Day 1160: Eleven months after New Caprica
For the past month, the interrogation room aboard the Battlestar Galactica had been in use. It had been wiped clean of any dark secrets or gruesome memories that had been discovered within its walls, and was now simple and stark and gray. A steel desk and three chairs formed an empty panel towards the back wall, while a lone chair sat before them, as though facing questioning. The room had the air of a stony courtroom, a room of scrutiny. Mary Thetis would have liked a more inviting place, or at least a room without wire on the one-way glass. However, the Truth and Reconciliation Commission had to make do with what they were given. Admiral Adama himself had insisted that the Commission hearings be held aboard the Galactica for security reasons, but due to the staggering amount of refugees flooding the ship, private places were now few and far between.
They had been moved to various rooms, one of which had been a supply closet, before finally settling near the brig in the bowels of the ship. They were lucky to get a room at all, drab and intimidating as it may be. In an effort to make it cozier, Mary had brought a quilt that she laid as a rug between the formidable desk and the lone chair, and kept the gray-blue coffee mug with her at all times. A little piece of New Caprica sky in the middle of a battleship. These quaint items did little to mask the fact that the room was akin to a jail cell, but Mary always kept the door open, and hoped it made a difference.
President Roslin and her administration were more concerned about making the room seem formal and stately, as evidenced by their gift of bronze plaques engraved with the names of the Commission members. The president's aide, Tory Foster, had handed one to each member the day they were moved to the interrogation room. It was a bit of unnecessary pomp and ceremony, an empty gesture full of fake smiles and congratulations. Who knew where the metal had been scrounged from, or if it could have been put to a better use than a glorified paperweight? Playa Palacios had smirked when she had gotten hers and Louis Hoshi had simply smiled and took his with a slightly embarrassed nod. Mary had made sure to thank Ms. Foster, but felt embarrassed as well. Her name was engraved in dark letters, with the title of "Truth and Reconciliation Commissioner" below it. It was far too fancy a title for her. "Old Woman Listener" would have been much more fitting.
Palacios and Hoshi both deserved their fancy titles: Palacios was famous, a radio show personality and journalist, while Hoshi was a lieutenant on Galactica, guiding and protecting the fleet at every turn. He had been assigned to the Commission by Admiral Adama himself, but was still required to perform his regular duties. He worked short shifts when he wasn't attending Commission sessions; Mary wasn't sure when he managed to sleep.
Mary was simply a former schoolteacher and counselor, though the same could be said of the President. They had worked together at the school on New Caprica, when Laura Roslin was no longer the leader of the Fleet. She was simply Laura, and had a warm smile. They had gone from door to door, tent to tent to recruit children, many of whom had not opened a book since the Exodus. After New Caprica, Mary started a traveling school, hopping from ship to ship to teach a different set of students every day. It was tiring, but it kept her busy. Mary thought Laura had forgotten about her until Tory Foster had come to request her presence on the Commission. Mary had hesitated, unwilling to leave her students, but agreed once Ms. Foster found a suitable replacement. She wished Laura herself had come to ask her, but Mary didn't fault her for it. Life was different now, for all of them.
Now, every morning at seven she arrived at the Commission's impromptu headquarters, though for all she knew it could have been nine at night. There was only one flickering light in her cramped quarters aboard the Adrasteia, so her existence was spent in shadows. Even the stars, the pinpricks of light floating past her window, did little to alleviate the darkness. Every moment looked like the next.
She didn't even look in the mirror in the morning anymore. Her supply of makeup had run out long ago, and at sixty-four years old, there was no one she wished to impress. She was just an old woman, with wrinkles and white hair. Grandmotherly, even though she had never been a mother. Every day she passed through identical hallways before boarding a Raptor to Galactica to begin the next round of Commission sessions. Davis, a marine in characteristic black uniform, met her each time when she disembarked and escorted her through the depths of the ship. He had gone down to settle on New Caprica, but they never spoke of it. Every day they made small talk as he clutched his gun close to his chest. It reminded her of life after the Cylons came.
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"Then they tossed me into a cell, and that's where I stayed, until the Fleet broke us out. I was alone most of the time, but sometimes one of them would come in, ask me questions. It was the old one, the one they called Cavil. I think it was the same one every time, but who knows. They all looked the fracking same. I…I don't even remember what he asked me, something about the Resistance. I only remember the pain…"
Mary didn't look up. She didn't have to. It could have been a woman or a man recounting the story, and it would make no difference. The storytellers had many faces, many voices, but they all had the same story to tell: horror. Grief. The bitterness of betrayal by people they thought they knew, people they trusted. The terror of being locked away, the terror of walking through the streets every day, the terror of simply being. She had felt it too, understood what it meant to be sick with fear. Eventually, fear became normal, and she forgot what it felt like to be unafraid.
Palacios knew the fear as well: she had continued her radio show on New Caprica after the Cylons came, but was soon jailed for spreading "anti-Cylon propaganda." Her mouth was in a tight line through most of the stories, as though trying to keep her simmering rage from bursting forth. Hoshi, however… for him, all of it was fresh and gruesome. Mary marveled at his innocence. During the first sessions, he had worn a constant expression of shock, a wide-eyed look that made him appear even younger than he already was. Sometimes he would even look down and rub his palms across his face, trying to nonchalantly wipe the tears from his eyes. Mary loved Louis for his tears, as much as she loved Playa for her anger. After about forty sessions, Mary noticed that he no longer cried. Horror and grief became normal, and you forgot what life was like without it.
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It had been nearly a year since they had escaped that horrible place, but for the people who visited the Commission, the experience was still fresh in their minds. The process to attain a session was painstakingly slow, starting with an application that could take months to be processed because of their sheer volume. Since Mary had fewer obligations than her fellow Commission members, she spent countless nights thumbing through application papers, separating them into piles according to the severity of the case. Applicants who simply wanted to tell their story, with no accusations or grievances, were often asked to record their experiences in writing. There was a large pile of these essays in her quarters; she wasn't entirely sure where they were supposed to go or who was supposed to take them, so they simply sat.
In more delicate cases, when the applicant accused a fellow Fleet member of crimes against humanity, any witnesses or perpetrators identified in the application were tracked down, and asked to appear before the Commission as well. After that, if the applicant still wished to speak, was on time, or was even alive, the session commenced. The people who wished to tell their stories by then were often seething with anger or deep in a depression from their experiences. The stories had grown darker and more tragic every day, and Mary worried that there were people even farther gone, who were unable to tell others but who were haunted all the same. Even though the amount of applications was far greater than the Commission could handle, it was still much lower than it should have been.
Perhaps it had to do with Roslin's decision to avoid prosecutions. There were several riots about the matter on other ships, but those had faded after a few weeks to be replaced by mild grumbling. Mary understood their feelings: why, if Baltar could be tried and even executed, could others be allowed to walk free? Laura's decision was surprising to say the least. She of all people knew how horribly civilians had been abused at the hands of their fellow man. True reconciliation would be nearly impossible, though Mary appreciated the idealism behind the gesture, and respected Laura for being brave enough to make it. The Commission was a symbol of the goodwill and hope that had been sorely missing in the Fleet since New Caprica, and Mary was proud to be a part of it.
However, on the order of both President Roslin and Admiral Adama, the Commission sessions were not to be disclosed to the public, to prevent any violent reprisals in the Fleet. Even though this kept people safer, it also meant that most people were unaware that the Commission sessions were still being held. Palacios had bitterly contested the decision for secrecy, but hadn't managed to sway Roslin or Adama. Without the power to prosecute and kept in total darkness, the Commission was helpless to prevent some of the cruelest perpetrators from fading into the crowd, locked away only in the confines of a case file.
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"I tried…I thought I was doing something good. I didn't mean for anyone to get hurt, I didn't mean to do what I did. I know most people won't want to hear this, but I'm sorry…"
After the session was concluded, Palacios snorted with derision. "Well, he was right, I didn't want to hear it."
She gathered her papers and stood to leave, a curtain of blond hair obscuring her face. She was always so businesslike at the end of the day, closing her folders and saying a curt goodbye, then moving on. It made Mary curious, and a little sad. Palacios always seemed so passionate during sessions and unafraid to ask tough questions, but she seemed to want little to do with her fellow Commission members. It was as though she was wearing the mask of a consummate journalist as a shield. Mary wondered if she had been like this before New Caprica, or if a prison cell had changed her.
Hoshi turned and studied Palacios with cautious curiosity. "But do you think he really meant it? Do you think he was sorry?"
Palacios looked up, her face tight and lips pursed. "Does it matter? He said he was guilty of all of it. Feeling sorrow for a crime doesn't exempt him from personal responsibility." She looked down again, scribbling with her pencil, the tip worn down to a stub. "Well, at least in this case it does. Lucky for him."
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It was Palacios who asked Mary to look through the pile of written cases that were gathering dust in her quarters. She wanted to include a new segment on her radio show called "Colonial Stories." She reassured Mary that the nondisclosure clause applied only to the Commission hearings themselves, and not to the written stories. It was a shaky distinction at best, but Mary held her tongue and played dumb as the younger woman explained herself.
"Every resource is going to Baltar's trial…we need to make the public aware of what we're doing, and how important it is for everyone to share their stories." Palacios hesitated, then continued crisply: "But don't choose anything too depressing. All anyone wants to talk about is Baltar, and that just makes people angry and edgy. We need something to lift people's spirits, show them rising above adversity."
Mary nodded, and hid a smile. She suspected this was Palacios at her best, and worst. It was a good way to get to know her, at least a little bit. "I'll do it as a favor to you, Playa. Do you want any type of story in particular?"
Playa smiled, for once a genuine smile, without the tightness. It was mischievous, like a journalist with a secret. "How about a love story? People always want a good romance."
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When Mary had been a schoolteacher, and then a school counselor at the Caprican Science Academy, she listened to dreams, steered students toward passions and made sure every life she touched was governed by love, whether it be the love of science, love of achievement, or simply the love of love. Love stories and romances could come in many forms, and through the years, Mary had come to know that everyone's life was a love story. Mary's love story was a simple one, composed of simple loves. She loved her husband and her coffee and her sunrises. She loved her job; she'd been at it even longer than she'd been with her husband. She loved her students most of all, and often joked that they were all her children, numbering in the hundreds. She would kick one bunch out of the nest every year only to have another group take their place.
Every so often, someone would ask her if she remembered all of the students she had taught or advised over the years. She wished she did, but truthfully only a select few stood out, and only in hindsight. There were two in particular that she could recall vividly. One was a young Gaius Baltar, who sat in her office during his first week at the Academy. He had been fifteen then, and small for his age. His face glowed when he spoke of how much he loved his physics class, and how marvelously large the school library was. She remembered she had laughed warmly, and his demeanor had changed from ecstatic to sullen, mistaking her delight for ridicule. He had raised his chin defiantly and told her that the library didn't have Cierra's Compendium of Particle Fission and Fusion. He was always more guarded with her after that, to her regret.
The second was her last appointment before the chaos of the Exodus. She had been packing her office then, getting ready to retire and leave her longest love for good. The room was piled with brown boxes, some closed and some open and brimming with papers and plaques and party favors. He had paused at the door, unsure of whether to enter until she waved him in. He had been fifteen too, and just as small and bright as Baltar had been those many years ago. It always took her a second to remember his name, not because he was particularly dull, but because he hardly ever visited. Rigel Wentayim, that was it, from Sagittaron.
"I'm sorry…I just wanted to say goodbye, but it looks like you're leaving too." He had a soft voice, and big eyes. He nervously fidgeted with the straps of his backpack as he spoke.
"What do you mean, Rigel?"
He seemed pleased that she remembered his name, and offered a tentative smile that quickly evaporated. "I'm going home to Sagittaron, for good. I know what you're going to say, that I have a full scholarship to come here and I shouldn't give up this opportunity. But my Mom is sick and there's no one else to take care of her. So I have to go."
Mary understood. She could smell the hospital wards even now, where she spent her afternoons during her husband's last days. This was not something a child should bear. "Oh Rigel, I'm so sorry. Nothing is easy when a family member is ill, but are you sure there's no way you can stay?"
"No, I have to go. I talked it over with my teachers, and I'll go to school back on Sagittaron. I won't give up my studies though…I want to go to Caprica University someday."
"What would you like to study there?"
"Astronomy." His face lit up, and Mary smiled with him. "I've studied all the star charts, and someday I want to go into space and explore other solar systems. At least….at least back home I can see more stars. Here the city lights make it harder."
He looked down and ground his foot into the carpet awkwardly. She wondered how differently the sky on Sagittaron looked, and whether he knew all the stars there by heart. "Study anything you want to Rigel. Just remember to never forget what you love, and never forget to pursue it. When you have someone close to you that's ill, that you have to take care of…sometimes it's difficult to keep yourself in perspective."
He nodded and they stood in silence. Mary thought he would say goodbye, but instead he looked up, his face bright again. "My mother told me when I came back from Caprica, I had to bring a star back with me. There's a flower that looks like a white dwarf star on the hill outside of the chem. building…I think it's a weed, but do you think she would like that?"
"Of course she would. She'd love anything you'd bring her."
He smiled eagerly. "She always called me the Starcatcher. She said I'd grab the stars for real one day."
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Almost three years later, he had gone through space and seen the stars. He had been on New Caprica, and was now a case file, one of the many that Mary had rifled through in the past week to get Palacios her uplifting story. It had been a frustrating search, to muddle through the gloom for just one shining example of humanity at its finest. His file had slipped out of the stack and fallen to the floor, and she had squinted in the flickering light to make out his name. He had only written a couple of paragraphs on a dirty piece of paper, but after reading it, she flipped to the page with his current "address." He was on Galactica. She resolved to see him, because she couldn't believe what he had written. It couldn't be right; it couldn't be the boy she remembered, the boy who only wanted to take care of his mother and study the sky…
He couldn't be a traitor.