Early morning in two communities in the Dakota Territory: Some people are winding down; others are gearing up, and change is everywhere.
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Al Swearengen was starting to get used to his new schedule, although it still felt odd to get up with the chickens. For most of his adult life, roosters crowing in the street had signaled it was time to get some sleep, not get out of bed.
He forked up the last bite of poached egg and toast, dabbed his napkin against his mouth, and got up to fetch the coffee pot. Topping off his cup, he noticed Alma's cup was empty, and refilled hers as well. Might as well add "waiting on the widow Ellsworth" to the list of things he was getting used to. Not that he minded, really.
Of course, she wasn't "the widow Ellsworth" anymore, even if he sometimes still thought of her by that moniker.
"Thank you, Mr. Swearengen." Alma smiled up at him, clear-eyed and ready to start her day.
"Don't mention it. And don't get used to it, either. I just happened to be up, is all," he said gruffly.
"Of course you were." Her eyes twinkled with humor. He couldn't complain, really, her finding entertainment in him adjusting to the details of living in a real home instead of a room above a saloon.
Every step a fuckin' adventurewas the sum and substance of this new way of life. Just goes to show you, he figured, you're never too old to adjust to change…not even him.
"Did I miscount the days, or are you goin' into the bank on a Saturday?" he asked.
She set the empty china cup down in its saucer. "Mr. Adama—Leland, that is—needed to get my signature on some papers before he rides up to Yankton today."
"He's goin' off today, with everything goin' on up there?"
Alma looked pensive as she looked out the window. The first edge of the sun was just peeking over the horizon. "He said it would be a hard day for his wife, and he thought it best to spend a few days alone with her, away from Falcon's Rest."
"Wish he thought it best to let her come back as my faro dealer. Girl has a quick hand on her."
A quirked eyebrow told him what Alma thought of Lee Adama "letting" Kara Thrace Adama do anything. He sighed. He'd been sorry to see that one go, even if she did have a habit of settling disputes with her fists. The ink had barely dried on young Adama's law license when the mismatched pair stood up in front of Rev. Cramed. Al had hardly recognized her in the dress she'd borrowed for the occasion.
His loss was Falcon's Rest's gain, he supposed. While he couldn't fathom how so many grown men (and women, from what he heard of her students) had survived adulthood without learning how to fire a gun, he could see Kara as being a natural for teaching that particular skill.
A lawyer and a gunslinger…sounded like the start of a ribald joke. He gave Alma Russell Garret Ellsworth Swearengen an appraising look as she stood at the sink, her back (and her curvaceous ass, albeit covered with that fuckin' bustle) towards him.
Lee Adama and Kara Thrace Adama…it wasn't the strangest matrimonial pairing in the county.
Not by a long shot.
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The morning mists hovered just above the water's surface, making it seem like the boat was slowly cutting through clouds. The only sounds were the occasional cries of the birds flying high, just out of sight, and the quiet splash of oars in the water. The scent of pine trees was a faint perfume coming from unseen banks hidden by the mist. A glimmer of gold in the distance had slowly risen in the east, the sun's rays muted and pale.
Laura steadied herself with one hand on the side of the boat, pulling her woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders with her other hand. The aches and pains of bone rubbing against too-thin flesh had disappeared, and the relief added to her deep feeling of contentment and peace. She quietly reveled in taking deep, centering breaths, and she imagined the fresh, moist air enriching her lungs, then flowing throughout her body. She closed her eyes in pleasure at simply being in a comfortable, peaceful state, where she had everything she'd ever needed.
As she opened her eyes, she saw figures on the shore, first a couple, then more, standing on the grassy bank waiting for the boat to arrive. Her heart swelled as she moved closer to home with each oar stroke.
Home.
The peace was broken by a rumbling voice behind her.
"Sure wish we'd been able to keep a thermos or two. I could really use a cup of hot coffee."
She turned on her wooden seat to look at Bill, framed against the soft morning glow of sunlight through the mists coming off of the lake. His shoulders had grown more powerful with the physical labor their new life required, and he maneuvered the small fishing boat through the lake waters as easily as he had piloted their last raptor through the air. She could see his arm muscles flexing through his wool shirtsleeves as he dipped and pulled the oars in a steady rhythm. The mist had left tiny droplets of water in his mustache.
"I'm sure somebody's got a pot on, waiting for us."
She glanced down at the wicker basket between them, full of fat walleye fish. As Bill had pulled in catch after catch, she had realized how fished out the lakes on Caprica had become, before the attacks. Her father had a favorite fishing hole at the place they used to go camping as a family. He would have been thrilled to catch just one or two of these beauties.
She smiled as she remembered watching her parents take a similar fishing boat out while she minded her sisters for a couple of hours. Maybe they had been looking for a quiet interlude with each other, enjoying being on the water without the noise that three girls could produce.
Her family would have loved Earth.
"You're not getting too cold, are you?"
Bill's voice still carried that note of worry. They had cut it too close for comfort the last time, their schedule thrown off by the mutiny. She had insisted on staying indoors at their home in Falcon's Rest for over a week before even letting herself be seen at the living room window. Dr. Cottle was her only visitor until she looked like she'd moved a few steps away from death's door.
She didn't even remember arriving in that last frantic exodus from Galactica, just flashes of memories: pain, Helo's grim expression as Bill had lifted her into the raptor, the sight of Earth, blue and white as they flew into the atmosphere. Her next memory was of landing in the cleared area outside of the settlement.
The meadow's days of being used as a raptor landing field were over for good now. It held the new Falcon's Rest community barn and livery, providing transportation of another sort. The fledgling Kobol Corporation had purchased a dozen quarter horses from Sheriff Bullock's ranch and four drays from a farm in Sturgis. One day soon, she suspected, attitudes would shift towards private ownership, and the residents of Falcon's Rest would spread out, as the Fleet had done all over the world. Today, though, the vestiges of four years of communal living still felt strong and safe.
"I'm fine, Bill. This shawl is plenty." She reached over to touch his hand as he stilled the oars for a moment. "Any sign of the other boats?" she asked.
Bill craned his neck, trying to see through the clearing mists. "Not yet. Hot Dog wanted to try a spot past the west bend."
Laura looked back towards the far edge of the lake, where the river flowed over rocky outcroppings. Shading her eyes with her hand, she said, "I think I see Helo and Athena. They're headed back, too."
"Wonder if Hera caught anything?" Bill said, grinning. Helo had introduced Hera to fishing once they were well into the spring thaw, carving a fishing rod sized just for her. She had been a natural from the minute she dropped her line in the crystal clear water.
He began rowing again, easing up to the dock as Saul came over to tie off the boat.
"Looks like you two had a good morning." He glanced at Laura. "Didn't figure you for being a fisherman."
"Oh, I suspect I was along more for luck than anything else." She let Saul help her from the boat to the dock, then got out of the way as he and Bill wrestled with the heavy wicker basket.
"Why don't you go on over to our place? Ellen's got coffee made."
"Do we have enough fish-cleaning volunteers?" asked Laura, looking at the group of six former crew members gathered around a rough table, gutting and boning knives at hand.
"Yep. We've cleared a space in the ice house for the fillets. And I sent Figurski into town to buy chickens and a side of elk," Saul said.
Laura linked arms with Bill. "Let's let them get to work on your catch, Bill. We've got a long day ahead of us."
"Lead the way, Mrs. Adama." His eyes crinkled with pleasure as he called her by his favorite title.
The sun finally broke through the last of the morning mist, the rays catching the gold band of her left hand. It had become so much more than part of their cover story...even the feel of it had changed after their simple ceremony.
They had asked Rev. Cramed to come to their home after Bill swore him to secrecy that day. He hadn't even lifted an eyebrow as Bill had obliquely told him the truth: although they had lived as common-law husband and wife for years, they had never been legally married. The gold band was still the same one she'd worn at the start of their subterfuge, but once he pronounced them husband and wife, it had felt different somehow… a little more solid. Warmer against her skin.
She had been too weak to stand, sitting in her nightgown and the dressing robe Mrs. Ellsworth had given her as a "welcome home" gift. The Tighs had served as witnesses for the short ceremony, pretending that the newly married Adamas wanted privacy to consummate their marriage as they left afterwards. Exhausted, Laura could only offer Bill a kiss that day before she had to lie down and rest, his arms cradling her as she slept.
It had taken longer to recover from the cancer this last time. Doc Cottle had speculated it was the delay in coming back to Earth, but Laura privately thought it had been the terror and rage she had gone through during her last weeks in space. Three weeks after their quiet wedding, they had finally been able to make love as husband and wife. It had been as sweetly erotic as both had dared hope, rivaling the night they had shaken the rafters and rained plaster dust down over the Grand Central's dining room. Their first married frak had been a heartfelt, enthusiastic victory over the illness that had threatened her for so long.
Their steps now took them to the new section of Falcon's Rest, where the Tighs had built a tidy house with an attached workshop, almost as spacious as the dwelling itself. Ellen's old abilities and talents had come back at full strength after her resurrection, and had sparked Saul's past skills as well.
Patent offices in four countries were getting used to new filings by subsidiaries of Kobol Corporation. The minor (but helpful) innovations submitted were just part of the flood of new inventions from everywhere as the world moved into the last decades of the nineteenth century.
Bill might get his thermos for hot coffee before too long, Laura mused. When Chief Tyrol had written to say he was coming, he had hinted at a "new-old" invention he'd been working on that the Old Man would appreciate. She was touched that he'd made the trip from Scotland for Founder's Day, along with his new wife, the daughter of a Picon engineer.
Ellen opened the door as soon as they stepped onto the porch. She had smudges of white and green on her face and her hands were dusted with flour. She looked a bit panicked as she surveyed the throng of people around the livery, greeting another coachful of arrivals.
"Coffee's on, and I'm going to need some help with baking." She gave Laura a hopeful look.
Laura groaned. She hadn't been that much of a cook before the attacks. She was getting used to the wood stove for the basics, but the oven was another story. Bill gave her an understanding nod.
"Let me pour myself a cup and I'll go start the fire. Need me to get anything from the spring house before I get home?"
She thought for a minute. "Go ahead and get the butter crock out, and a couple of jars of pickles. And the other—"
"I've already gotten the last crate of hooch out. We never worried about it being chilled to the right temperature before." Ellen shot a wry grin at Laura.
Laura went into the kitchen and took an extra apron off the door peg, tying it around her waist. Wrinkling her nose at the small barrel of green powder on the floor, she rolled up her sleeves and began scooping and sifting.
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"Mr. Adama, sir?" the curly-haired Russian called as Bill passed the small telegraph office next to Falcon Rest's new community hall.
"Morning, Yuri. Got something for me?" Bill drained his cup and parked it on the railing as he stepped into the cluttered office.
Yuri Blazanov handed Bill a handful of messages. "Many, Mr. Adama," he said in his heavily Russian-accented English. "They began early this morning."
Bill flipped through the stack. The messages had originated from Canada, Mexico, Australia, and US territories in the northwest. The short sentences were similar:
Best wishes to Falcon's Rest.
All is well with us.
We remember.
With you in spirit today.
And each one ended with a carefully printed "So say we all."
"You have friends in many places, Mr. Adama."
Bill nodded warily, hoping Yuri was as dedicated to confidentiality of communication as his cousin, Pavel Blazanov, was. Al had vouched for the young telegraph man, apparently having a great deal of faith in the Deadwood operator and seeing the same qualities in this more recent immigrant. Still, he knew the amount and type of traffic the man saw through the Falcon's Rest office was unusual, to say the least.
"You still planning to stay with your cousin tonight?"
He felt bad about asking the young Russian to abandon his telegraph post and essentially get out of town for twenty-four hours. He knew, though, that liquor of all types would flow as the night went on. The former Colonials, maybe even the Cylons, could easily start talking about things that would be too hard to explain.
"I am. I understand things very well here. Better than you think, perhaps." Bill was surprised to see Yuri's eyes begin to fill.
He reached into a cabinet by his desk and brought out a small crockery bottle and two delicate glasses. "I think this is a special day for your people. Please, Mr. Adama, share a glass of slivovitz with me. I do not ask you to share anything else, just this."
He poured a clear, plum-scented liquid into the glasses. Bill had his doubts—Laura wouldn't be happy at him starting so early in the day—but this seemed important to the young man. Yuri held the glass up, said a few words in Russian, and ended it with a toast in English.
"To your people, wherever they may be."
"To my people." The plum brandy went down easy and sweet.
Yuri kept his eyes on the last few drops left in the glass. "Mr. Adama, you have heard something of my cousin's and my story, I think."
"You cousin told me of the pogroms against your family when he and you were at university. I was sorry to hear what happened." He waited, turning the tiny glass in his hands.
"I know what it is like, your people scattered by others, so many dead, and you keep moving, not knowing if you will live or die." He closed his eyes for a second, and Bill wondered how many horrors he was trying to keep at bay.
"So," Yuri continued, eyes open and grave, "I understand the need to come together, just the ones who remember, with no outsiders to question, nor, perhaps, to judge." He put his glass down and stood, hand extended.
"Whatever you and your people have gone through to get here is not the business of myself or anyone else. But please, as one who has experienced the seeking and finding of refuge, let me congratulate you and your people on your survival."
Bill's words caught in his throat as he shook the man's hand. He knew without asking that nothing of Yuri's observations would be shared with anyone else. He hoped the other groups of settlers were finding this kind of understanding as they made their new lives.
"Thank you, Yuri." He started to add more, but the clatter of the telegraph apparatus started up again. Yuri grabbed his pencil as he sat back down at his post and began transcribing the latest message.
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