BSG Fic: Beyond the Line (5/10)
Title: Beyond the Line
Chapter Title: Trust
Rating: T
Word Count: 6,000
Summary: Adama and Gaeta deal with the aftermath of their decisions. An AU in which Felix's mutiny is stopped in its early stages, but trouble just keeps coming.
Author's Note: What can I say, prophetkristy brought out the pom poms. I'm determined to finish this fic (which hasn't been updated since July) and it just might be doable. All my love to lls_mutant, safenthecity, and falafel_musings, my lovely betas.
As a side note, I recommend rereading chaps 'cause even *I've* forgotten half of what I posted in July. The previous installments are:
Chapter One: Arrested
Chapter Two: Escalation
Chapter Three: Resolved
Chapter Four: Confrontation
Reality returned in stages. Felix slowly became aware of a lumpy mattress beneath him, a thin pillow under his head.
A pillow . . .
For a moment he lay perfectly still. But, no, the surface beneath him was hard and uncomfortable, with numerous sore spots where springs dug into his back. The pillow was scratchy against his cheek and did little to alleviate the pain in his neck.
All in all, it was much less comfortable than the gurney had been, and that comforted him more than he would have believed possible.
His eyelids felt very heavy. He strained to open one eye, and then quickly slammed it shut as light blasted onto his retina. After a moment, he tried again-this time lifting his lid a bare slit, giving himself a chance to adjust to the unfamiliar light.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected-sickbay? The morgue?-but Felix was startled to find himself still in the brig, back on his dilapidated cot. The lighting was as dim as ever; only the pounding in his head had exaggerated it to blinding proportions. He blinked a few times. The room seemed to be throbbing in time with his heart beat. Slowly, the familiar forms of bars and bulkheads began to take shape. The ubiquitous Marine studied him silently from behind the desk. To Felix’s surprise, his cell door was open. Then again, he wasn’t much of a flight risk.
A faint scratching from behind him caught his attention. Though the movement caused the room to spin a little more, Felix lifted his head and turned. Admiral Adama sat at the small metal table he’d used as a projectile only the day before. Paperwork was spread out in front of him. The faint scratching Felix had heard was his pen as he scribbled notes.
Slowly-very, very slowly-Felix returned his head to the pillow. He forced himself to breathe in and out to counts of ten while scanning the room out of the corner of his eye. It was unoccupied save for the Marine, the Admiral, and himself. Cottle and Ishay were gone, as was the gurney and all its accompanying equipment. Felix’s measured breaths came a little easier.
His limbs seemed to weigh two hundred pounds apiece and his throat felt like sandpaper. Nevertheless, he dragged himself into a sitting position, the cold bulkhead digging into his back.
The mattress creaked and Adama looked up. Seeing Felix awake, he quietly stood and poured something from a pitcher into a small metal cup. As the Admiral advanced, Felix felt himself shrink back ever so slightly. If Adama noticed, he made no comment. The older man set his chair by Felix’s bedside, and Felix tried not to flinch at the sudden sound. Adama lowered himself slowly into the chair and pressed the cup into Felix’s trembling hands.
For a moment, Felix just stared at the cup suspiciously. The Old Man seemed to understand. “It’s okay, Lieutenant,” he took the cup back from Felix and took a sip, “It’s just water. Here . . .” He passed it back. Felix’s throat felt like a desert. Slowly, he raised the shaking cup to his lips and drank a little. The cool water was a blessing. He swirled it carefully over his dry tongue and swallowed. Felix gulped greedily and narrowly avoided splashing water all over himself. Adama refilled the cup without comment, and Felix drank some more. Only when he had finished his second cup did the burning in his throat recede.
Felix lowered the cup. The pain in his head was gradually ebbing, only to be replaced by a dozen new aches all over his body. It felt like hot lead had been poured into his bones, but he was so cold . . . a tremor shook him and the scratchy blanket slipped from his bare shoulder. Felix tugged it back up, fighting shivers of cold and shudders of embarrassment.
Again, Adama seemed to understand without any words needing to be exchanged. He handed Felix a pair of neatly folded tanks and then discreetly stood to put the cup back on the table. As soon as the Old Man’s back was turned, Felix tugged on the tanks, noting with surprise that they were freshly laundered.
The Admiral returned to sit by Felix’s bedside without looking at him. He suddenly seemed strangely awkward. “How are you feeling, Lieutenant?” He asked at last.
How was he feeling? It was all Felix could do to keep from laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the question. He opened his mouth to respond . . . and then quickly snapped it shut as a wave of nausea rocked his body. He turned away, so as not to throw up on the Admiral’s lap. His stomach churned . . . he began to retch . . . and then suddenly there was a bucket pressed into his hands. He heaved into the bucket. The mattress swayed slightly as the Old Man sat down beside him. He made no comment, just sat, looking away until Felix’s gut stopped rebelling.
When his stomach was empty, Adama laid the blanket across his shoulders and handed him another cup of water. As Felix rinsed his mouth, he clutched the cup tightly to keep his hands from trembling. Finally, he cleared his throat and tried to speak. “Wha . . .” He managed only a hoarse croak. After sipping some water, Felix tried again. “What did you do to me?” His voice lacked the accusatory tone he was hoping for, but at least he didn’t stammer.
Adama looked away. “This is just the after-effects from the antidote-it should pass soon.”
Felix drank a little more water. He tried to put a bit more strength into his voice. “Not what I asked.”
The Old Man sighed. “How much do you remember?”
Felix shuddered. It was all mixed up in pieces and fragments. Darkness, blood, the constant threat of suffocation, a booming voice with endless questions, Eight’s vicious whisper in his ear . . . He remembered far too much. “I didn’t give you names.” He said it defensively with only a hint of pride.
The Admiral actually smiled a little. “No. You didn’t.” Adama stared at a blank spot on the bulkhead. “It was a psychotropic hallucinogen-a leftover from trials by Fleet Intelligence. Since the holocaust, it’s been used only one other time.”
“Dr. Baltar.”
“Yes.” Did Felix imagine the slight catch to Adama’s voice? “It works differently on everyone. We didn’t know what it was going to make you see.”
“Would it have stopped you if you had?”
Felix didn’t really expect a response, but after a second Adama sighed. “Probably not.” They sat in silence for a few moments more, then Adama turned to look at Felix. “Lieutenant.” He waited. Felix reluctantly met his gaze. The Old Man’s eyes held neither scorn nor pity, but only a deep, lingering sadness. “Things that were done . . . can’t be undone. But, I want you to know that I hated having to do what I did. Crises are always a test. They bring out the best or the worst in people. And this time, I failed.”
The Admiral stood. “Try to get some rest, Lieutenant. Doc Cottle will be in to check on you in a little while.” And without asking a question-without another word-Admiral Adama left the brig.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Cottle’s brief impersonation of a bedside manner had vanished. Felix didn’t know why he found this so comforting. The doctor had lit a cigarette within ten seconds of entering the brig and commandeered the Marine’s used coffee mug to use as an ashtray. He cheerfully puffed away while taking Felix’s pulse, temperature, and blood pressure, and only extinguished it when he was forced to pull on latex gloves to take a blood sample. Cottle attached the tourniquet and swabbed Felix’s arm with alcohol, only to stop and stare disapprovingly at the crook of his elbow. “I haven’t seen veins this bad since rotations in the rehab wing.”
Felix shrugged one shoulder.
“Have you been taking any drugs?”
“Well, I seem to remember a psychotropic hallucinogen or two.”
Cottle loosened the tourniquet and fished in his bag. “Look here, Lieutenant.” Felix glanced in Cottle’s direction only to flinch back at the sudden light. Muttering something about twitchy junkies, the doctor gripped Felix’s chin and shined a small light in first one eye, then the other. After a second, he growled a curse. “Everybody thinks they’re a doctor these days.”
Felix blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got morpha withdrawal, Lieutenant, which I find confusing considering I stopped prescribing it for you weeks ago.”
“I . . .”
“You were in pain, the mean doc in sickbay just didn’t understand, you had to take matters into your own hands, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all. Your body’s recovering from early-stage dependency and that, combined with our recent adventures hasn’t done you a lick of good. I can give you some codeine to take the edge off, but stay away from the magic shots, okay?”
Felix looked around at the bare cell. “Somehow, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
Cottle snorted in agreement. “The good news is, you’re fine for the moment. Bad news is, you’re not gonna stay that way. In another hour or two, your kidneys will filter the last of the drugs out of your system, and then all hell will break loose. We’re talking fever, nausea, tremors, hey, you’ve seen the public service announcements. If the Admiral okays it, I’ll give you some tranquilizers so you can sleep it off. If he okays it.”
Cottle moved the tourniquet and tested a vein in the middle of Felix’s forearm. The Lieutenant watched him absently. He was far too used to the sight of his own blood to be bothered. “Do you find it ironic,” he asked Cottle, “That I get faster medical treatment here than I do in sickbay?”
Cottle grunted. “You feel like trying a few more trips with the hallucinogens and I’m sure we’ll see each other more often.”
“I’m just saying, when I go in there I get treated like a one-legged hypochondriac.”
“Mr. Gaeta, since the attacks I’ve performed thirty-six amputations on two knuckledraggers, three support crewmen, a dozen Marines, and eighteen civilians. So far, you’re the only officer, so feel special. Sixteen of those procedures were done in tents on New Caprica; we were out of anesthetic for the last eight. So, I am sorry about the lack of hand holding, but if you feel like you could do a better job of managing health care for two thousand people in a less-than-safe occupation, by all means you are welcome to try.” Cottle picked up his cigarette, scraped a coffee grind off the end, and relit it. After a few thoughtful puffs, he picked up a probe and rolled back the cut-off end of Felix’s right pant leg. “You know the drill, Lieutenant. Tell me when you feel the pressure.”
It was a familiar routine; Cottle moved the probe from spot to spot, testing for touch, pressure, and pain sensitivity on the ruined limb. After a moment, the doctor commented. “I see it’s still chafing.”
Felix nodded. “The cap needs to be refitted. The prosthetic rubs it raw.”
“That’s because you’re using it too much. Sit on your ass for a few days and it’ll be fine. I brought you more cream for it.”
“That stuff doesn’t do anything.”
“You need to take care of the limb, Lieutenant. Recovery will only be slower if you don’t.”
“Like it’s really gonna matter?”
Cottle sat back. “Excuse me?”
“Can we please stop the charade, doctor? There’s not much point in taking care of it because I’m not going to need it for much longer.”
“Unless you’re secretly a Cylon and have an extra body stashed somewhere, I have a feeling you will need this one.”
Felix rolled his eyes. “Come on, Doc, I plotted mutiny aboard a military ship. I just confessed to planning the Admiral’s execution. Do you really not see it?”
“See what?”
“That he’s going to kill me, okay!” Felix flinched at the sudden heat in his own voice. He stared down at the scarred stump. “It’ll be all nice and professional. The Admiral might even feel bad about it. But, I’ll be just as dead.”
“Did you kill anybody?”
Felix rocked back. “Excuse me?”
“Since this little experiment in rebellion began, have you actually killed or injured anyone on this vessel?”
He could only stare. “No,” he whispered.
“Then there’s something you should know. Taking another man’s life-especially someone you’ve served with-isn’t half as easy as it sounds.” Cottle put his probe away and straightened. “Take care of the limb, Lieutenant. And stop planning your funeral before you’re in the ground.”
Felix smiled sardonically. “So do I pass inspection? Ready for round two?”
“Are you incapable of making sense today?”
Felix jerked his head at the open space where the gurney had been set up. “I’m guessing I have another date with that little cocktail of insanity.”
“Didn’t the Old Man teach you never to guess? You just end up looking dumb.”
Felix looked up. “Roslin is missing, and I didn’t give him anything. You don’t think Adama will do it again?”
“I know he won’t do it again.”
“I bet he told you that after Baltar’s interrogation too.”
Cottle sighed. “Felix.” The other man looked up at him. The doctor’s face was strangely solemn. “Five hours ago I flushed our entire store of interrogation drugs out the airlock. I did it on Admiral Adama’s orders. I’m not saying it’ll be sunshine and bubbles from here, but I don’t think you’ll be executed and I know for a fact that you won’t have to go through this again.” And with that, he closed his bag and left.
Felix stared after him as the Marine relocked his cell, digesting this new information. The cell secure, the guard spun the hatch and turned, ready to sink back into his desk chair. Felix made his decision.
“Corporal,” he called out.
The Marine turned with a growl of annoyance. “Is there a problem, Gaeta?”
“Contact the Admiral. Tell him I have something to say.”
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Bill stared at the young Lieutenant through the bars. Gaeta looked better. He’d washed his face and slicked his hair back, arranged his tanks and folded the leg of his trousers neatly around his stump. Still, color hadn’t returned to his face, and Bill strongly suspected that his clenched fists hid a tremor.
“You had something you wanted to say, Lieutenant?” Gaeta didn’t respond except to glance pointedly at the Marine and then back at Bill. The Admiral turned to the guard. “Corporal Snyder.”
“Sir.”
“Give me your keys and then wait outside.”
“Yes sir.”
As the Marine left, Bill unlocked the cell and rolled the door back. That accomplished he leaned against the doorjamb, and spitted Gaeta with a scrutinizing gaze.
The young officer stared off into space almost absently. He spoke without looking at Bill. “You didn’t investigate.”
Bill’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Raptor 718. Three humans and two skin jobs dead, and you never even asked me what happened.”
Bill stared at Gaeta for a moment. “I guess I didn’t want to know.”
“Do you want to know now?”
Bill folded his arms. “If you want to tell me.”
For several seconds, the Lieutenant didn’t respond. Bill waited. He knew that Gaeta would tell him on his own time or not at all. Finally, he seemed to shake himself and spoke in a voice that started out shaky, but gained strength. “The Eight . . . when we realized we were lost and couldn’t jump back she started calculating probabilities. She . . . determined that there wasn’t enough air to get all of us back. So she started . . . reducing the breathing population.”
The young man drew a slightly strangled breath. “I don’t think it meant for the other Eight to go first-the pilot. She was trying to repair the ship and electrocuted herself. Later, it . . . she . . . admitted to stripping the insulation off of the tools.”
It . . . Bill mused over the word choice. While a sizable portion of Galactica’s crew consistently referred to all Cylons as “it,” Gaeta had never been among that camp. Bill couldn’t remember ever even hearing the word “toaster” out of the tactical officer’s lips. He’d assumed that his frequent references to “it” in the interrogation had been mere disorientation. Now, he wondered if there was more to it. “What about the human crew?” Bill asked softly.
“I . . . I had a few doses of morpha. For my leg. She must have seen me . . . She tried to make it look like Specialist Brooks killed himself, but Finn and Esrin saw through it. They tied her up, but she got loose while we were asleep. She slit their throats.”
Bill was ashamed to say it, but as the pieces came together he felt a twinge of relief-the picture could have been so much worse. When they’d found Gaeta, the sole survivor covered in blood and nearly out of his mind with oxygen deprivation . . . some small, paranoid part of him had assumed the worst. While he had been convinced that Gaeta wasn’t responsible for his actions, he chose not to look too closely into what those actions were.
It wasn’t only for the sake of the alliance that he refused to investigate the incident.
“So, you acted in self-defense.” Bill kept his voice low. He had a hunch there was more to this story.
Gaeta shook his head, rubbing at his hands as if he could still see the blood. “That wasn’t why . . .”
Bill waited.
Gaeta swallowed. “After . . . when I discovered what she had done, she told me . . . things.” The Lieutenant’s hands began to shake. He hugged his arms around his body and rocked forward on the cot. “I knew her . . . it . . . on New Caprica. It came to me . . . told me it knew things about the people in detention. It said they were being tortured.” He laughed suddenly, a bitter, humorless sound. “It said it was disgusted-can you believe that? Disgusted by what they were doing to our people. It offered to help. And I just ate it up.”
Bill opened his mouth to speak, then closed it just as quickly, hoping his bewilderment didn’t show. He desperately wished Laura was here to make sense of this garbled tale. She’d always had a way of seeing things-looking past the exterior motives to guess at what lay in a person’s soul. Without her, Bill was grasping at straws. Gaeta took no note, still lost in his own haunting memories. “It wanted names . . . names of the people who’d vanished-the ones who’d been gone the longest. And I gave them to her.”
Bill noted the sudden pronoun shift, but did not interrupt. He had a growing suspicion that this story was about more than the deceitful nature of Model Number Eight.
“I wrote lists . . . dozens of names . . . A few days later it came back and said it had gotten some of them out. But, I never saw them again-never really thought about them . . . until I found Finn and Esrin.” He lowered his head, fists knotting in his damp hair. “I didn’t want to believe it . . . but she made me look. She killed them. She killed them all. And I gave her the names.”
Gaeta fell silent. Bill’s brain was abuzz, trying to digest the strange story. If only Laura were here . . . Think, Bill, he nearly started at the sound of her voice in his head, Why is he saying this now? What’s the connection? Bill studied the Lieutenant. Guilt was obvious in the weary slump of his shoulders. Guilt . . . over Brooks and Finn and Esrin, over all the death on New Caprica, maybe even over the Eight he’d been forced to kill-who’d saved his life by murdering his crewmates. Right. What else? His co-conspirators. Now that his plan was in ruins, Gaeta didn’t want to face the possibility that their involvement with him would torch their careers. But . . . there was something else . . . something connecting this mess to Laura and Zarek . . .
Out of the blue, Gaeta’s strangled words from hours before came back to him. “She said I was pardoned, but she didn’t know . . .”
The pieces suddenly clicked in Bill’s mind. There, Laura’s imagined voice murmured approvingly, that’s something you can use.
Bill stared at Gaeta. His voice was deathly quiet. “So that’s what this is about.”
The younger man looked up. “Sir?”
“Why did you tell me this, Lieutenant?”
Gaeta seemed suddenly flustered. “So that . . . so that you would see that an alliance with the Cylons is crazy. They’ll betray us; it’s in their nature.”
“Perhaps. But it’s your nature that’s concerning me at the moment.” Gaeta stared, clearly not sure how to respond to that. Bill continued. “When you started this . . . mutiny, you may have had lofty ideals about loyalty and justice, but just like those lies the Eight told you, they covered something deeper. Something ugly.” A war of emotions ranging from outrage to dread to relief flickered across Gaeta’s face. Bill did not relent. “You know what’s most ironic about this whole situation, Lieutenant? As President of the Colonies, Laura Roslin gave you a full pardon-complete immunity from all crimes real or imagined. And Tom Zarek signed your death warrant.” Bill spitted the young man with his most piercing gaze. “But now, I’m thinking it’s not such a coincidence. I think you just couldn’t handle forgiveness-not after what you’d done. So, rather than admit this to anyone, you set out to balance the scales in your own way-to see if you can push me so hard that I’ll give up on this flawed concept of forgiveness . . . and give you the death you still feel you deserve.”
Gaeta finally found his voice. “What? No! No. This wasn’t about me, it was about the Cylons!”
“I don’t doubt that this was about the Cylons.”
“Then why . . . look, I don’t have a death wish.”
“Don’t you?” Gaeta was silent. Bill carefully controlled his features. “A mutiny would have torn this ship apart. People would have died, Mr. Gaeta. People still might.”
The Lieutenant wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I didn’t have anything to do with President Roslin’s kidnapping.”
“I know you didn’t. I also know that you know who did.” Gaeta studied his hands as if they somehow held the solution to all his dilemmas. Bill clenched his fists behind his back, still fighting the urge to simply beat the answers out of him. Careful now, Bill, the silent voice cautioned, he’s so close, but a single push in the wrong direction could undo everything. Bill advanced a few steps and reached out a tentative hand. Gaeta’s shoulder twitched under his touch. “Felix . . .” The Lieutenant’s eyes snapped up in surprise. Bill held his gaze. “It’s time to put a stop to this. President Roslin is alone. She’s in a dark place, and she’s frightened. And no one deserves that. Whatever you may think of her . . . of me . . . she doesn’t deserve that.”
Felix swallowed hard. His eyes were red rimmed from more than just lack of sleep. “I need to know . . . that they won’t be killed over this.”
Bill kept his face still, though his heart was pounding. “No one wants bloodshed. Help me bring her home and I’ll see to it that your people are afforded some measure of consideration.”
Conflict continued to rage across the younger man’s face. It was disturbing to see in an officer who was usually so composed. “They’re good people-most of them,” his voice was strained, “They’re just . . . angry. They feel like they’ve been jerked around too much and for too long. And the real tragedy is . . . the ones you’re looking for? The organizers? They’re probably the most principled in the bunch.”
Somehow, Bill doubted that kidnappers could be all that principled, but he carefully held his tongue. Gaeta continued. “They genuinely believe in what we were trying to do . . . freedom from the Cylons . . . autonomy of the civilian government . . .” Bill clenched his jaw impatiently. Gaeta lowered his head to his hands and knotted his fists in his damp hair. “I’ve been going over it again and again . . . and I always come back to the same conclusion. There was only one person in my group who had the connections and the knowledge to pull this off. And I don’t want to believe it was him . . . but I just can’t see . . .” Gaeta trailed off.
Bill drew a deep breath. “Lieutenant Gaeta.” He waited until the other man met his gaze. “Who?”
Gaeta swallowed. “Noel Allison.” He looked away. “I don’t know for sure, but of the people I recruited . . . if it were any of them, it would probably be him.”
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
“Narcho? I don’t believe it!” Bill wished he could share in his son’s shock. Lee tugged at his collar. “Gods, I flew with him. He was a Pegasus officer-one of my guys.”
“I’m getting a bit of déjà vu here, Apollo,” Colonel Tigh growled, “Can we please just skip the denial so we can start dealing with this?”
“We’re sure it’s him?”
Bill leaned forward. “Gaeta’s sure. It’s enough. I’m sending a detachment of Marines to take him into custody.”
Lee looked up sharply. “That might not be such a good idea, sir.”
Bill arched an eyebrow incredulously. “You’re suddenly opposed to the policy of arresting kidnappers?”
“I am when they are still in possession of a hostage. Think about it; this is a volatile situation. There’s no way Lieutenant Allison pulled this off alone. If we bring him in, the others will know that Gaeta talked. They might kill the President out of sheer panic.”
“So what would you suggest, Commander?”
Lee flinched slightly at the formal mode of address. “I don’t know . . . maybe put a tail on him-see if he leads us to the others?”
“I had an idea about that, actually.” Bill looked up at the sound of Saul’s voice. The Colonel’s face was set in a rare attitude of contemplation. “Lieutenant Hoshi has been after me about Gaeta. He wants to know what he’s being charged with, what evidence we have against him, blah, blah, blah. Mostly, he wants to see him.”
Lee’s brow furrowed. “Hoshi? Why?”
“You’re a bit behind on the Galactica gossip, Commander.”
Comprehension dawned. “Oh.”
“Could you get to the point, Colonel?”
“Hear me out, Admiral. Now, I checked with Cottle and he gave me some spiel about drug interactions inducing fever, nausea, and a whole shitload of other problems.”
Bill grunted. “We didn’t know about Gaeta’s morpha addiction. It’s complicating his recovery. I gave Cottle leave to sedate him, so he’s sleeping through the worst of it.”
“Right. So I say we grant Hoshi’s request. Let him see what’s become of poor Mr. Gaeta.”
Lee shot Saul a distasteful look. “I didn’t know your sadistic streak ran that deep, Colonel.”
“Sadism’s got nothing to do with it. The point is, Gaeta looks bad and he’s in no condition to explain what happened-Hoshi won’t know how he got that way. For all he knows, we’re torturing Gaeta.”
“Then he’s not far from wrong.” Lee muttered.
“So we take Hoshi to the brig and let him take a good look. And we imply that the longer Roslin’s gone the worse things are going to get for Gaeta.”
Bill could feel another headache building. Laura was in the hands of some maniacs being subjected to gods knew what, and Tigh wanted to waste time toying with Hoshi. “Are you going somewhere with this? Because I don’t see the benefit beyond pissing off yet another of my officers.”
“Putting a tail on Narcho won’t tell us enough. What we need is an infiltrator-someone who can insinuate himself with these nut jobs and tell us what they’re planning, maybe even tell us where Roslin’s being kept. We’re flying blind here, Bill. It’s time to get some boots on the ground. Now, obviously they won’t trust anyone known to be loyal, but if they were approached by someone with connections in CIC, someone with known ties to Gaeta, someone pissed off, they might just let him in.”
Lee stared. “Let me get this straight. You want to use Gaeta’s lover as a mole to bring down the organization he built?” He contemplated that for a moment. “It’s deceptive, manipulative, under-handed . . . and it just might work. Aren’t we kind of begging the question, though? What if our chosen informant is already in on the kidnapping? I mean, if those two are so close, what are the odds Gaeta would plan a mutiny and not involve Hoshi?”
Bill rubbed his temples. “Better than you might think. Scuttlebutt has it Gaeta broke things off shortly after he came back from that Raptor-probably didn’t want to bring Hoshi down with him. As for the kidnapping, I don’t see how he could have been involved. We’ve been watching Hoshi ever since Gaeta was arrested. He’s been working double shifts-never had time or opportunity to coordinate with the kidnappers.” Bill sighed. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Like hell you will; that’s an XO’s job.”
Bill tried to stare Tigh down. “I ran the interrogation. He should hear it from me.”
Lee glanced from the Admiral to the Colonel. “I don’t understand. Why is this an issue?”
“Because officers don’t take well to being bullied, and they definitely don’t take well to hearing that their loved ones have been tortured. Whoever handles Hoshi-“
“Will take the heat. Gee, Bill, sounds like a job for an XO.”
“This genuinely wasn’t your mess, Saul.”
“It’s on your ship. That makes it my mess. Frak, I see what you’re trying to do, but if I have to start coddling officers so they won’t have nightmares about the mean old Cylon, then Gaeta’s right; I can’t do the job anymore and I shouldn’t be in the CIC.”
Bill sighed. “Talk to Hoshi.”
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
When Louis saw Felix, his breath caught in his throat. The Marine couldn’t open the cell door fast enough. As soon as he stepped aside, Louis raced past him and fell to his knees by Felix’s side. Only when he had reassured himself that Felix’s chest was rising and falling in shallow breaths did Louis allow himself to breathe again.
Louis couldn’t take his eyes from Felix’s still face. His hand shook as he reached up to brush a stray lock from his lover’s forehead. As soon as his fingers made contact, he flinched back. Felix was feverish. Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, Louis gently smoothed the dark curls back and ran his hand down the side of Felix’s face to cup the pale cheek. “Felix? Baby? Can you hear me?” He turned, fighting down panic. “Why won’t he wake up?”
Colonel Tigh stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His face was stone, and the customary hard edge in his voice was magnified ten-fold. “Don’t have a heart attack, Lieutenant; Cottle doped him with tranquilizers.”
A tremor wracked Felix’s body and Louis pulled the thin blanket tighter around his shoulders. “He’s sick.”
“Hence the doping.”
Louis took Felix’s hand in both of his and kissed the knuckles tenderly. “He should be in Medical, not . . .” Louis trailed off. He’d noticed the marks.
Ugly purple bruises were rising on Felix’s wrist. Dreading what he might find, Louis slowly lifted the blanket and rolled it down to Felix’s waist. Matching marks discolored his other wrist. Smaller bruises marred the tops of Felix’s biceps-again in the same place on both arms. Some distant part of Louis’ mind-the only part that wasn’t screaming in horror-noted the distinct symmetry of the injuries. It was precise. It was premeditated. His mind flashed to that dark day shortly before the Pegasus caught up with Galactica when morbid curiosity had driven him to Gina Invierre’s cell.
Numbly, he lifted Felix’s limp hand to examine it more closely. Half remembered training from his brief career in the Military Police came rushing back. No defensive wounds-no bruises on the knuckles, no swelling in the fingers-but was that blood under the neatly trimmed nails? He turned the hand over, and a cold knot formed in his gut. Four tiny wounds marked Felix’s hand in regular intervals-each indent an exact match for one of Felix’s carefully groomed fingernails. Bruises, signs of restraint, a sudden, mysterious illness . . . The ice in his gut gave way to a fire that coursed through Louis’ limbs until his own hands clenched in fists. He came to his feet in an instant and spun to face the Cylon in uniform behind him.
“What did you do to him?” His voice shook with barely controlled fury.
Tigh’s face didn’t change. “He’s a mutineer, Mr. Hoshi. He admitted it.” Louis’ jaw clenched. Tigh had all of Thorne’s smug superiority, and he wasn’t even human.
“What the HELL did you do to him?!!!”
“I don’t think you fully understand. The President of the Colonies was kidnapped by people he recruited. He’s guilty of treason, and under military code there’s nothing stopping us from tossing him out an airlock right now.”
“You son of a-“
“Careful, Lieutenant; the next words out of your mouth will have consequences-and not just for you.”
Louis fought to regain his composure. He had to ask one more time, despite his growing suspicion that he didn’t want to know. His voice was almost plaintive. “What did you do?”
“Nothing life threatening. But that’s the wrong question to be asking.”
Louis put his hands behind his back to hide his balled fists. “Why are you doing this? Why bring me here, show me this? What . . .” His jaw set and he met the Cylon’s gaze. “What do you want?”
“Do you love him, Lieutenant?”
Louis blinked. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“I realize. I just don’t see how it’s any of your business.”
“It was my business when you wanted to run that SAR and it’s still my business now. Now, contrary to what you might think, I get no pleasure out of seeing an officer reduced to this, but I’ve got a mutiny to stamp out and a President to find, so all other concerns will have to take a backseat. Things aren’t looking good for your boy here, Lieutenant. And the only way he gets anything closer to a happy ending than a firing squad is if we get Roslin back unharmed.”
“I had nothing-nothing-to do with the kidnapping. You know that!”
“Know it? I’m counting on it.”
“What?”
“Gaeta’s given us a name-presumably the brains behind this newest act of treason. A name helps, but it’s not enough. Given time, we could maybe get more info out of him, but . . . let’s just say that wouldn’t be pretty. If you have a vested interest in seeing that not happen, then I suggest you help us find Roslin and put a stop to this madness. So, I suppose the real question is, what would you do for someone you love?”
Looking down at Felix, seeing the troubled set in his features that even drug-induced sleep could not wipe away, Louis knew the answer. Explanations would have to wait. Extracting justice for Felix would have to wait. All that mattered was finding a way to end this . . . In an instant, he buried it all-fear, trepidation, anger over what was done to his lover, newfound loathing for the not-man standing before him-he shoved it all to a hidden corner of his heart and locked it away.
He met the Cylon’s gaze evenly.
“Anything.”
TBC
Chapter Title: Trust
Rating: T
Word Count: 6,000
Summary: Adama and Gaeta deal with the aftermath of their decisions. An AU in which Felix's mutiny is stopped in its early stages, but trouble just keeps coming.
Author's Note: What can I say, prophetkristy brought out the pom poms. I'm determined to finish this fic (which hasn't been updated since July) and it just might be doable. All my love to lls_mutant, safenthecity, and falafel_musings, my lovely betas.
As a side note, I recommend rereading chaps 'cause even *I've* forgotten half of what I posted in July. The previous installments are:
Chapter One: Arrested
Chapter Two: Escalation
Chapter Three: Resolved
Chapter Four: Confrontation
Reality returned in stages. Felix slowly became aware of a lumpy mattress beneath him, a thin pillow under his head.
A pillow . . .
For a moment he lay perfectly still. But, no, the surface beneath him was hard and uncomfortable, with numerous sore spots where springs dug into his back. The pillow was scratchy against his cheek and did little to alleviate the pain in his neck.
All in all, it was much less comfortable than the gurney had been, and that comforted him more than he would have believed possible.
His eyelids felt very heavy. He strained to open one eye, and then quickly slammed it shut as light blasted onto his retina. After a moment, he tried again-this time lifting his lid a bare slit, giving himself a chance to adjust to the unfamiliar light.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected-sickbay? The morgue?-but Felix was startled to find himself still in the brig, back on his dilapidated cot. The lighting was as dim as ever; only the pounding in his head had exaggerated it to blinding proportions. He blinked a few times. The room seemed to be throbbing in time with his heart beat. Slowly, the familiar forms of bars and bulkheads began to take shape. The ubiquitous Marine studied him silently from behind the desk. To Felix’s surprise, his cell door was open. Then again, he wasn’t much of a flight risk.
A faint scratching from behind him caught his attention. Though the movement caused the room to spin a little more, Felix lifted his head and turned. Admiral Adama sat at the small metal table he’d used as a projectile only the day before. Paperwork was spread out in front of him. The faint scratching Felix had heard was his pen as he scribbled notes.
Slowly-very, very slowly-Felix returned his head to the pillow. He forced himself to breathe in and out to counts of ten while scanning the room out of the corner of his eye. It was unoccupied save for the Marine, the Admiral, and himself. Cottle and Ishay were gone, as was the gurney and all its accompanying equipment. Felix’s measured breaths came a little easier.
His limbs seemed to weigh two hundred pounds apiece and his throat felt like sandpaper. Nevertheless, he dragged himself into a sitting position, the cold bulkhead digging into his back.
The mattress creaked and Adama looked up. Seeing Felix awake, he quietly stood and poured something from a pitcher into a small metal cup. As the Admiral advanced, Felix felt himself shrink back ever so slightly. If Adama noticed, he made no comment. The older man set his chair by Felix’s bedside, and Felix tried not to flinch at the sudden sound. Adama lowered himself slowly into the chair and pressed the cup into Felix’s trembling hands.
For a moment, Felix just stared at the cup suspiciously. The Old Man seemed to understand. “It’s okay, Lieutenant,” he took the cup back from Felix and took a sip, “It’s just water. Here . . .” He passed it back. Felix’s throat felt like a desert. Slowly, he raised the shaking cup to his lips and drank a little. The cool water was a blessing. He swirled it carefully over his dry tongue and swallowed. Felix gulped greedily and narrowly avoided splashing water all over himself. Adama refilled the cup without comment, and Felix drank some more. Only when he had finished his second cup did the burning in his throat recede.
Felix lowered the cup. The pain in his head was gradually ebbing, only to be replaced by a dozen new aches all over his body. It felt like hot lead had been poured into his bones, but he was so cold . . . a tremor shook him and the scratchy blanket slipped from his bare shoulder. Felix tugged it back up, fighting shivers of cold and shudders of embarrassment.
Again, Adama seemed to understand without any words needing to be exchanged. He handed Felix a pair of neatly folded tanks and then discreetly stood to put the cup back on the table. As soon as the Old Man’s back was turned, Felix tugged on the tanks, noting with surprise that they were freshly laundered.
The Admiral returned to sit by Felix’s bedside without looking at him. He suddenly seemed strangely awkward. “How are you feeling, Lieutenant?” He asked at last.
How was he feeling? It was all Felix could do to keep from laughing hysterically at the absurdity of the question. He opened his mouth to respond . . . and then quickly snapped it shut as a wave of nausea rocked his body. He turned away, so as not to throw up on the Admiral’s lap. His stomach churned . . . he began to retch . . . and then suddenly there was a bucket pressed into his hands. He heaved into the bucket. The mattress swayed slightly as the Old Man sat down beside him. He made no comment, just sat, looking away until Felix’s gut stopped rebelling.
When his stomach was empty, Adama laid the blanket across his shoulders and handed him another cup of water. As Felix rinsed his mouth, he clutched the cup tightly to keep his hands from trembling. Finally, he cleared his throat and tried to speak. “Wha . . .” He managed only a hoarse croak. After sipping some water, Felix tried again. “What did you do to me?” His voice lacked the accusatory tone he was hoping for, but at least he didn’t stammer.
Adama looked away. “This is just the after-effects from the antidote-it should pass soon.”
Felix drank a little more water. He tried to put a bit more strength into his voice. “Not what I asked.”
The Old Man sighed. “How much do you remember?”
Felix shuddered. It was all mixed up in pieces and fragments. Darkness, blood, the constant threat of suffocation, a booming voice with endless questions, Eight’s vicious whisper in his ear . . . He remembered far too much. “I didn’t give you names.” He said it defensively with only a hint of pride.
The Admiral actually smiled a little. “No. You didn’t.” Adama stared at a blank spot on the bulkhead. “It was a psychotropic hallucinogen-a leftover from trials by Fleet Intelligence. Since the holocaust, it’s been used only one other time.”
“Dr. Baltar.”
“Yes.” Did Felix imagine the slight catch to Adama’s voice? “It works differently on everyone. We didn’t know what it was going to make you see.”
“Would it have stopped you if you had?”
Felix didn’t really expect a response, but after a second Adama sighed. “Probably not.” They sat in silence for a few moments more, then Adama turned to look at Felix. “Lieutenant.” He waited. Felix reluctantly met his gaze. The Old Man’s eyes held neither scorn nor pity, but only a deep, lingering sadness. “Things that were done . . . can’t be undone. But, I want you to know that I hated having to do what I did. Crises are always a test. They bring out the best or the worst in people. And this time, I failed.”
The Admiral stood. “Try to get some rest, Lieutenant. Doc Cottle will be in to check on you in a little while.” And without asking a question-without another word-Admiral Adama left the brig.
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Cottle’s brief impersonation of a bedside manner had vanished. Felix didn’t know why he found this so comforting. The doctor had lit a cigarette within ten seconds of entering the brig and commandeered the Marine’s used coffee mug to use as an ashtray. He cheerfully puffed away while taking Felix’s pulse, temperature, and blood pressure, and only extinguished it when he was forced to pull on latex gloves to take a blood sample. Cottle attached the tourniquet and swabbed Felix’s arm with alcohol, only to stop and stare disapprovingly at the crook of his elbow. “I haven’t seen veins this bad since rotations in the rehab wing.”
Felix shrugged one shoulder.
“Have you been taking any drugs?”
“Well, I seem to remember a psychotropic hallucinogen or two.”
Cottle loosened the tourniquet and fished in his bag. “Look here, Lieutenant.” Felix glanced in Cottle’s direction only to flinch back at the sudden light. Muttering something about twitchy junkies, the doctor gripped Felix’s chin and shined a small light in first one eye, then the other. After a second, he growled a curse. “Everybody thinks they’re a doctor these days.”
Felix blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve got morpha withdrawal, Lieutenant, which I find confusing considering I stopped prescribing it for you weeks ago.”
“I . . .”
“You were in pain, the mean doc in sickbay just didn’t understand, you had to take matters into your own hands, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all. Your body’s recovering from early-stage dependency and that, combined with our recent adventures hasn’t done you a lick of good. I can give you some codeine to take the edge off, but stay away from the magic shots, okay?”
Felix looked around at the bare cell. “Somehow, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.”
Cottle snorted in agreement. “The good news is, you’re fine for the moment. Bad news is, you’re not gonna stay that way. In another hour or two, your kidneys will filter the last of the drugs out of your system, and then all hell will break loose. We’re talking fever, nausea, tremors, hey, you’ve seen the public service announcements. If the Admiral okays it, I’ll give you some tranquilizers so you can sleep it off. If he okays it.”
Cottle moved the tourniquet and tested a vein in the middle of Felix’s forearm. The Lieutenant watched him absently. He was far too used to the sight of his own blood to be bothered. “Do you find it ironic,” he asked Cottle, “That I get faster medical treatment here than I do in sickbay?”
Cottle grunted. “You feel like trying a few more trips with the hallucinogens and I’m sure we’ll see each other more often.”
“I’m just saying, when I go in there I get treated like a one-legged hypochondriac.”
“Mr. Gaeta, since the attacks I’ve performed thirty-six amputations on two knuckledraggers, three support crewmen, a dozen Marines, and eighteen civilians. So far, you’re the only officer, so feel special. Sixteen of those procedures were done in tents on New Caprica; we were out of anesthetic for the last eight. So, I am sorry about the lack of hand holding, but if you feel like you could do a better job of managing health care for two thousand people in a less-than-safe occupation, by all means you are welcome to try.” Cottle picked up his cigarette, scraped a coffee grind off the end, and relit it. After a few thoughtful puffs, he picked up a probe and rolled back the cut-off end of Felix’s right pant leg. “You know the drill, Lieutenant. Tell me when you feel the pressure.”
It was a familiar routine; Cottle moved the probe from spot to spot, testing for touch, pressure, and pain sensitivity on the ruined limb. After a moment, the doctor commented. “I see it’s still chafing.”
Felix nodded. “The cap needs to be refitted. The prosthetic rubs it raw.”
“That’s because you’re using it too much. Sit on your ass for a few days and it’ll be fine. I brought you more cream for it.”
“That stuff doesn’t do anything.”
“You need to take care of the limb, Lieutenant. Recovery will only be slower if you don’t.”
“Like it’s really gonna matter?”
Cottle sat back. “Excuse me?”
“Can we please stop the charade, doctor? There’s not much point in taking care of it because I’m not going to need it for much longer.”
“Unless you’re secretly a Cylon and have an extra body stashed somewhere, I have a feeling you will need this one.”
Felix rolled his eyes. “Come on, Doc, I plotted mutiny aboard a military ship. I just confessed to planning the Admiral’s execution. Do you really not see it?”
“See what?”
“That he’s going to kill me, okay!” Felix flinched at the sudden heat in his own voice. He stared down at the scarred stump. “It’ll be all nice and professional. The Admiral might even feel bad about it. But, I’ll be just as dead.”
“Did you kill anybody?”
Felix rocked back. “Excuse me?”
“Since this little experiment in rebellion began, have you actually killed or injured anyone on this vessel?”
He could only stare. “No,” he whispered.
“Then there’s something you should know. Taking another man’s life-especially someone you’ve served with-isn’t half as easy as it sounds.” Cottle put his probe away and straightened. “Take care of the limb, Lieutenant. And stop planning your funeral before you’re in the ground.”
Felix smiled sardonically. “So do I pass inspection? Ready for round two?”
“Are you incapable of making sense today?”
Felix jerked his head at the open space where the gurney had been set up. “I’m guessing I have another date with that little cocktail of insanity.”
“Didn’t the Old Man teach you never to guess? You just end up looking dumb.”
Felix looked up. “Roslin is missing, and I didn’t give him anything. You don’t think Adama will do it again?”
“I know he won’t do it again.”
“I bet he told you that after Baltar’s interrogation too.”
Cottle sighed. “Felix.” The other man looked up at him. The doctor’s face was strangely solemn. “Five hours ago I flushed our entire store of interrogation drugs out the airlock. I did it on Admiral Adama’s orders. I’m not saying it’ll be sunshine and bubbles from here, but I don’t think you’ll be executed and I know for a fact that you won’t have to go through this again.” And with that, he closed his bag and left.
Felix stared after him as the Marine relocked his cell, digesting this new information. The cell secure, the guard spun the hatch and turned, ready to sink back into his desk chair. Felix made his decision.
“Corporal,” he called out.
The Marine turned with a growl of annoyance. “Is there a problem, Gaeta?”
“Contact the Admiral. Tell him I have something to say.”
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Bill stared at the young Lieutenant through the bars. Gaeta looked better. He’d washed his face and slicked his hair back, arranged his tanks and folded the leg of his trousers neatly around his stump. Still, color hadn’t returned to his face, and Bill strongly suspected that his clenched fists hid a tremor.
“You had something you wanted to say, Lieutenant?” Gaeta didn’t respond except to glance pointedly at the Marine and then back at Bill. The Admiral turned to the guard. “Corporal Snyder.”
“Sir.”
“Give me your keys and then wait outside.”
“Yes sir.”
As the Marine left, Bill unlocked the cell and rolled the door back. That accomplished he leaned against the doorjamb, and spitted Gaeta with a scrutinizing gaze.
The young officer stared off into space almost absently. He spoke without looking at Bill. “You didn’t investigate.”
Bill’s brow furrowed. “What?”
“Raptor 718. Three humans and two skin jobs dead, and you never even asked me what happened.”
Bill stared at Gaeta for a moment. “I guess I didn’t want to know.”
“Do you want to know now?”
Bill folded his arms. “If you want to tell me.”
For several seconds, the Lieutenant didn’t respond. Bill waited. He knew that Gaeta would tell him on his own time or not at all. Finally, he seemed to shake himself and spoke in a voice that started out shaky, but gained strength. “The Eight . . . when we realized we were lost and couldn’t jump back she started calculating probabilities. She . . . determined that there wasn’t enough air to get all of us back. So she started . . . reducing the breathing population.”
The young man drew a slightly strangled breath. “I don’t think it meant for the other Eight to go first-the pilot. She was trying to repair the ship and electrocuted herself. Later, it . . . she . . . admitted to stripping the insulation off of the tools.”
It . . . Bill mused over the word choice. While a sizable portion of Galactica’s crew consistently referred to all Cylons as “it,” Gaeta had never been among that camp. Bill couldn’t remember ever even hearing the word “toaster” out of the tactical officer’s lips. He’d assumed that his frequent references to “it” in the interrogation had been mere disorientation. Now, he wondered if there was more to it. “What about the human crew?” Bill asked softly.
“I . . . I had a few doses of morpha. For my leg. She must have seen me . . . She tried to make it look like Specialist Brooks killed himself, but Finn and Esrin saw through it. They tied her up, but she got loose while we were asleep. She slit their throats.”
Bill was ashamed to say it, but as the pieces came together he felt a twinge of relief-the picture could have been so much worse. When they’d found Gaeta, the sole survivor covered in blood and nearly out of his mind with oxygen deprivation . . . some small, paranoid part of him had assumed the worst. While he had been convinced that Gaeta wasn’t responsible for his actions, he chose not to look too closely into what those actions were.
It wasn’t only for the sake of the alliance that he refused to investigate the incident.
“So, you acted in self-defense.” Bill kept his voice low. He had a hunch there was more to this story.
Gaeta shook his head, rubbing at his hands as if he could still see the blood. “That wasn’t why . . .”
Bill waited.
Gaeta swallowed. “After . . . when I discovered what she had done, she told me . . . things.” The Lieutenant’s hands began to shake. He hugged his arms around his body and rocked forward on the cot. “I knew her . . . it . . . on New Caprica. It came to me . . . told me it knew things about the people in detention. It said they were being tortured.” He laughed suddenly, a bitter, humorless sound. “It said it was disgusted-can you believe that? Disgusted by what they were doing to our people. It offered to help. And I just ate it up.”
Bill opened his mouth to speak, then closed it just as quickly, hoping his bewilderment didn’t show. He desperately wished Laura was here to make sense of this garbled tale. She’d always had a way of seeing things-looking past the exterior motives to guess at what lay in a person’s soul. Without her, Bill was grasping at straws. Gaeta took no note, still lost in his own haunting memories. “It wanted names . . . names of the people who’d vanished-the ones who’d been gone the longest. And I gave them to her.”
Bill noted the sudden pronoun shift, but did not interrupt. He had a growing suspicion that this story was about more than the deceitful nature of Model Number Eight.
“I wrote lists . . . dozens of names . . . A few days later it came back and said it had gotten some of them out. But, I never saw them again-never really thought about them . . . until I found Finn and Esrin.” He lowered his head, fists knotting in his damp hair. “I didn’t want to believe it . . . but she made me look. She killed them. She killed them all. And I gave her the names.”
Gaeta fell silent. Bill’s brain was abuzz, trying to digest the strange story. If only Laura were here . . . Think, Bill, he nearly started at the sound of her voice in his head, Why is he saying this now? What’s the connection? Bill studied the Lieutenant. Guilt was obvious in the weary slump of his shoulders. Guilt . . . over Brooks and Finn and Esrin, over all the death on New Caprica, maybe even over the Eight he’d been forced to kill-who’d saved his life by murdering his crewmates. Right. What else? His co-conspirators. Now that his plan was in ruins, Gaeta didn’t want to face the possibility that their involvement with him would torch their careers. But . . . there was something else . . . something connecting this mess to Laura and Zarek . . .
Out of the blue, Gaeta’s strangled words from hours before came back to him. “She said I was pardoned, but she didn’t know . . .”
The pieces suddenly clicked in Bill’s mind. There, Laura’s imagined voice murmured approvingly, that’s something you can use.
Bill stared at Gaeta. His voice was deathly quiet. “So that’s what this is about.”
The younger man looked up. “Sir?”
“Why did you tell me this, Lieutenant?”
Gaeta seemed suddenly flustered. “So that . . . so that you would see that an alliance with the Cylons is crazy. They’ll betray us; it’s in their nature.”
“Perhaps. But it’s your nature that’s concerning me at the moment.” Gaeta stared, clearly not sure how to respond to that. Bill continued. “When you started this . . . mutiny, you may have had lofty ideals about loyalty and justice, but just like those lies the Eight told you, they covered something deeper. Something ugly.” A war of emotions ranging from outrage to dread to relief flickered across Gaeta’s face. Bill did not relent. “You know what’s most ironic about this whole situation, Lieutenant? As President of the Colonies, Laura Roslin gave you a full pardon-complete immunity from all crimes real or imagined. And Tom Zarek signed your death warrant.” Bill spitted the young man with his most piercing gaze. “But now, I’m thinking it’s not such a coincidence. I think you just couldn’t handle forgiveness-not after what you’d done. So, rather than admit this to anyone, you set out to balance the scales in your own way-to see if you can push me so hard that I’ll give up on this flawed concept of forgiveness . . . and give you the death you still feel you deserve.”
Gaeta finally found his voice. “What? No! No. This wasn’t about me, it was about the Cylons!”
“I don’t doubt that this was about the Cylons.”
“Then why . . . look, I don’t have a death wish.”
“Don’t you?” Gaeta was silent. Bill carefully controlled his features. “A mutiny would have torn this ship apart. People would have died, Mr. Gaeta. People still might.”
The Lieutenant wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I didn’t have anything to do with President Roslin’s kidnapping.”
“I know you didn’t. I also know that you know who did.” Gaeta studied his hands as if they somehow held the solution to all his dilemmas. Bill clenched his fists behind his back, still fighting the urge to simply beat the answers out of him. Careful now, Bill, the silent voice cautioned, he’s so close, but a single push in the wrong direction could undo everything. Bill advanced a few steps and reached out a tentative hand. Gaeta’s shoulder twitched under his touch. “Felix . . .” The Lieutenant’s eyes snapped up in surprise. Bill held his gaze. “It’s time to put a stop to this. President Roslin is alone. She’s in a dark place, and she’s frightened. And no one deserves that. Whatever you may think of her . . . of me . . . she doesn’t deserve that.”
Felix swallowed hard. His eyes were red rimmed from more than just lack of sleep. “I need to know . . . that they won’t be killed over this.”
Bill kept his face still, though his heart was pounding. “No one wants bloodshed. Help me bring her home and I’ll see to it that your people are afforded some measure of consideration.”
Conflict continued to rage across the younger man’s face. It was disturbing to see in an officer who was usually so composed. “They’re good people-most of them,” his voice was strained, “They’re just . . . angry. They feel like they’ve been jerked around too much and for too long. And the real tragedy is . . . the ones you’re looking for? The organizers? They’re probably the most principled in the bunch.”
Somehow, Bill doubted that kidnappers could be all that principled, but he carefully held his tongue. Gaeta continued. “They genuinely believe in what we were trying to do . . . freedom from the Cylons . . . autonomy of the civilian government . . .” Bill clenched his jaw impatiently. Gaeta lowered his head to his hands and knotted his fists in his damp hair. “I’ve been going over it again and again . . . and I always come back to the same conclusion. There was only one person in my group who had the connections and the knowledge to pull this off. And I don’t want to believe it was him . . . but I just can’t see . . .” Gaeta trailed off.
Bill drew a deep breath. “Lieutenant Gaeta.” He waited until the other man met his gaze. “Who?”
Gaeta swallowed. “Noel Allison.” He looked away. “I don’t know for sure, but of the people I recruited . . . if it were any of them, it would probably be him.”
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
“Narcho? I don’t believe it!” Bill wished he could share in his son’s shock. Lee tugged at his collar. “Gods, I flew with him. He was a Pegasus officer-one of my guys.”
“I’m getting a bit of déjà vu here, Apollo,” Colonel Tigh growled, “Can we please just skip the denial so we can start dealing with this?”
“We’re sure it’s him?”
Bill leaned forward. “Gaeta’s sure. It’s enough. I’m sending a detachment of Marines to take him into custody.”
Lee looked up sharply. “That might not be such a good idea, sir.”
Bill arched an eyebrow incredulously. “You’re suddenly opposed to the policy of arresting kidnappers?”
“I am when they are still in possession of a hostage. Think about it; this is a volatile situation. There’s no way Lieutenant Allison pulled this off alone. If we bring him in, the others will know that Gaeta talked. They might kill the President out of sheer panic.”
“So what would you suggest, Commander?”
Lee flinched slightly at the formal mode of address. “I don’t know . . . maybe put a tail on him-see if he leads us to the others?”
“I had an idea about that, actually.” Bill looked up at the sound of Saul’s voice. The Colonel’s face was set in a rare attitude of contemplation. “Lieutenant Hoshi has been after me about Gaeta. He wants to know what he’s being charged with, what evidence we have against him, blah, blah, blah. Mostly, he wants to see him.”
Lee’s brow furrowed. “Hoshi? Why?”
“You’re a bit behind on the Galactica gossip, Commander.”
Comprehension dawned. “Oh.”
“Could you get to the point, Colonel?”
“Hear me out, Admiral. Now, I checked with Cottle and he gave me some spiel about drug interactions inducing fever, nausea, and a whole shitload of other problems.”
Bill grunted. “We didn’t know about Gaeta’s morpha addiction. It’s complicating his recovery. I gave Cottle leave to sedate him, so he’s sleeping through the worst of it.”
“Right. So I say we grant Hoshi’s request. Let him see what’s become of poor Mr. Gaeta.”
Lee shot Saul a distasteful look. “I didn’t know your sadistic streak ran that deep, Colonel.”
“Sadism’s got nothing to do with it. The point is, Gaeta looks bad and he’s in no condition to explain what happened-Hoshi won’t know how he got that way. For all he knows, we’re torturing Gaeta.”
“Then he’s not far from wrong.” Lee muttered.
“So we take Hoshi to the brig and let him take a good look. And we imply that the longer Roslin’s gone the worse things are going to get for Gaeta.”
Bill could feel another headache building. Laura was in the hands of some maniacs being subjected to gods knew what, and Tigh wanted to waste time toying with Hoshi. “Are you going somewhere with this? Because I don’t see the benefit beyond pissing off yet another of my officers.”
“Putting a tail on Narcho won’t tell us enough. What we need is an infiltrator-someone who can insinuate himself with these nut jobs and tell us what they’re planning, maybe even tell us where Roslin’s being kept. We’re flying blind here, Bill. It’s time to get some boots on the ground. Now, obviously they won’t trust anyone known to be loyal, but if they were approached by someone with connections in CIC, someone with known ties to Gaeta, someone pissed off, they might just let him in.”
Lee stared. “Let me get this straight. You want to use Gaeta’s lover as a mole to bring down the organization he built?” He contemplated that for a moment. “It’s deceptive, manipulative, under-handed . . . and it just might work. Aren’t we kind of begging the question, though? What if our chosen informant is already in on the kidnapping? I mean, if those two are so close, what are the odds Gaeta would plan a mutiny and not involve Hoshi?”
Bill rubbed his temples. “Better than you might think. Scuttlebutt has it Gaeta broke things off shortly after he came back from that Raptor-probably didn’t want to bring Hoshi down with him. As for the kidnapping, I don’t see how he could have been involved. We’ve been watching Hoshi ever since Gaeta was arrested. He’s been working double shifts-never had time or opportunity to coordinate with the kidnappers.” Bill sighed. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Like hell you will; that’s an XO’s job.”
Bill tried to stare Tigh down. “I ran the interrogation. He should hear it from me.”
Lee glanced from the Admiral to the Colonel. “I don’t understand. Why is this an issue?”
“Because officers don’t take well to being bullied, and they definitely don’t take well to hearing that their loved ones have been tortured. Whoever handles Hoshi-“
“Will take the heat. Gee, Bill, sounds like a job for an XO.”
“This genuinely wasn’t your mess, Saul.”
“It’s on your ship. That makes it my mess. Frak, I see what you’re trying to do, but if I have to start coddling officers so they won’t have nightmares about the mean old Cylon, then Gaeta’s right; I can’t do the job anymore and I shouldn’t be in the CIC.”
Bill sighed. “Talk to Hoshi.”
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
When Louis saw Felix, his breath caught in his throat. The Marine couldn’t open the cell door fast enough. As soon as he stepped aside, Louis raced past him and fell to his knees by Felix’s side. Only when he had reassured himself that Felix’s chest was rising and falling in shallow breaths did Louis allow himself to breathe again.
Louis couldn’t take his eyes from Felix’s still face. His hand shook as he reached up to brush a stray lock from his lover’s forehead. As soon as his fingers made contact, he flinched back. Felix was feverish. Swallowing past the sudden lump in his throat, Louis gently smoothed the dark curls back and ran his hand down the side of Felix’s face to cup the pale cheek. “Felix? Baby? Can you hear me?” He turned, fighting down panic. “Why won’t he wake up?”
Colonel Tigh stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His face was stone, and the customary hard edge in his voice was magnified ten-fold. “Don’t have a heart attack, Lieutenant; Cottle doped him with tranquilizers.”
A tremor wracked Felix’s body and Louis pulled the thin blanket tighter around his shoulders. “He’s sick.”
“Hence the doping.”
Louis took Felix’s hand in both of his and kissed the knuckles tenderly. “He should be in Medical, not . . .” Louis trailed off. He’d noticed the marks.
Ugly purple bruises were rising on Felix’s wrist. Dreading what he might find, Louis slowly lifted the blanket and rolled it down to Felix’s waist. Matching marks discolored his other wrist. Smaller bruises marred the tops of Felix’s biceps-again in the same place on both arms. Some distant part of Louis’ mind-the only part that wasn’t screaming in horror-noted the distinct symmetry of the injuries. It was precise. It was premeditated. His mind flashed to that dark day shortly before the Pegasus caught up with Galactica when morbid curiosity had driven him to Gina Invierre’s cell.
Numbly, he lifted Felix’s limp hand to examine it more closely. Half remembered training from his brief career in the Military Police came rushing back. No defensive wounds-no bruises on the knuckles, no swelling in the fingers-but was that blood under the neatly trimmed nails? He turned the hand over, and a cold knot formed in his gut. Four tiny wounds marked Felix’s hand in regular intervals-each indent an exact match for one of Felix’s carefully groomed fingernails. Bruises, signs of restraint, a sudden, mysterious illness . . . The ice in his gut gave way to a fire that coursed through Louis’ limbs until his own hands clenched in fists. He came to his feet in an instant and spun to face the Cylon in uniform behind him.
“What did you do to him?” His voice shook with barely controlled fury.
Tigh’s face didn’t change. “He’s a mutineer, Mr. Hoshi. He admitted it.” Louis’ jaw clenched. Tigh had all of Thorne’s smug superiority, and he wasn’t even human.
“What the HELL did you do to him?!!!”
“I don’t think you fully understand. The President of the Colonies was kidnapped by people he recruited. He’s guilty of treason, and under military code there’s nothing stopping us from tossing him out an airlock right now.”
“You son of a-“
“Careful, Lieutenant; the next words out of your mouth will have consequences-and not just for you.”
Louis fought to regain his composure. He had to ask one more time, despite his growing suspicion that he didn’t want to know. His voice was almost plaintive. “What did you do?”
“Nothing life threatening. But that’s the wrong question to be asking.”
Louis put his hands behind his back to hide his balled fists. “Why are you doing this? Why bring me here, show me this? What . . .” His jaw set and he met the Cylon’s gaze. “What do you want?”
“Do you love him, Lieutenant?”
Louis blinked. “Excuse me?”
“It’s a simple question.”
“I realize. I just don’t see how it’s any of your business.”
“It was my business when you wanted to run that SAR and it’s still my business now. Now, contrary to what you might think, I get no pleasure out of seeing an officer reduced to this, but I’ve got a mutiny to stamp out and a President to find, so all other concerns will have to take a backseat. Things aren’t looking good for your boy here, Lieutenant. And the only way he gets anything closer to a happy ending than a firing squad is if we get Roslin back unharmed.”
“I had nothing-nothing-to do with the kidnapping. You know that!”
“Know it? I’m counting on it.”
“What?”
“Gaeta’s given us a name-presumably the brains behind this newest act of treason. A name helps, but it’s not enough. Given time, we could maybe get more info out of him, but . . . let’s just say that wouldn’t be pretty. If you have a vested interest in seeing that not happen, then I suggest you help us find Roslin and put a stop to this madness. So, I suppose the real question is, what would you do for someone you love?”
Looking down at Felix, seeing the troubled set in his features that even drug-induced sleep could not wipe away, Louis knew the answer. Explanations would have to wait. Extracting justice for Felix would have to wait. All that mattered was finding a way to end this . . . In an instant, he buried it all-fear, trepidation, anger over what was done to his lover, newfound loathing for the not-man standing before him-he shoved it all to a hidden corner of his heart and locked it away.
He met the Cylon’s gaze evenly.
“Anything.”
TBC