Children of Gods: Chapter Fourteen
Title: Children of Gods
Authors: miabicicletta and olga_theodora
Summary: Kara Thrace has always had a certain talent for creating mayhem.
Pairings: Bill/Laura, Sam/Kara, Lee/Kara UST, Lee/?
Rating: MA (series) T (Chapter 14)
Warnings: Non-graphic allusions to non-con and dub-con, character death.
Authors' Notes: Many thanks to our readers and to leiascully!
PROLOGUE: THE SPARKS ASCEND
CHAPTER ONE: CHILDHOOD'S END
CHAPTER TWO: BEAUTY FOR ASHES
CHAPTER THREE: THE WIDENING GYRE
CHAPTER FOUR: A SHORT SHARP SHOCK
CHAPTER FIVE: ALLIANCES
CHAPTER SIX: JUMP POINT
CHAPTER SEVEN: IN THE ARMED MADHOUSE
CHAPTER EIGHT: FIRST CONTACT
CHAPTER NINE: MYTH MADE FLESH
CHAPTER TEN: TRIGGERS
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PAWNS, KNIGHTS AND ROOKS
CHAPTER TWELVE: PERCHANCE TO DREAM
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BE ALL MY SINS REMEMBERED
---
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: WAYFARING STRANGERS
… the daughter in the ascendant, waxing as her father wanes. What truth is there to her lineage, when falsehoods lie scattered throughout every scroll? There will be no one [ ] and yet the son also rises.
- From the Sacred Scrolls
---
Navigating the far stretch of the channel would be challenging at the height of noon with a good meal after a solid night’s sleep. Instead their only light is the moon, they’ve eaten next to nothing, and the last night they all slept was probably the night before the first Reaping.
Still, Laura manages to force her arms to move, kicking her legs until the motion is paramount and her thoughts fade away. A strong swimmer in her youth, she trails behind the others, keeping an eye out for Kara’s tow head, currently struggling to stay above water. Lee and Sam keep good pace; mercifully, they don’t seem to be competing against one another, though Laura wearily suspects that won’t last very long. Kara Thrace has always has a certain talent for creating mayhem. With hormones and (Gods forbid...) sex thrown into the mix, the result can only be destruction of the highest order.
From the head of the group Saul barks an unintelligible string of words. A moment later, Laura feels the gentle scrape of sand below her fingertips. Pulling her head up, the next island in the chain looms above them, the black outlines of palm trees stark against a cloudless night sky.
Lee stumbles a little as he pulls himself up on the beach, but Saul’s arm reaches out to catch him under the shoulder before he can pitch into the sand. It is enough to make Laura smile, provided she had the energy. She opens her mouth to speak, but finds the words will not form. Her lips quiver and her tongue stubbornly refuses to shape sounds.
“S-S-Sam...” she finally stammers. The cool water has soaked them all through, and in the night air, they are all in danger of losing body heat. She’s trying to say as much when her knees suddenly give way beneath her.
“Whoa!” Sam calls, catching her. Lee and Kara turn, alarmed. Even in the dim light, she can see the blue tint to Kara’s lips. Her head spins again as she stands, and Sam catches her behind the knees, lifting her in his arms.
“No worries,” Sam says. “I gotcha.” He must catch Kara’s upturned eyebrow, because he says a moment later, “After all that weight training and running at high altitude, this is nothing.”
“Like a yak,” Lee grumbles.
Sam grins, and looks down at Laura. “What do you think? Do I make a fair beast of burden?” He hums a few bars of the old song, dancing them both playfully to the tune.
Laura rolls her eyes, conflicted by the hope that her husband is out there watching this ridiculous exchange and the longing for him (if he is alive at all) to remain ignorant of her place in the Arena. The warmth of Sam’s chest and arms is enough to steady her voice a little, but she reserves her reprimands for future cheek. “We need to get warm,” she says between chattering teeth.
“Lighting a fire will be risky on a night like this,” Saul cautions, but by the sloped hunch of his shoulders and the way he rubs his hands together, she can tell the idea is a pleasant one to him.
Lee points down the beach a way to where the sand ends between rock and water. There is a dense circle of flowering plants which gives way on one side to tightly woven mangrove trees. “There,” he says. “It’s mostly hidden, and we can sleep in shifts.”
“Good cover,” Saul grunts, after meandering down to inspect the hiding place more thoroughly. “Rocks between here and the water will keep most of the light from bouncing around. It’s a risk...” His voice trails off, his longing even more evident at this point.
“...but sometimes you have to roll the hard six,” Laura says absently, remembering the odd but apt turn of phrase Bill had often used. The meaning had always been self-evident and Laura had never asked about its origin. It was a piece of Bill’s military mythos, she’d always assumed, like his exchange with Kara about hearing the sound of the rain and the sentimental pilot ditties that he sang badly to her in bed.
Lee and Kara glance awkwardly at one another. No one comments.
Setting Laura down against a boulder, Sam retrieves the flares from the sack Saul tosses to him, gathering a small bunch of died palm fronds into a pile. The flare ignites in a quick little blaze, and Sam holds it down to the kindling, causing the clump of thin, brown husks to catch. Kara hovers nearby, looking rather lost without something or someone to fight at present, her hands shaking a little in the chilly air.
Sam, Lee and Saul talk quietly, taking the first watch by wordless agreement. The rock she is leaning against is extremely uncomfortable, but Laura is nonetheless bone tired. It is a struggle just to keep her eyes open, and she soon gives up trying. Kara surprises her by situating herself at Laura’s side, dropping her head against Laura’s shoulder in uncharacteristic want of physical contact. In turn, Laura rests her own cheek against the girl’s hair, slinging an arm about her shoulders.
“I used to dream of being lost out there, between stars,” Laura says, blearily watching the unobstructed banner of sky blink silently upon them. “I dreamed of living whole lives that had nothing to do with these worlds.”
“Must be nice,” Kara says wearily.
“No,” Laura answers, her eyes closing. “It never was.”
---
The truck jostles on the dark, uneven road, sending the cab’s inhabitants rattling back and forth as they advance toward the Capitol.
His helmet is tight enough to induce claustrophobia, but Zak tries not to fidget too much. His father might yet change his mind and send him back to the confines of a Resistance stronghold. Cottle, he knows, would be grateful to see him back inside a bunker. Though Zak knows the old man would never admit it, he is as close to a father that his mother has (had?), and if only by default that makes him something of a surrogate grandfather to her three sons. It hardly matters that two of them are adopted.
Thinking of the last quick embrace and grunt the Doc had given him before they’d set out, Zak suddenly misses him. In the event he survives, Zak decides, he’ll make an effort to spend more time with him. Who knows? Maybe he’ll like medicine. He sure as hell won’t be trying to pilot anytime soon.
Galen Tyrol is at the wheel, and whispers something Zak cannot make out to Katraine. Both of them are good officers - they never forget their place or miss a salute to the Commander, his father, who is, after all, their commanding officer. It is impressive. But even Zak can see that both Tyrol and Kat are ill at-ease about their next venture. Sneaking into the Capitol will be a feat beyond any imagining.
Caprica City is an island. At just over twelve miles long, and about one mile wide, it is an easily defended fortress against those who are not welcome. Getting across one of its many bridges, or through the tunnels that snake out from the heart of the island, will be challenging.
Even a fifteen-year-old knows that.
“Weapons at the ready,” Tyrol calls. Zak tests the weight of the gun in his hand. It is a smaller piece, one that his father begrudgingly put into his hands with a quick reminder as to how the safety functioned and the chamber engaged. A sobering lesson, Zak thinks. But then he remembers the way the frakkin’ Vice President had had his brother thrown into a Raptor while Billy screamed; how his father was ordered to his death by the bastard; how his mother...
Zak gulps. If Lee were here, he’d man up. Lee has always been the brave, altruistic one; who, yes, perhaps thought himself a bit better than others, but, then again, he often was. As a teenage sibling, that had been irritating to no end. Yet, as Zak thinks of his older brother now, he cannot help but to regard Lee as something more. His idealistic older brother is more than just that - he is a Tribute; he is a man.
The vehicle jerks to a sudden stop. Beside him, Specialist Seelix puts a hand to her gun and hops out of the back of the truck.
They have pulled over along a narrow rut by the roadside; a sort of drainage ditch that houses a thin steel pipe which disappears into the damp earth. Dawn is a long way off, as best Zak can tell, but the fear of being caught is paramount, even in the darkness. They had driven for the last hour with headlights off, all the while tension radiating off his father. Tyrol does not look happy, and Katraine scowls openly at him, as though he is a child they will all have to look after in the days ahead.
Zak does not feel like a child anymore. The gravity of choices that will be before him and the actions he has yet to take are far beyond schoolyard troubles. That his father entrusts him with this responsibility is a terrifying honor. Swallowing the ball of fear that has welled in his throat, Zak hops out of the cab, following his companions.
Tyrol gestures quickly with one arm, the other holding his gun at the ready. A foul stream trickles out of an exposed sewage pipe at the end the ditch parallel to the road, disappearing into a rise of earth.
“This is our entry point,” Racetrack says, gesturing to a red circle on the map in her hands that is presumably their location. “These are sewers and flood tunnels from back before they built the seawalls and created barrier islands outside of Caprica City in the last century. The city used to flood regularly in the spring when storms were at their worst; the tunnels filtered some of the excess water to the surrounding areas, which is why there’s still so much undeveloped land outside of the city proper: up until a hundred years ago, it was all untouched wetlands.”
Kat leans against the truck, hand on her hip, and taps her foot impatiently. “Thanks for the history lesson. Are we gonna get this show on the road, or shall we sit on our asses and catalogue the native plants while we’re at it?”
“Frak off, Kat,” Racetrack quips, and rolls up her maps. “One of us has to lead this crew, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be the Chief.”
Tyrol looks nervously down the road in each direction, saying distractedly, “Yeah, well, cartography is for pansies, so I’m glad we’ve got you, Racetrack.”
He nods to a marine- one whose name Zak can’t remember- who gives a quick salute and turns the truck around, driving on down the road.
“Hot Dog, you take point.” At the sound of Bill’s order, the tall young man jumps to his task, ducking low into the drainage pipe. The diameter is only four and a half, maybe five feet, and they all duck their heads, even the girls, as they file silently into the dank, echoing darkness.
After a few feet, the early morning light is gone, leaving only a blackness the likes of which Zak has never experienced before. It devours Hot Dog, then Kat and Racetrack before he finds himself swallowed whole. His chest closes briefly, panic rising in him until, up ahead, Hot Dog and the girls switch on their headlamps. Zak’s hand only shakes a little as he flicks the small pin-light he had forgotten was fastened to his helmet; the quickening breath coming out of his nose slows a little.
After a few hundred yards, the cramped pipe leads to a wider, higher space that echoes with the sound of trickling water. It smells of wet and mold and dirt, and there is a dim light slicing down from a series of unseen vents in regular intervals for as far as he can see, giving the place an eerie quality. Above them, the ceiling is made of heavy, arching stones. The architecture most likely predates most of the Capital proper.
“This has been here a long time,” his father says quietly, looking around. “An escape route from the city. Probably where they got the idea for drainage tunnels. See how the water drains down?” He pauses a moment, pacing around the tunnel a moment. “We’ve been fighting a long time. Kobol. Other Colonies. Cylons.”
Sometimes his father seems much older than he really is, Zak thinks.
“Come on,” Bill says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s move.”
---
Laura wakes to heat and the unsettling sensation of someone holding her down. In the liminal state between sleep and alertness she acts on instinct, firmly lodging her knee between the legs of whomever is on top of her.
Sam, understandably, lets out a whimpering cry and lands on his side. “Oh frak,” he gasps, curling into a fetal position.
Now fully awake, Laura assesses the situation: the island behind them is a smoking ruin and she has temporarily incapacitated a teammate who- if the long scrapes on his back are any indication- had thrown himself on top of her to spare her the worst of the falling shrapnel.
‘Sorry’ probably is not going to cut it in this situation. They do not have time for apologies, in any case; the sun is higher than she likes and they are easy prey for any hunters about.
“Come along, Sam,” she says hurriedly, pulling him bodily to his feet with Kara's help. Laura slings his bag onto her back along with her own. “One foot in front of another.” She casts a quick glare at Lee, whose natural sympathy seems to be outweighed by a certain smug satisfaction. “We'll have to go around the peak. They won't put the water source on the most direct trail; our best chances are to take the indirect route.”
Assuming the indirect path will take them to the opposite shore in six hours. Assuming their best guesses are correct. Assuming so many variables will work out against the odds in their favor.
Kara ducks under Sam's arm, taking some of his weight. Her face is pale and drawn, and there is an anxious look in her eyes. “Come on, Sammy. Gotta make it to the finish line before you can find time to put that junk to use, anyway. Bet you have a girl in every colony.”
His laughter is genuine, if rather strained. “Come on tour with me and I'll prove you wrong.”
They move steadily into the jungle, skirting the foothills in the center. Laura knows for certain that she herself is feeling the symptoms of dehydration. She cannot imagine that she is the only one, and thinks that even with Sam’s injury- though he seems to have weathered the worst of the pain, or at the very least is pretending he is- they are moving more slowly than they should be.
Two hours into the jungle they hear the gentle chime of water over rock: a stream, at best, but far better than the nothing they have found thus far. Anticipation quickens their steps, and as they step away from the last screen of trees they find themselves confronted by a figure in stained Libran white: Archer, or Kendra Shaw, the winner of last year’s Games and famous for beheading her final contender in her last appearance in the arena. She is missing a sleeve and her right pants leg is shredded, revealing dried blood through the various vents.
Even with her obvious injuries she stands easily, gun in hand as she guards the stream bed. “Going somewhere?” she asks casually, a razor edge to her tone. “Perhaps you hope to get some of this water before my team members return.” Her gaze falls on Lee- or, more specifically- the scarring cut on his face. “You never did thank me for saving your neck at the beginning of the Games.”
“I was a bit busy,” he replies dryly. “As were you; you seemed to be late for an appointment of some sort.”
She smirks slightly and glances toward Laura. “Perhaps you'd like to trade the funny one for some water and free passage?”
“He's my son,” Laura replies flatly.
“Step-son,” Kendra corrects her. “I saw that interview your husband's ex-wife did the day before the Games- I have to hand it to her, that was some creative mathematics she was spouting. Unless, of course, you really were having an affair with him fresh from the arena.”
“That's ridiculous!” Lee retorts hotly. “We didn't even know Laura then.”
“Your mother thinks differently, and spent quite some time spinning a pleasant tale about bastard children with suspicious first names. The interviewer seemed quite convinced. But then,” Kendra continues icily, “she also thinks Thomas Zarek is the gods’ gift to humanity. She kept going on and on about how her sad story would never have been heard, were it not for his kindness.” There is a tension in her petite frame at odds with her flippant words. Her gaze catches Laura’s, an incendiary rage in Kendra’s eyes. “But your son Billy,” she murmurs quietly, shifting toward Laura. “He looks quite familiar to me.”
Abruptly she backs away, gun by her side. “You were never here,” she says shortly. “Get your water and run.”
As they disappear back into the jungle, newly supplied with water, Laura glances back at Kendra. “You can hold him down for me,” she says quietly, and Kendra gives her a twisted smile.
“Only if you beat me to him.” Kendra tips her head toward Laura’s comrades. “Don’t let the funny one get in my way again.”
---
The mood of the small group is changed after the encounter with Kendra: not cheery, really, but there is a definite surge of short-lived hope.
Lee, anyway, is feeling some hope. They’ve found water, they are nearly at the next shore with two hours to spare, and the resident pyramid player may never get around to siring all those daughters. Admittedly he seems to be recovering rapidly, but Lee still has hope that it is all an act.
Kara appears to be thinking deeply on some unknown subject as she traverses the path, once even tripping over a protruding tree root as she scowls over some unrelated subject. “Where the hell are the sponsors?” she suddenly asks after a solid half-hour of scowls and silent muttering. “We should have seen something of them by now- a gift of water, a bread roll, antibiotics for Cally, even. It’s downright bizarre that we haven’t received anything.” The remainder of her thoughts go unspoken, but understood by everyone in the group: because people still remember Deadeye’s Games, because we have a beloved and adored pyramid player, because Laura Roslin Adama’s words have never been forgotten.
“Sponsors can be vetoed,” Laura replies quietly. “It’s not explicitly against the rules. And we don’t officially have a mentor, so to speak, to act as our liaison.”
What they have is Ellen Tigh. Lee can barely keep himself from asking mercy of the gods.
“Maybe the sponsor money is going elsewhere,” Saul chips in gruffly. “Nothing in the rules that says the money has to buy food or meds. This is a different game than any of us have played before.”
“What else could it possibly go to?” Sam asks.
As strange as the notion is, Lee suddenly recalls his interesting and near fatal introduction to the first Arena. Was being dumped in the middle of a bloodbath sheer bad luck, or had money influenced his jump coordinates? At any other moment he would call himself paranoid, but paranoia is an essential self-preservation skill in the Games.
Suddenly he wonders just how much Tom Zarek would pay to be rid of him. It is all so clear, really. This is the same man who admitted to his step-mother’s face that he was going to kill her husband and abduct her two other children. Tom Zarek would not so much as hesitate before putting down however much money it took to have one less Adama in the Colonies.
“We’re like pawns on a chessboard,” he finally says glumly, wondering how much of this is getting past the censors. “The sponsors pay for our jump coordinates- good or bad- and then sit back and enjoy the show.”
“Godsdamn,” Saul mutters. “Can’t believe it took them fifty years to try out that little trick.”
“Explains the multiple jumps,” Sam says, nodding in agreement. “And it supports our theory that there may be jumps yet to come- gods only know how many.”
Laura sighs sadly from beside Lee, and he briefly feels the slight pressure of her hand on his shoulder. “They’ve allowed sponsors to influence jump coordinates before,” she says flatly. “Think about it. They’d never admit to it, but Cavil would never turn down that kind of money.”
Kara kicks a tree root. “Frak,” she says, and hacks viciously at a low-hanging branch. Like the rest of them she is running on very little sleep and even less food, and Lee privately thinks that she looks it. At this point they are all operating on little more than adrenaline and the increasing desire to not be ripped apart by explosives. Even his step-mother, whom Lee has always considered to be tireless, looks incredibly weary and is slowing more by the hour.
Festering doubt blooms back into existence. How likely is it, really, that any of them will survive to the end to be crowned Victor? What the hell was he thinking, allowing shreds of optimism to creep back into his mind, when Helena Cain and her merry gang of murderers have the advantage of food, water, and surplus weapons? One girl sparing them a shred of mercy means nothing in the long run.
The fact that his step-mother had escaped a similar hell as a teenager feels completely unreal. How had she lived all of these years with the memories? How could she cook dinner, explain math problems, pretend any kind of ordinariness after something like the Games? It was not as if she had played the Games like Sam had: hiding in caves, at one point even breathing through a reed underwater in a pond for hours on end, and never during that entire time shedding a drop of blood that was not his own. It had been a black mark of sorts on his record, really. There had never been a Victor in the history of the Games who had made it through without killing at least one other Tribute.
Laura had killed seven out of twenty-three Tributes during her first tour of the Games. Roughly thirty percent of her opponents, and not all with a distant arrow.
For the first time, Lee is struck by exactly how high that number is. As she pulls ahead slightly on the trail in front of him, he watches the way her rough braid swings against her back and sees her as a stranger.
---
When they finally trudge up onto the beach of the final island, they are all exhausted and ready to drop into the soft sand near the surf, other Tributes be damned. Unlike the previous island, there is no friendly secret cove: just a small beach and one path arrowing up the steep island peak. There will be no off-trail venture for this island. Their path, for the moment, is set.
Laura slows slightly to meet with Lee, who seems intent on lagging behind their small group. “All right?” she murmurs quietly.
He seems to regard her with a cautious look. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly, and looks away from her. “Just tired.”
He’s pulling away from her, and Laura can’t think of a damned thing to do about it.
Coming next week:
The tunnel twists. That, or Tigh’s light goes out, and without warning Sam’s heart pounds harder than ever before. He is no stranger to the feeling of an adrenaline-fueled heart, but this surpasses every pyramid final, every instant he has shouldered the game-winning shot. Unable to breathe in the all-encompassing, violently black dark that surrounds him, he stumbles forward, eyes clenched shut. A darkness of his own he can bear, but this...
Authors: miabicicletta and olga_theodora
Summary: Kara Thrace has always had a certain talent for creating mayhem.
Pairings: Bill/Laura, Sam/Kara, Lee/Kara UST, Lee/?
Rating: MA (series) T (Chapter 14)
Warnings: Non-graphic allusions to non-con and dub-con, character death.
Authors' Notes: Many thanks to our readers and to leiascully!
PROLOGUE: THE SPARKS ASCEND
CHAPTER ONE: CHILDHOOD'S END
CHAPTER TWO: BEAUTY FOR ASHES
CHAPTER THREE: THE WIDENING GYRE
CHAPTER FOUR: A SHORT SHARP SHOCK
CHAPTER FIVE: ALLIANCES
CHAPTER SIX: JUMP POINT
CHAPTER SEVEN: IN THE ARMED MADHOUSE
CHAPTER EIGHT: FIRST CONTACT
CHAPTER NINE: MYTH MADE FLESH
CHAPTER TEN: TRIGGERS
CHAPTER ELEVEN: PAWNS, KNIGHTS AND ROOKS
CHAPTER TWELVE: PERCHANCE TO DREAM
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BE ALL MY SINS REMEMBERED
---
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: WAYFARING STRANGERS
… the daughter in the ascendant, waxing as her father wanes. What truth is there to her lineage, when falsehoods lie scattered throughout every scroll? There will be no one [ ] and yet the son also rises.
- From the Sacred Scrolls
---
Navigating the far stretch of the channel would be challenging at the height of noon with a good meal after a solid night’s sleep. Instead their only light is the moon, they’ve eaten next to nothing, and the last night they all slept was probably the night before the first Reaping.
Still, Laura manages to force her arms to move, kicking her legs until the motion is paramount and her thoughts fade away. A strong swimmer in her youth, she trails behind the others, keeping an eye out for Kara’s tow head, currently struggling to stay above water. Lee and Sam keep good pace; mercifully, they don’t seem to be competing against one another, though Laura wearily suspects that won’t last very long. Kara Thrace has always has a certain talent for creating mayhem. With hormones and (Gods forbid...) sex thrown into the mix, the result can only be destruction of the highest order.
From the head of the group Saul barks an unintelligible string of words. A moment later, Laura feels the gentle scrape of sand below her fingertips. Pulling her head up, the next island in the chain looms above them, the black outlines of palm trees stark against a cloudless night sky.
Lee stumbles a little as he pulls himself up on the beach, but Saul’s arm reaches out to catch him under the shoulder before he can pitch into the sand. It is enough to make Laura smile, provided she had the energy. She opens her mouth to speak, but finds the words will not form. Her lips quiver and her tongue stubbornly refuses to shape sounds.
“S-S-Sam...” she finally stammers. The cool water has soaked them all through, and in the night air, they are all in danger of losing body heat. She’s trying to say as much when her knees suddenly give way beneath her.
“Whoa!” Sam calls, catching her. Lee and Kara turn, alarmed. Even in the dim light, she can see the blue tint to Kara’s lips. Her head spins again as she stands, and Sam catches her behind the knees, lifting her in his arms.
“No worries,” Sam says. “I gotcha.” He must catch Kara’s upturned eyebrow, because he says a moment later, “After all that weight training and running at high altitude, this is nothing.”
“Like a yak,” Lee grumbles.
Sam grins, and looks down at Laura. “What do you think? Do I make a fair beast of burden?” He hums a few bars of the old song, dancing them both playfully to the tune.
Laura rolls her eyes, conflicted by the hope that her husband is out there watching this ridiculous exchange and the longing for him (if he is alive at all) to remain ignorant of her place in the Arena. The warmth of Sam’s chest and arms is enough to steady her voice a little, but she reserves her reprimands for future cheek. “We need to get warm,” she says between chattering teeth.
“Lighting a fire will be risky on a night like this,” Saul cautions, but by the sloped hunch of his shoulders and the way he rubs his hands together, she can tell the idea is a pleasant one to him.
Lee points down the beach a way to where the sand ends between rock and water. There is a dense circle of flowering plants which gives way on one side to tightly woven mangrove trees. “There,” he says. “It’s mostly hidden, and we can sleep in shifts.”
“Good cover,” Saul grunts, after meandering down to inspect the hiding place more thoroughly. “Rocks between here and the water will keep most of the light from bouncing around. It’s a risk...” His voice trails off, his longing even more evident at this point.
“...but sometimes you have to roll the hard six,” Laura says absently, remembering the odd but apt turn of phrase Bill had often used. The meaning had always been self-evident and Laura had never asked about its origin. It was a piece of Bill’s military mythos, she’d always assumed, like his exchange with Kara about hearing the sound of the rain and the sentimental pilot ditties that he sang badly to her in bed.
Lee and Kara glance awkwardly at one another. No one comments.
Setting Laura down against a boulder, Sam retrieves the flares from the sack Saul tosses to him, gathering a small bunch of died palm fronds into a pile. The flare ignites in a quick little blaze, and Sam holds it down to the kindling, causing the clump of thin, brown husks to catch. Kara hovers nearby, looking rather lost without something or someone to fight at present, her hands shaking a little in the chilly air.
Sam, Lee and Saul talk quietly, taking the first watch by wordless agreement. The rock she is leaning against is extremely uncomfortable, but Laura is nonetheless bone tired. It is a struggle just to keep her eyes open, and she soon gives up trying. Kara surprises her by situating herself at Laura’s side, dropping her head against Laura’s shoulder in uncharacteristic want of physical contact. In turn, Laura rests her own cheek against the girl’s hair, slinging an arm about her shoulders.
“I used to dream of being lost out there, between stars,” Laura says, blearily watching the unobstructed banner of sky blink silently upon them. “I dreamed of living whole lives that had nothing to do with these worlds.”
“Must be nice,” Kara says wearily.
“No,” Laura answers, her eyes closing. “It never was.”
---
The truck jostles on the dark, uneven road, sending the cab’s inhabitants rattling back and forth as they advance toward the Capitol.
His helmet is tight enough to induce claustrophobia, but Zak tries not to fidget too much. His father might yet change his mind and send him back to the confines of a Resistance stronghold. Cottle, he knows, would be grateful to see him back inside a bunker. Though Zak knows the old man would never admit it, he is as close to a father that his mother has (had?), and if only by default that makes him something of a surrogate grandfather to her three sons. It hardly matters that two of them are adopted.
Thinking of the last quick embrace and grunt the Doc had given him before they’d set out, Zak suddenly misses him. In the event he survives, Zak decides, he’ll make an effort to spend more time with him. Who knows? Maybe he’ll like medicine. He sure as hell won’t be trying to pilot anytime soon.
Galen Tyrol is at the wheel, and whispers something Zak cannot make out to Katraine. Both of them are good officers - they never forget their place or miss a salute to the Commander, his father, who is, after all, their commanding officer. It is impressive. But even Zak can see that both Tyrol and Kat are ill at-ease about their next venture. Sneaking into the Capitol will be a feat beyond any imagining.
Caprica City is an island. At just over twelve miles long, and about one mile wide, it is an easily defended fortress against those who are not welcome. Getting across one of its many bridges, or through the tunnels that snake out from the heart of the island, will be challenging.
Even a fifteen-year-old knows that.
“Weapons at the ready,” Tyrol calls. Zak tests the weight of the gun in his hand. It is a smaller piece, one that his father begrudgingly put into his hands with a quick reminder as to how the safety functioned and the chamber engaged. A sobering lesson, Zak thinks. But then he remembers the way the frakkin’ Vice President had had his brother thrown into a Raptor while Billy screamed; how his father was ordered to his death by the bastard; how his mother...
Zak gulps. If Lee were here, he’d man up. Lee has always been the brave, altruistic one; who, yes, perhaps thought himself a bit better than others, but, then again, he often was. As a teenage sibling, that had been irritating to no end. Yet, as Zak thinks of his older brother now, he cannot help but to regard Lee as something more. His idealistic older brother is more than just that - he is a Tribute; he is a man.
The vehicle jerks to a sudden stop. Beside him, Specialist Seelix puts a hand to her gun and hops out of the back of the truck.
They have pulled over along a narrow rut by the roadside; a sort of drainage ditch that houses a thin steel pipe which disappears into the damp earth. Dawn is a long way off, as best Zak can tell, but the fear of being caught is paramount, even in the darkness. They had driven for the last hour with headlights off, all the while tension radiating off his father. Tyrol does not look happy, and Katraine scowls openly at him, as though he is a child they will all have to look after in the days ahead.
Zak does not feel like a child anymore. The gravity of choices that will be before him and the actions he has yet to take are far beyond schoolyard troubles. That his father entrusts him with this responsibility is a terrifying honor. Swallowing the ball of fear that has welled in his throat, Zak hops out of the cab, following his companions.
Tyrol gestures quickly with one arm, the other holding his gun at the ready. A foul stream trickles out of an exposed sewage pipe at the end the ditch parallel to the road, disappearing into a rise of earth.
“This is our entry point,” Racetrack says, gesturing to a red circle on the map in her hands that is presumably their location. “These are sewers and flood tunnels from back before they built the seawalls and created barrier islands outside of Caprica City in the last century. The city used to flood regularly in the spring when storms were at their worst; the tunnels filtered some of the excess water to the surrounding areas, which is why there’s still so much undeveloped land outside of the city proper: up until a hundred years ago, it was all untouched wetlands.”
Kat leans against the truck, hand on her hip, and taps her foot impatiently. “Thanks for the history lesson. Are we gonna get this show on the road, or shall we sit on our asses and catalogue the native plants while we’re at it?”
“Frak off, Kat,” Racetrack quips, and rolls up her maps. “One of us has to lead this crew, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be the Chief.”
Tyrol looks nervously down the road in each direction, saying distractedly, “Yeah, well, cartography is for pansies, so I’m glad we’ve got you, Racetrack.”
He nods to a marine- one whose name Zak can’t remember- who gives a quick salute and turns the truck around, driving on down the road.
“Hot Dog, you take point.” At the sound of Bill’s order, the tall young man jumps to his task, ducking low into the drainage pipe. The diameter is only four and a half, maybe five feet, and they all duck their heads, even the girls, as they file silently into the dank, echoing darkness.
After a few feet, the early morning light is gone, leaving only a blackness the likes of which Zak has never experienced before. It devours Hot Dog, then Kat and Racetrack before he finds himself swallowed whole. His chest closes briefly, panic rising in him until, up ahead, Hot Dog and the girls switch on their headlamps. Zak’s hand only shakes a little as he flicks the small pin-light he had forgotten was fastened to his helmet; the quickening breath coming out of his nose slows a little.
After a few hundred yards, the cramped pipe leads to a wider, higher space that echoes with the sound of trickling water. It smells of wet and mold and dirt, and there is a dim light slicing down from a series of unseen vents in regular intervals for as far as he can see, giving the place an eerie quality. Above them, the ceiling is made of heavy, arching stones. The architecture most likely predates most of the Capital proper.
“This has been here a long time,” his father says quietly, looking around. “An escape route from the city. Probably where they got the idea for drainage tunnels. See how the water drains down?” He pauses a moment, pacing around the tunnel a moment. “We’ve been fighting a long time. Kobol. Other Colonies. Cylons.”
Sometimes his father seems much older than he really is, Zak thinks.
“Come on,” Bill says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s move.”
---
Laura wakes to heat and the unsettling sensation of someone holding her down. In the liminal state between sleep and alertness she acts on instinct, firmly lodging her knee between the legs of whomever is on top of her.
Sam, understandably, lets out a whimpering cry and lands on his side. “Oh frak,” he gasps, curling into a fetal position.
Now fully awake, Laura assesses the situation: the island behind them is a smoking ruin and she has temporarily incapacitated a teammate who- if the long scrapes on his back are any indication- had thrown himself on top of her to spare her the worst of the falling shrapnel.
‘Sorry’ probably is not going to cut it in this situation. They do not have time for apologies, in any case; the sun is higher than she likes and they are easy prey for any hunters about.
“Come along, Sam,” she says hurriedly, pulling him bodily to his feet with Kara's help. Laura slings his bag onto her back along with her own. “One foot in front of another.” She casts a quick glare at Lee, whose natural sympathy seems to be outweighed by a certain smug satisfaction. “We'll have to go around the peak. They won't put the water source on the most direct trail; our best chances are to take the indirect route.”
Assuming the indirect path will take them to the opposite shore in six hours. Assuming their best guesses are correct. Assuming so many variables will work out against the odds in their favor.
Kara ducks under Sam's arm, taking some of his weight. Her face is pale and drawn, and there is an anxious look in her eyes. “Come on, Sammy. Gotta make it to the finish line before you can find time to put that junk to use, anyway. Bet you have a girl in every colony.”
His laughter is genuine, if rather strained. “Come on tour with me and I'll prove you wrong.”
They move steadily into the jungle, skirting the foothills in the center. Laura knows for certain that she herself is feeling the symptoms of dehydration. She cannot imagine that she is the only one, and thinks that even with Sam’s injury- though he seems to have weathered the worst of the pain, or at the very least is pretending he is- they are moving more slowly than they should be.
Two hours into the jungle they hear the gentle chime of water over rock: a stream, at best, but far better than the nothing they have found thus far. Anticipation quickens their steps, and as they step away from the last screen of trees they find themselves confronted by a figure in stained Libran white: Archer, or Kendra Shaw, the winner of last year’s Games and famous for beheading her final contender in her last appearance in the arena. She is missing a sleeve and her right pants leg is shredded, revealing dried blood through the various vents.
Even with her obvious injuries she stands easily, gun in hand as she guards the stream bed. “Going somewhere?” she asks casually, a razor edge to her tone. “Perhaps you hope to get some of this water before my team members return.” Her gaze falls on Lee- or, more specifically- the scarring cut on his face. “You never did thank me for saving your neck at the beginning of the Games.”
“I was a bit busy,” he replies dryly. “As were you; you seemed to be late for an appointment of some sort.”
She smirks slightly and glances toward Laura. “Perhaps you'd like to trade the funny one for some water and free passage?”
“He's my son,” Laura replies flatly.
“Step-son,” Kendra corrects her. “I saw that interview your husband's ex-wife did the day before the Games- I have to hand it to her, that was some creative mathematics she was spouting. Unless, of course, you really were having an affair with him fresh from the arena.”
“That's ridiculous!” Lee retorts hotly. “We didn't even know Laura then.”
“Your mother thinks differently, and spent quite some time spinning a pleasant tale about bastard children with suspicious first names. The interviewer seemed quite convinced. But then,” Kendra continues icily, “she also thinks Thomas Zarek is the gods’ gift to humanity. She kept going on and on about how her sad story would never have been heard, were it not for his kindness.” There is a tension in her petite frame at odds with her flippant words. Her gaze catches Laura’s, an incendiary rage in Kendra’s eyes. “But your son Billy,” she murmurs quietly, shifting toward Laura. “He looks quite familiar to me.”
Abruptly she backs away, gun by her side. “You were never here,” she says shortly. “Get your water and run.”
As they disappear back into the jungle, newly supplied with water, Laura glances back at Kendra. “You can hold him down for me,” she says quietly, and Kendra gives her a twisted smile.
“Only if you beat me to him.” Kendra tips her head toward Laura’s comrades. “Don’t let the funny one get in my way again.”
---
The mood of the small group is changed after the encounter with Kendra: not cheery, really, but there is a definite surge of short-lived hope.
Lee, anyway, is feeling some hope. They’ve found water, they are nearly at the next shore with two hours to spare, and the resident pyramid player may never get around to siring all those daughters. Admittedly he seems to be recovering rapidly, but Lee still has hope that it is all an act.
Kara appears to be thinking deeply on some unknown subject as she traverses the path, once even tripping over a protruding tree root as she scowls over some unrelated subject. “Where the hell are the sponsors?” she suddenly asks after a solid half-hour of scowls and silent muttering. “We should have seen something of them by now- a gift of water, a bread roll, antibiotics for Cally, even. It’s downright bizarre that we haven’t received anything.” The remainder of her thoughts go unspoken, but understood by everyone in the group: because people still remember Deadeye’s Games, because we have a beloved and adored pyramid player, because Laura Roslin Adama’s words have never been forgotten.
“Sponsors can be vetoed,” Laura replies quietly. “It’s not explicitly against the rules. And we don’t officially have a mentor, so to speak, to act as our liaison.”
What they have is Ellen Tigh. Lee can barely keep himself from asking mercy of the gods.
“Maybe the sponsor money is going elsewhere,” Saul chips in gruffly. “Nothing in the rules that says the money has to buy food or meds. This is a different game than any of us have played before.”
“What else could it possibly go to?” Sam asks.
As strange as the notion is, Lee suddenly recalls his interesting and near fatal introduction to the first Arena. Was being dumped in the middle of a bloodbath sheer bad luck, or had money influenced his jump coordinates? At any other moment he would call himself paranoid, but paranoia is an essential self-preservation skill in the Games.
Suddenly he wonders just how much Tom Zarek would pay to be rid of him. It is all so clear, really. This is the same man who admitted to his step-mother’s face that he was going to kill her husband and abduct her two other children. Tom Zarek would not so much as hesitate before putting down however much money it took to have one less Adama in the Colonies.
“We’re like pawns on a chessboard,” he finally says glumly, wondering how much of this is getting past the censors. “The sponsors pay for our jump coordinates- good or bad- and then sit back and enjoy the show.”
“Godsdamn,” Saul mutters. “Can’t believe it took them fifty years to try out that little trick.”
“Explains the multiple jumps,” Sam says, nodding in agreement. “And it supports our theory that there may be jumps yet to come- gods only know how many.”
Laura sighs sadly from beside Lee, and he briefly feels the slight pressure of her hand on his shoulder. “They’ve allowed sponsors to influence jump coordinates before,” she says flatly. “Think about it. They’d never admit to it, but Cavil would never turn down that kind of money.”
Kara kicks a tree root. “Frak,” she says, and hacks viciously at a low-hanging branch. Like the rest of them she is running on very little sleep and even less food, and Lee privately thinks that she looks it. At this point they are all operating on little more than adrenaline and the increasing desire to not be ripped apart by explosives. Even his step-mother, whom Lee has always considered to be tireless, looks incredibly weary and is slowing more by the hour.
Festering doubt blooms back into existence. How likely is it, really, that any of them will survive to the end to be crowned Victor? What the hell was he thinking, allowing shreds of optimism to creep back into his mind, when Helena Cain and her merry gang of murderers have the advantage of food, water, and surplus weapons? One girl sparing them a shred of mercy means nothing in the long run.
The fact that his step-mother had escaped a similar hell as a teenager feels completely unreal. How had she lived all of these years with the memories? How could she cook dinner, explain math problems, pretend any kind of ordinariness after something like the Games? It was not as if she had played the Games like Sam had: hiding in caves, at one point even breathing through a reed underwater in a pond for hours on end, and never during that entire time shedding a drop of blood that was not his own. It had been a black mark of sorts on his record, really. There had never been a Victor in the history of the Games who had made it through without killing at least one other Tribute.
Laura had killed seven out of twenty-three Tributes during her first tour of the Games. Roughly thirty percent of her opponents, and not all with a distant arrow.
For the first time, Lee is struck by exactly how high that number is. As she pulls ahead slightly on the trail in front of him, he watches the way her rough braid swings against her back and sees her as a stranger.
---
When they finally trudge up onto the beach of the final island, they are all exhausted and ready to drop into the soft sand near the surf, other Tributes be damned. Unlike the previous island, there is no friendly secret cove: just a small beach and one path arrowing up the steep island peak. There will be no off-trail venture for this island. Their path, for the moment, is set.
Laura slows slightly to meet with Lee, who seems intent on lagging behind their small group. “All right?” she murmurs quietly.
He seems to regard her with a cautious look. “I’m fine,” he says gruffly, and looks away from her. “Just tired.”
He’s pulling away from her, and Laura can’t think of a damned thing to do about it.
Coming next week:
The tunnel twists. That, or Tigh’s light goes out, and without warning Sam’s heart pounds harder than ever before. He is no stranger to the feeling of an adrenaline-fueled heart, but this surpasses every pyramid final, every instant he has shouldered the game-winning shot. Unable to breathe in the all-encompassing, violently black dark that surrounds him, he stumbles forward, eyes clenched shut. A darkness of his own he can bear, but this...