let her attention drift again. "Sorry, Chief. You were saying?"

He gave her a concerned look before focusing on the schematics in front of him on her desk. "As I said, we should be able to carve out some space on all of the bigger ships if we shuffle the hold contents some. Seating will be rough, but each…um…hall should be able to hold between one hundred and two hundred people, at least for a couple of hours at a time."

She nodded, rubbing her temples. "And the audiovisual part?"

Tyrol's features were schooled against the smirk she suspected he was hiding. "The press liaison had to be told it was at your direct request, but their techs said they could wire up each hall with the basics needed for presentations."

She tried to make her smile bright. "Good work, Chief. It sounds like everything's ready to go."

He began rolling up the schematics. He didn't meet her eyes as he said, "So…this looks that much better than New Caprica?"

"It's incredibly different, Chief. There's a wide variety of climates, arable land is easy to find, in many places there's enough of an infrastructure to support mechanized transportation—"

"Yes, Ma'am. I saw the first press releases. It's a nice-looking planet, and I can see the draw, but…we saw the draw in New Caprica, too."

She put her hand on his forearm. "Chief, I get your concerns, and believe me, I know others share them. I do, too. That's why we're moving very slowly on this." She was quiet for a second. "People in the Fleet, the regular people that aren't politicians or officers, they look up to you. I saw that on New Caprica before and after the Cylons came. I'm not ordering anyone off their assigned duties, but I'd appreciate it if you and Cally attended the first round of educational sessions."

He was silent as he got up and walked to the window closest to her desk and looked out at the blue and green globe below them, floating in a sea of black space. He stared down for a long moment.

"I think I can work something out, Madam President."

After Tyrol left, Laura stood by the window, staring at the planet below, unconsciously hugging herself. She was bone-tired today, feeling more ragged than usual from tossing and turning in her narrow convertible bed which seemed so spartan after the big brass bed. So lonely, too.

It had only been a few weeks. Could she have gotten that used to sleeping next to Bill so quickly that now it felt so uncomfortable to sleep alone?

Apparently so.

She traced the outline of the planet with her fingertip. Maybe one day…. She drummed her fingers impatiently against the space-tempered glass. Even if they settled, even if everything went as they hoped, the Fleet would still need its leaders. Whether they would accept married leaders or not, whether she and Bill would still want that—she coughed and winced as she thought she felt a pull in the left side of her chest.

Waving Tory in to set up for the upcoming meeting, Laura turned from the softly glowing globe below and picked up the next folder in the pile, steadfastly ignoring the increasingly frequent twinges and aches.

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The Gemenese and Saggitaron men worked together, stacking pallets piled with bolts of fabric against the wall of the converted hold. Their wives and daughters cut patterns into shapes of shirts, skirts, and plain pants, guided by the head of the new sewing guild. The third session of clothes-making instruction would begin in two hours and they wanted to have everything ready. The latest shipment of needles, thread and scissors were in boxes at the front of the room, waiting for the new arrivals.

Sarah Monroe made a last check of supplies as the first members of the latest class came in…two Caprican women and a Libran man. It felt good for her people to be seen as more than backwards-thinking fundamentalists for a change. Smiling, she greeted the new students and handed them their packets of sewing supplies.

In another converted hold on another ship, four Aerilonians and two Picons put aside their political differences to present their agreed-upon curriculum of agriculture and animal husbandry. In three weeks, another hundred members of the Fleet would come away with a rudimentary knowledge of what it would take to feed themselves in each of the climate zones being considered for settlement. Preferences had already begun forming within each class, some people longing to be near an ocean again, some looking forward to hours of sunshine and the balance of rainy and dry seasons. A few would swear they could almost feel the rhythm of four separate seasons again, each with its own tasks, demands, and rewards. In quiet corners and on breaks, people began remembering life before the attacks, when their world was more than a fleet of moving ships.

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Laura handed the folder of recon reports back to Bill. "I've had the Quorum members sort through these. So far, everyone's been willing to tag different zones as first and second choices."

He flipped through the reports, nodding at the notes in various handwritings scribbled in the margins. "Any squabbles?"

She lowered herself into her chair, a wave of fatigue hitting her unexpectedly. "Nothing I can't control. The Scorpian delegate wanted full disclosure about mineral deposits but I got the backing of the group as far as not using our technology for unfair advantage."

He raised an eyebrow. "They wanted to cherry-pick for precious metals?"

"He didn't put it that way, but yeah, that's what it sounded like." Her smile had a weary edge to it.

"Any hold-outs on settling?" He got up and poured her a glass of water without her asking. She closed her eyes for a second when his back was turned. She wasn't hiding her condition as well as she had hoped…and truth be told, she was grateful for not having to get up again.

"Not really. Everyone seems positive about the decision to learn as much as possible first, and upcoming groups seem anxious to start their assimilation training."

He handed her the water and sat down again in front of her. She toyed with the glass, watching the condensation trickle in a thin rivulet down the side. She tried to make her voice casual.

"So, what do you hear from Sharon about a split in the Cylon ranks?"

"Just that it exists. She's talked to Caprica about it some, she says. All the signs are that they'll sort this out before leaving their last location, though."

"And the rebels aren't asking for us to…back their play, as the Deadwood men would say?" She watched his eyes turn a warmer shade of blue, as they usually did when she mentioned their brief time spent there.

"No, not yet. I think they're aware of the reaction they'd get."

Silence fell over the Presidential office. Laura bit her lip as she looked at her fingernails, tinted a bluish shade near the cuticles. She curled her fingers into fists, putting the sign of illness out of sight.

Finally, he broke the silence. "Whenever it looks like you're going to need more tests, more time with Cottle, you know you're welcome to stay on Galactica."

Her lips quirked up at the corners. "You offering one of your beds again, Admiral?"

His long, drawn-out sigh told her he wanted to offer more than that. "I should be embarrassed to tell you how hard it's been to get used to sleeping alone."

She covered his hand with hers. "I know what you mean, Bill. I don't get much rest, either. But…."

"I know—I heard the rumors, too. 'The President and the Admiral shack up for a few weeks and all of the sudden, settling again is a great idea!' I thought the Quorum was trying to get the speculation under control."

"They're trying to, but they've strongly hinted that they need our discretion to keep the people focused on what matters."

Bill huffed in exasperation. "When the frak did we get to be such a distraction?"

Her laugh was lighter than she expected. Maybe her energy wasn't as depleted as she thought. "Oh, Bill, even when I was an adult, I felt so funny about my dad having a girlfriend after Mom died. Not that I thought it was disrespectful or anything, but I was afraid we girls wouldn't be his priority anymore."

"The people need to feel that the decisions being made are for the right reasons." His statement held a flat note of final acceptance.

"They do." She swiveled her chair so she was facing the curtains that concealed her increasingly uncomfortable bed. She briefly entertained the idea of a quick tryst. She wasn't feeling particularly aroused-another sign that her health was slipping-but it might push back the fear that the day was coming when she'd be too sick to enjoy him.

A sharp needle-like sensation ran through her left breast. Just a flicker, but enough to send her mind down other paths. She could forgo frakking Bill for now, but to fall asleep again while he held her close, her back against his chest, the sound of his steady breathing by her ear….

Arrangements would be made before she got too sick for even that, and that was all there was to it. The people could mind their own damn business for a night or two.

She swung back towards Bill. "Cottle wants to run some more tests tomorrow." She put some steel in her smile. "I'll bring an overnight bag, if that's all right."

Some of the tension left his eyes. "That's more than all right, Laura. That's just what I needed to hear today."

"It's a date, then." She felt a warm glow of comfort and rightness deep in her belly as she spoke. Smiling, she pulled out another folder. "While you're here, can I pick your brain about linguistics training needs?"

"Sure." He shifted his chair around to the side of her desk. Auburn and iron blended as they bent their heads together over another stack of reports.

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She didn't bother pulling the curtain between them now when it was time to put her clothes back on. One more thing that seemed like a waste of time and energy as the weeks turned into months.

"So…what do you think?" she asked as she buttoned her blouse.

Cottle patted his pockets for his pack of cigarettes, frowning as he came up empty. "I think what I thought after the last round of tests. The cancer's still advancing. And I think—again—that you're ignoring that your previous remission occurred when the cancer was in an earlier stage."

She didn't meet his eyes. "If it's meant to work, it'll work. You said it didn't matter what stage it was in."

His bushy white eyebrows pulled together. "What I said was, I couldn't find any markers that indicated there was a point past which the environment wouldn't have an effect. Which is not the same Godsdamn thing, and you're smart enough to…." He stopped speaking and studied her expression like he was trying to see into her brain.

Sighing, he gave her a defeated look. "You're trying to fit the prophesy, aren't you? Trying to cut it as close as you can to being the "dying leader".

She didn't try to deny it.

"There's still so much do get done. The last scouting party's report hasn't been analyzed yet, we're two transcripts behind on the Quorum meeting reports…." Her voice sounded reedy to her ears. Angry tears welled up as she realized he was right about her delaying, even if he was wrong about the reasons. One bright teardrop refused to be blinked away and began tracing a wet track down her cheek.

"You can delegate that to someone else for however long it takes to—" He broke off as another tear slipped down her thin, stoic face.

"Madam President?"

"What if it doesn't work, Sherman? What if I'm going down there to…just die, and leave everything unfinished?"

"Hang on." He left the examining room. She listened as he went to his desk and noisily rummaged through the drawers. She could smell the fresh smoke before he came back into the narrow space. She waited for him to take another deep, steadying drag before he spoke again.

"I wish Elosha was still alive."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm no priest, and I'm not going to even try to interpret Pythia, but if that does happen…you go down there, and whatever activated the Cylon antibodies before doesn't work, then, you've literally fulfilled the prophecy, haven't you?"

She nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, but…."

"And the prophecies don't say that everything fell apart because the dying leader died."

"No, you're right," she said. "It sounded like the tribes continued to settle on Earth."

He sucked down another lungful of smoke. "So, worst case scenario, you go down there, there's no miracle this time, and you die breathing fresh air and holding his hand, knowing that the plans you've put into place will continue." He studied the smoldering tip. "I've seen worse deaths."

"And I've no reason to think that your remission in that environment was a one-time affair," he continued." He glanced over at the projections and test data. "I don't recommend pushing this past four weeks, though. It makes sense to get on down there while your other systems are still functioning adequately."

"I guess we'll know pretty quickly if it works again or not." She got up slowly, wincing at the grinding feeling in her joints. The weight loss was taking its toll everywhere.

"Talk it over with the Admiral when you get back to his quarters, Madam President. He's part of this, too."

She nodded and turned to leave. She could feel his gaze on her thin shoulders, sharp under her jacket.

"Uh…before you go, do you need any more lubricant?" His voice was quiet, barely audible over the rattling and thrumming of sickbay noise.

She stopped short, more tears threatening. She wiped them away with a resigned swipe of her finger. "That won't be necessary, Doctor."

She had tried to take advantage of her excuse to stay in Bill's quarters, calmly asking for whatever would help her hold onto what remained of her normal responses. An energy booster, a libido enhancer, lubricant to replace what her body no longer provided naturally.

She had given up over two weeks ago. By tacit agreement, they didn't try anymore, but went to sleep, her folded into his gentle embrace as she drifted off to the sound of his heartbeat. They both pretended to ignore his midnight trips to the head or the drink stand as he sought one form of relief or another.

A gruff "I'm sorry, Laura," came from behind her.

"Thanks, Sherman."

So am I.

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The two men faced each other, separated by language, culture, and the old scarred oak desk.

God bless enlightened self-interest and a lack of the English tongue. Al sketched out more pictograms on the wide sheet of paper between himself and Mr. Wu. The blank spaces quickly filled with charcoaled arrows and roads and railroad tracks. Another paper lay shoved to one side, the fading charcoal sketch of the buildings in Chink Alley having served its purpose weeks ago. As Chinamen wanted to congregate within their own community, the drawing suggested, so might other strangers want to congregate in a community of their own.

Mr. Wu had added an unfamiliar word to bok wai lo when he had pointed to the stick figure with red curls and a skirt and the other, larger figure in blue pants and shirt.

"Yeah, they're not exactly bok wai lo, are they? 'White devil' might fit her well enough, though that's for her husband to say, I suppose, but Adama always struck me as being part Mexican or Italian or some such."

"A-da-ma." Wu's voice had been rough around the unfamiliar word.

"Yeah, him and others like him, I guess. Their family, maybe."

Wu huffed in disagreement then, leaving Al to wonder again how much English Wu really understood. The heavy-set Chinese boss shook his head and sketched figure after figure, then flashed his fingers in a sign of "too many to count."

Al remembered the Adama woman's tale of thousands and shrugged. "Yeah, I guess it's more than a family."

"'dama buluo," Wu grunted.

With an impatient sigh, Al drew a circle around the figures now clustered next to the Adamas.

"Yeah, dama buluo. Why the fuck not, hm? Whatever that means."

At the end of a charcoaled road, he sketched a grassy meadow, then added a wavy stream. Wu mumbled and nodded as Al added a small cluster of houses.

Within twenty-four hours of Al handing Mr. Wu a small bag of odd-shaped gold coins, minus ten percent for himself, the first wagon of Chinese workmen, shovels, and lumber-cutting supplies headed up to the far meadow. If any of them wondered who or what the "Adama tribe" was, they kept it to themselves. The weather was pleasant, the work was easier than working on railroads, and they had all seen white men do stranger things than build houses where there were no people to live in them.

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