BSG: The Unforgiven Ones, Part 3: A Mean God
Back to Part II: Forsaken
III: A Mean God
Weeks passed, but John didn't go to Section 5. It was partly because he refused to admit that he was an orphan, and partly because he seemed safe enough where he was. The Galactica was full of places a boy could squeeze into to sleep, and the Marines gave out hot food in Section 20, without asking whether he had a right to be there.
As he waited in line for breakfast one day, he happened to spot his parents. They stood with a group of other Sagittarons, all soma braids and prayer beads, just like back home. For a long instant, John watched them, holding his breath in vain hope.
Then his father turned and saw him. His eyes widened in recognition, but he said nothing. He merely turned away again, as if he'd seen nothing at all. The slow, dignified way he moved hurt John more than the rejection itself; the sight of it stabbed like a knife.
You're not even ashamed of it, John thought. He turned away, too, and squeezed the handle of his tin cup until his fingers turned white. You don't even care. You're not my father, you-- you bastard!
"Next," the Marine at the head of the line ordered. "Come on, step up."
John did. The Marine poured half a scoop of oats into the bottom of his cup, out of a big yellow barrel marked DRY RATIONS: EMERGENCY ONLY. John turned to the side, where a metal cistern had been set up, and poured boiling water into the cup until it steamed. The next man in line shoved past him before he'd even finished.
John squatted against the wall by the door, blowing on his cereal until it was cool enough to eat. He stared at his father the whole time, willing him to care, to feel shame, but he never did. By the time John began to sip at his breakfast, his mother had joined the little group, too. His father said something, and the whole lot of them began to laugh together, as though they were in the marketplace back home.
John turned up his cup and munched on the last mouthful of oats. Hatred turned them bitter, like blood, but he chewed them twenty times, just the same.
Just like his mother had told him.
---
That night, John wandered Deck A in search of a place to sleep. The restricted area was on that level, so there weren't many options, but he'd wanted to get as far from Deck C as he could. All the rooms up here were labeled with terse descriptions in block lettering, like AFT STORAGE and F-23-B AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY, and most of them were locked; John tried five different hatches before he finally found one that opened.
The room inside was like nothing he'd seen so far. The far wall was covered with benches, like the pews in the temple back home, but the rows were angled upwards, like seats in an old-fashioned amphitheater. In front of them was an altar -- so it was a temple -- covered with thick linen cloth. On top was a collection of idols and candles.
John walked up to it. An idol of Ares took center stage: it was a relatively crude thing, carved of volcanic rock, recognizable only by its spear, shield, and helmet. Around it were arranged a number of smaller icons done in more conventional styles; there was Zeus, of course, and Apollo, Aphrodite, and Poseidon.
And Hera. Hera, the Goddess who'd forsaken John.
For a moment, John was tempted to dash her statue to the floor. He could see himself do it, in his mind's eye: the flurry of movement, the feel of the worthless ceramic in his hand, and the crash as the statue broke forever. But it didn't happen; something inside him kept him from following through. Instead, John walked further into the room, and sat down on one of the pews.
From the door beyond he could hear soft, distant voices. He couldn't make out anything they said, but their murmured rhythm was comforting. It was like the sound of his mother and father talking at night, back when they talked more often than argued, and it made John want to stay, Hera or no.
John slung his bag into the space between two of the pews and lay his head down upon it. He imagined the ceremony at Illumini, letting the image take shape within his mind. His parents hadn't told him how it would go, but he could see it just the same: the priests would sing to him, and anoint him with sacred oils. They would make a sacrifice, and then they would call to the Gods for him, asking for mercy. He would be forgiven. He would be taranad no longer, and his parents would want him again. His parents would want him back.
John drifted off to sleep, with that thought foremost in his mind, and did not dream.
Some time later, he was jolted into consciousness by a sudden thump. He looked up to see the priest from before. He was glaring down at John, his brows beetled in anger.
"Hey!" the old priest said, kicking the pew again. "This is a chapel, not a bus station. You can't sleep here."
John grabbed his bag and left, glancing behind him as he did so.
The priest was the first person who'd spoken to him in months. Even as John left, he knew he'd be back.
---
"Are you a war orphan?" the priest asked, perhaps a month or two later. John was leaning on the top pew, watching him as he puttered around the altar down below.
"No," John said.
"So you have parents. Do they want you?"
"No."
"Well, two decks below, there's a room. And there's people in that room who are in charge of children that nobody wants."
John said nothing. He didn't move. The chapel was the best place he knew; it was quiet, and safe, and the priest was there. He knew without asking that Section 5 would be nothing like that. Nothing like home.
"All right, don't go then. But go somewhere," the priest said.
John did. But he was back again the next day.
---
"Still around, huh?" the priest asked.
John glanced up. He'd been watching the smoke from the censer; the way it moved as it rose toward the ceiling mesmerized him. It was almost as if it was alive.
"Hmm?" John asked.
"I said, 'still around.'" The priest looked back down at the table, where he'd set out a row of black candles. John watched as he trimmed each wick with a little knife, lit it, and left it to burn. The flickering flames made shadows dance in the corners of the darkened chapel.
"Why are you here, anyway?" the priest finally asked. John just looked back at him, until he frowned. "Don't talk much, do you?" He set the last candle down, and laid the knife out before it. "You said your parents don't want you?"
John nodded.
"Well?" the priest said. When John didn't answer, the priest went on. "Why?"
John rested his head on his chin. "We were going to Gemenon," he muttered. "On a spaceship. But Gemenon got blown up, so..."
"Oh. Timing's a bitch, huh kid?"
John nodded. "It's my fault, anyway. It's all 'cause I'm taranad."
"Gesundheit," the priest said, waving his hand in the blessing of Ares. John blinked at him.
"What?" the priest asked.
John frowned. "I said I'm taranad. Don't you care?"
"I might if I knew what the hell it is," the priest said evenly. "Which is?"
"I'm-- I'm a bastard."
"So?"
"Well, my Mom wasn't married to--"
"Gimme some credit here, kid! I know what a bastard is. I just don't care."
John stared at him. "You don't?"
"Course not," the priest said. He turned back to the candles, turning them so they'd burn evenly. "I'm not religious."
John sucked in his breath. "But you-- but you're--" Try as he might, no further sound would come out.
"Close your mouth, kid," the priest growled. "You're gonna catch flies."
John did.
"Don't look so surprised. It's not like I'm the only one. Half the seminary were atheists."
"But why?" John asked.
The priest shrugged. "Same reason the guys who flip burgers at Leo-Grill tend to become vegetarian, I s'pose."
John thought about that for a while.
"But it's your job to have faith."
The priest shook his head. "No, it's my job to help other people with their faith. I don't need to be religious to do that; in fact, it'd be a handicap. Think about it. If I truly cared whether or not you're a tiaranom--"
"A taranad."
"Don't interrupt! If I cared whether or not you're a little bastard, I wouldn't be much of a counselor, now would I?" The priest frowned grimly. "It doesn't help to tell people 'don't sin', kid. They just go out and do it anyway." He turned the candles again, and then tossed a pinch of sacred herbs into the pool of wax at the top of each. "You gotta find a way to make people want to do what you tell 'em," he added. "That's always the trick." The herbs popped and hissed as they smoldered. They had a strange, spicy scent.
"Nobody outside of the dirt-ball you're from really cares, anyway," the priest said. Then he laughed, and jerked his thumb at the icon of Ares on the wall. "Besides, do you have any idea how many consorts, nymphs, whores, princesses, and goddesses-with-benefits he had? It's ridiculous."
"What made you choose Ares?" John suddenly asked. The priest blinked, as though he hadn't expected the question. Then the corner of his mouth turned up.
"It seemed... appropriate at the time."
"But Ares is a mean god."
For a long while, the priest said nothing. Finally, he spoke. "Well, sure, that's what all the other Gods said. But I'll bet nobody ever asked him about it."
"But I--"
The priest turned, glaring at him. "Anyone ever ask you how you felt about being a taranad, kid?"
"No," John said quietly.
"Well then, maybe that's not what you are at all. Maybe you're just a little boy, and maybe Ares was just a guy with some serious anger-management problems and a busy pituitary gland."
"How about you?"
"What?"
"If I'm just a boy, and Ares was just some guy, then what are you?"
"Me?" the priest asked. John nodded.
The priest turned away. "I am a mean god, kid. Now go bother somebody else."
---
After that, the priest seemed to tolerate his presence. John slept between the pews in the chapel at night, and hung around Section 20 during the day, eating as much as he could and avoiding the other, bigger kids. There was never enough food to go around; John began to wish he were a grown-up, so he could get a whole scoop of oats and two ladles of stew. Rumor was that the fresh rations were running out, though. Rumor was they were lucky to get even that much.
One day, a month or two later, a fight broke out at the head of the line.
"You cut in line!"
"I did not! You just want my share, you liar!"
John watched, fascinated, as two of the older boys pounded each other. The bigger one yanked on the braid-lock in the smaller boy's hair, pulling him in a circle. He punched with his other hand, slamming his fist into the other boy's ear. The kid gave a squall of anger and fear, and then somebody else jumped out of line, a tall man with the same style of braid. His brother, maybe, or maybe just a friend.
Steel flashed in his hand.
The older boy went down hard, spraying blood everywhere. The man from the line stood over him and stabbed him over and over, calmly, almost as if he was splitting wood or whittling back home. The Marines started bellowing, shoving their way forward. The snap of the bolts on their guns slamming home was even louder than the bleeding boy's screams.
"Disperse! Disperse now!" one of them yelled, and raised his gun in John's direction.
Everybody scattered. Someone shoved John hard, and he almost fell. For an instant, he was on one knee beneath the crowd, surrounded by stomping feet. Then he was back up again, running in the first direction that opened up.
He glanced back at the ruin of the line -- at the food -- just in time to see one of the Marines raise his rifle and slam the butt-end of the stock into the knife-wielding boy's head. There was an awful crump, like somebody had dropped a melon on the floor. John ran, pushing through the crowd at the door.
John walked quickly up the corridor, outpacing everybody else. Most of them had turned back, anyway, caught between the need to escape and a macabre desire to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside.
John turned the corner into a corridor full of storage hatches, each marked LEVEL C ACCESS.
"Hey, kid, c'mere!" someone called from one of them. John turned to look.
A boy was looking around the edge of one of the doors. He had a rough-hewn, shaggy look that wasn't helped by his shoulder-length hair. "Psst, come here!" he repeated, waving his hand at John.
John looked up and down the corridor. No one was watching. But the boy didn't seem dangerous; he was about John's age, anyway, if a little bit bigger. John shrugged. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to make a friend.
"Who're you?" John asked, as he followed the boy through the hatch. Inside were long shelves with stiff-bristled brushes and cleaning chemicals on them. There was a bucket full of rags by the door. John noticed that one of them had been stuffed into the latch on the door.
"The name's B," the boy said. "I live here."
"Bee?"
The boy rolled his eyes. "Like the letter, not the bug."
"Oh, OK," John said. "I'm John."
B nodded. "I've seen you around. You're from Section 20, right?"
"Sort of," John shrugged.
"Me too, before I found this place. Me and a couple other kids hide in here during the day. That way nobody fraks with us. You wanna hang out too?"
"I guess," John said.
B sat down on an upturned bucket, and pulled something from his pocket. "Hey, I got jerky. You want some?"
"Sure!" John said.
B broke off a small piece and handed it over. John tried it. He'd never had jerky like that before; it was dry and brittle, and there wasn't any chile on it, unlike good Sagittaron pemmican. He savored it anyway, chewing each bite until it was soft and rich upon his tongue.
"Thanks," he muttered, when he'd eaten the whole piece.
"Don't mention it," B said. "I like to try to help out the kids who don't have parents."
John's back must have stiffened at that, because B added, "You don't, right? Have parents?"
John said nothing. B wouldn't stop looking at him, though, so he finally spoke. "I do," he said quietly. "But they don't want me."
"Oh," B said, and nothing more. After a while, he added, "That sucks, man. I've got parents, too, back on Caprica. At least I did... well, you know. Mom put me on a Raptor after the worlds ended, but there wasn't a seat for her."
"What's Caprica like?" John asked, after a moment.
"I dunno, like anywhere else I guess. We lived in an apartment in the city. Dad worked as a truck driver."
"Did you have ice cream?"
B blinked. "Yeah, sure, sometimes. Why?"
"No reason," John said quickly. He'd already decided that was the reason why B was bigger. They must have had a lot to eat on Caprica.
"You're a weird kid," B said. "But you're all right. You can come hang out if you want to... I'll introduce you to the gang. Just knock three times first, otherwise we gotta hide. I don't want to get in trouble."
"OK," John said. "Maybe I will."
"See you," B said.
---
John didn't go back to the dinner line that night. Instead, he laid behind the pews, listening with a concentration born of hunger as the priest ate his dinner in the next room. Then the sound of the spoon moving against the bowl suddenly stopped, and was followed by a clatter of dishes.
"Hey kid!" the priest called. John poked his head over the pew.
"Sit down," the priest said. He gestured to the table, where he'd laid out another bowl. John sat down quickly, before the priest could change his mind, and began to eat. This was better food than the refugees had; it was the same sort of potato-based stew, but it had recognizable chunks of meat and vegetables in it, unlike the smooth puree John was used to. Every bite lit a warmth in John's belly, like a feeling of home.
The priest watched from his bed, saying nothing.
That night, John washed his hands in the chapel's head, grateful for the chance to get clean. He soaped up his hands, running them up over his grimy forearms, and scrubbed until his skin ached. Then he rinsed, soaped up again, and rubbed his face.
He filled both hands with water, leaned over the sink, and drove them up into his face, shivering at the shock of the cold water. He did it once, twice, and again, gasping between times, until the water ran down behind his ears.
John wiped his face off with a hand towel, glanced up into the mirror, and realized with a start that he'd grown older. His face was thinner, he'd grown a bit taller, and his hair curled down over his ears. He reached up to touch it, running the wet locks through his fingers. As he did so, he counted the months in his head.
Gods, I guess it's been almost a year, he realized. I missed my birthday.
It wasn't a sad thought, not really. He'd had nobody to share it with, anyway. He hadn't seen his parents in Section 20, not for a while. Maybe they'd died of the Mellorak sickness, like a lot of others; it came and went in cycles, touching off new infections as the civilian population moved through the fleet. If not, maybe they'd moved to another section -- or maybe, as a small voice inside him suggested, they were avoiding him. Maybe they never wanted to see him again.
When he tried, John found he couldn't quite conjure their faces.
As he left the head, the priest glanced over from the other room. "You sleeping here tonight?" he asked.
John nodded.
"Well, clear out in the morning, you understand? I'm having a private meeting, and I don't want you underfoot."
"I will," John promised.
As he curled up behind the pews, John fixed the priest's face in his mind.
It was the only face he knew anymore.
Forward to Part IV: The Accession of Claudius
III: A Mean God
Weeks passed, but John didn't go to Section 5. It was partly because he refused to admit that he was an orphan, and partly because he seemed safe enough where he was. The Galactica was full of places a boy could squeeze into to sleep, and the Marines gave out hot food in Section 20, without asking whether he had a right to be there.
As he waited in line for breakfast one day, he happened to spot his parents. They stood with a group of other Sagittarons, all soma braids and prayer beads, just like back home. For a long instant, John watched them, holding his breath in vain hope.
Then his father turned and saw him. His eyes widened in recognition, but he said nothing. He merely turned away again, as if he'd seen nothing at all. The slow, dignified way he moved hurt John more than the rejection itself; the sight of it stabbed like a knife.
You're not even ashamed of it, John thought. He turned away, too, and squeezed the handle of his tin cup until his fingers turned white. You don't even care. You're not my father, you-- you bastard!
"Next," the Marine at the head of the line ordered. "Come on, step up."
John did. The Marine poured half a scoop of oats into the bottom of his cup, out of a big yellow barrel marked DRY RATIONS: EMERGENCY ONLY. John turned to the side, where a metal cistern had been set up, and poured boiling water into the cup until it steamed. The next man in line shoved past him before he'd even finished.
John squatted against the wall by the door, blowing on his cereal until it was cool enough to eat. He stared at his father the whole time, willing him to care, to feel shame, but he never did. By the time John began to sip at his breakfast, his mother had joined the little group, too. His father said something, and the whole lot of them began to laugh together, as though they were in the marketplace back home.
John turned up his cup and munched on the last mouthful of oats. Hatred turned them bitter, like blood, but he chewed them twenty times, just the same.
Just like his mother had told him.
---
That night, John wandered Deck A in search of a place to sleep. The restricted area was on that level, so there weren't many options, but he'd wanted to get as far from Deck C as he could. All the rooms up here were labeled with terse descriptions in block lettering, like AFT STORAGE and F-23-B AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY, and most of them were locked; John tried five different hatches before he finally found one that opened.
The room inside was like nothing he'd seen so far. The far wall was covered with benches, like the pews in the temple back home, but the rows were angled upwards, like seats in an old-fashioned amphitheater. In front of them was an altar -- so it was a temple -- covered with thick linen cloth. On top was a collection of idols and candles.
John walked up to it. An idol of Ares took center stage: it was a relatively crude thing, carved of volcanic rock, recognizable only by its spear, shield, and helmet. Around it were arranged a number of smaller icons done in more conventional styles; there was Zeus, of course, and Apollo, Aphrodite, and Poseidon.
And Hera. Hera, the Goddess who'd forsaken John.
For a moment, John was tempted to dash her statue to the floor. He could see himself do it, in his mind's eye: the flurry of movement, the feel of the worthless ceramic in his hand, and the crash as the statue broke forever. But it didn't happen; something inside him kept him from following through. Instead, John walked further into the room, and sat down on one of the pews.
From the door beyond he could hear soft, distant voices. He couldn't make out anything they said, but their murmured rhythm was comforting. It was like the sound of his mother and father talking at night, back when they talked more often than argued, and it made John want to stay, Hera or no.
John slung his bag into the space between two of the pews and lay his head down upon it. He imagined the ceremony at Illumini, letting the image take shape within his mind. His parents hadn't told him how it would go, but he could see it just the same: the priests would sing to him, and anoint him with sacred oils. They would make a sacrifice, and then they would call to the Gods for him, asking for mercy. He would be forgiven. He would be taranad no longer, and his parents would want him again. His parents would want him back.
John drifted off to sleep, with that thought foremost in his mind, and did not dream.
Some time later, he was jolted into consciousness by a sudden thump. He looked up to see the priest from before. He was glaring down at John, his brows beetled in anger.
"Hey!" the old priest said, kicking the pew again. "This is a chapel, not a bus station. You can't sleep here."
John grabbed his bag and left, glancing behind him as he did so.
The priest was the first person who'd spoken to him in months. Even as John left, he knew he'd be back.
---
"Are you a war orphan?" the priest asked, perhaps a month or two later. John was leaning on the top pew, watching him as he puttered around the altar down below.
"No," John said.
"So you have parents. Do they want you?"
"No."
"Well, two decks below, there's a room. And there's people in that room who are in charge of children that nobody wants."
John said nothing. He didn't move. The chapel was the best place he knew; it was quiet, and safe, and the priest was there. He knew without asking that Section 5 would be nothing like that. Nothing like home.
"All right, don't go then. But go somewhere," the priest said.
John did. But he was back again the next day.
---
"Still around, huh?" the priest asked.
John glanced up. He'd been watching the smoke from the censer; the way it moved as it rose toward the ceiling mesmerized him. It was almost as if it was alive.
"Hmm?" John asked.
"I said, 'still around.'" The priest looked back down at the table, where he'd set out a row of black candles. John watched as he trimmed each wick with a little knife, lit it, and left it to burn. The flickering flames made shadows dance in the corners of the darkened chapel.
"Why are you here, anyway?" the priest finally asked. John just looked back at him, until he frowned. "Don't talk much, do you?" He set the last candle down, and laid the knife out before it. "You said your parents don't want you?"
John nodded.
"Well?" the priest said. When John didn't answer, the priest went on. "Why?"
John rested his head on his chin. "We were going to Gemenon," he muttered. "On a spaceship. But Gemenon got blown up, so..."
"Oh. Timing's a bitch, huh kid?"
John nodded. "It's my fault, anyway. It's all 'cause I'm taranad."
"Gesundheit," the priest said, waving his hand in the blessing of Ares. John blinked at him.
"What?" the priest asked.
John frowned. "I said I'm taranad. Don't you care?"
"I might if I knew what the hell it is," the priest said evenly. "Which is?"
"I'm-- I'm a bastard."
"So?"
"Well, my Mom wasn't married to--"
"Gimme some credit here, kid! I know what a bastard is. I just don't care."
John stared at him. "You don't?"
"Course not," the priest said. He turned back to the candles, turning them so they'd burn evenly. "I'm not religious."
John sucked in his breath. "But you-- but you're--" Try as he might, no further sound would come out.
"Close your mouth, kid," the priest growled. "You're gonna catch flies."
John did.
"Don't look so surprised. It's not like I'm the only one. Half the seminary were atheists."
"But why?" John asked.
The priest shrugged. "Same reason the guys who flip burgers at Leo-Grill tend to become vegetarian, I s'pose."
John thought about that for a while.
"But it's your job to have faith."
The priest shook his head. "No, it's my job to help other people with their faith. I don't need to be religious to do that; in fact, it'd be a handicap. Think about it. If I truly cared whether or not you're a tiaranom--"
"A taranad."
"Don't interrupt! If I cared whether or not you're a little bastard, I wouldn't be much of a counselor, now would I?" The priest frowned grimly. "It doesn't help to tell people 'don't sin', kid. They just go out and do it anyway." He turned the candles again, and then tossed a pinch of sacred herbs into the pool of wax at the top of each. "You gotta find a way to make people want to do what you tell 'em," he added. "That's always the trick." The herbs popped and hissed as they smoldered. They had a strange, spicy scent.
"Nobody outside of the dirt-ball you're from really cares, anyway," the priest said. Then he laughed, and jerked his thumb at the icon of Ares on the wall. "Besides, do you have any idea how many consorts, nymphs, whores, princesses, and goddesses-with-benefits he had? It's ridiculous."
"What made you choose Ares?" John suddenly asked. The priest blinked, as though he hadn't expected the question. Then the corner of his mouth turned up.
"It seemed... appropriate at the time."
"But Ares is a mean god."
For a long while, the priest said nothing. Finally, he spoke. "Well, sure, that's what all the other Gods said. But I'll bet nobody ever asked him about it."
"But I--"
The priest turned, glaring at him. "Anyone ever ask you how you felt about being a taranad, kid?"
"No," John said quietly.
"Well then, maybe that's not what you are at all. Maybe you're just a little boy, and maybe Ares was just a guy with some serious anger-management problems and a busy pituitary gland."
"How about you?"
"What?"
"If I'm just a boy, and Ares was just some guy, then what are you?"
"Me?" the priest asked. John nodded.
The priest turned away. "I am a mean god, kid. Now go bother somebody else."
---
After that, the priest seemed to tolerate his presence. John slept between the pews in the chapel at night, and hung around Section 20 during the day, eating as much as he could and avoiding the other, bigger kids. There was never enough food to go around; John began to wish he were a grown-up, so he could get a whole scoop of oats and two ladles of stew. Rumor was that the fresh rations were running out, though. Rumor was they were lucky to get even that much.
One day, a month or two later, a fight broke out at the head of the line.
"You cut in line!"
"I did not! You just want my share, you liar!"
John watched, fascinated, as two of the older boys pounded each other. The bigger one yanked on the braid-lock in the smaller boy's hair, pulling him in a circle. He punched with his other hand, slamming his fist into the other boy's ear. The kid gave a squall of anger and fear, and then somebody else jumped out of line, a tall man with the same style of braid. His brother, maybe, or maybe just a friend.
Steel flashed in his hand.
The older boy went down hard, spraying blood everywhere. The man from the line stood over him and stabbed him over and over, calmly, almost as if he was splitting wood or whittling back home. The Marines started bellowing, shoving their way forward. The snap of the bolts on their guns slamming home was even louder than the bleeding boy's screams.
"Disperse! Disperse now!" one of them yelled, and raised his gun in John's direction.
Everybody scattered. Someone shoved John hard, and he almost fell. For an instant, he was on one knee beneath the crowd, surrounded by stomping feet. Then he was back up again, running in the first direction that opened up.
He glanced back at the ruin of the line -- at the food -- just in time to see one of the Marines raise his rifle and slam the butt-end of the stock into the knife-wielding boy's head. There was an awful crump, like somebody had dropped a melon on the floor. John ran, pushing through the crowd at the door.
John walked quickly up the corridor, outpacing everybody else. Most of them had turned back, anyway, caught between the need to escape and a macabre desire to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside.
John turned the corner into a corridor full of storage hatches, each marked LEVEL C ACCESS.
"Hey, kid, c'mere!" someone called from one of them. John turned to look.
A boy was looking around the edge of one of the doors. He had a rough-hewn, shaggy look that wasn't helped by his shoulder-length hair. "Psst, come here!" he repeated, waving his hand at John.
John looked up and down the corridor. No one was watching. But the boy didn't seem dangerous; he was about John's age, anyway, if a little bit bigger. John shrugged. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to make a friend.
"Who're you?" John asked, as he followed the boy through the hatch. Inside were long shelves with stiff-bristled brushes and cleaning chemicals on them. There was a bucket full of rags by the door. John noticed that one of them had been stuffed into the latch on the door.
"The name's B," the boy said. "I live here."
"Bee?"
The boy rolled his eyes. "Like the letter, not the bug."
"Oh, OK," John said. "I'm John."
B nodded. "I've seen you around. You're from Section 20, right?"
"Sort of," John shrugged.
"Me too, before I found this place. Me and a couple other kids hide in here during the day. That way nobody fraks with us. You wanna hang out too?"
"I guess," John said.
B sat down on an upturned bucket, and pulled something from his pocket. "Hey, I got jerky. You want some?"
"Sure!" John said.
B broke off a small piece and handed it over. John tried it. He'd never had jerky like that before; it was dry and brittle, and there wasn't any chile on it, unlike good Sagittaron pemmican. He savored it anyway, chewing each bite until it was soft and rich upon his tongue.
"Thanks," he muttered, when he'd eaten the whole piece.
"Don't mention it," B said. "I like to try to help out the kids who don't have parents."
John's back must have stiffened at that, because B added, "You don't, right? Have parents?"
John said nothing. B wouldn't stop looking at him, though, so he finally spoke. "I do," he said quietly. "But they don't want me."
"Oh," B said, and nothing more. After a while, he added, "That sucks, man. I've got parents, too, back on Caprica. At least I did... well, you know. Mom put me on a Raptor after the worlds ended, but there wasn't a seat for her."
"What's Caprica like?" John asked, after a moment.
"I dunno, like anywhere else I guess. We lived in an apartment in the city. Dad worked as a truck driver."
"Did you have ice cream?"
B blinked. "Yeah, sure, sometimes. Why?"
"No reason," John said quickly. He'd already decided that was the reason why B was bigger. They must have had a lot to eat on Caprica.
"You're a weird kid," B said. "But you're all right. You can come hang out if you want to... I'll introduce you to the gang. Just knock three times first, otherwise we gotta hide. I don't want to get in trouble."
"OK," John said. "Maybe I will."
"See you," B said.
---
John didn't go back to the dinner line that night. Instead, he laid behind the pews, listening with a concentration born of hunger as the priest ate his dinner in the next room. Then the sound of the spoon moving against the bowl suddenly stopped, and was followed by a clatter of dishes.
"Hey kid!" the priest called. John poked his head over the pew.
"Sit down," the priest said. He gestured to the table, where he'd laid out another bowl. John sat down quickly, before the priest could change his mind, and began to eat. This was better food than the refugees had; it was the same sort of potato-based stew, but it had recognizable chunks of meat and vegetables in it, unlike the smooth puree John was used to. Every bite lit a warmth in John's belly, like a feeling of home.
The priest watched from his bed, saying nothing.
That night, John washed his hands in the chapel's head, grateful for the chance to get clean. He soaped up his hands, running them up over his grimy forearms, and scrubbed until his skin ached. Then he rinsed, soaped up again, and rubbed his face.
He filled both hands with water, leaned over the sink, and drove them up into his face, shivering at the shock of the cold water. He did it once, twice, and again, gasping between times, until the water ran down behind his ears.
John wiped his face off with a hand towel, glanced up into the mirror, and realized with a start that he'd grown older. His face was thinner, he'd grown a bit taller, and his hair curled down over his ears. He reached up to touch it, running the wet locks through his fingers. As he did so, he counted the months in his head.
Gods, I guess it's been almost a year, he realized. I missed my birthday.
It wasn't a sad thought, not really. He'd had nobody to share it with, anyway. He hadn't seen his parents in Section 20, not for a while. Maybe they'd died of the Mellorak sickness, like a lot of others; it came and went in cycles, touching off new infections as the civilian population moved through the fleet. If not, maybe they'd moved to another section -- or maybe, as a small voice inside him suggested, they were avoiding him. Maybe they never wanted to see him again.
When he tried, John found he couldn't quite conjure their faces.
As he left the head, the priest glanced over from the other room. "You sleeping here tonight?" he asked.
John nodded.
"Well, clear out in the morning, you understand? I'm having a private meeting, and I don't want you underfoot."
"I will," John promised.
As he curled up behind the pews, John fixed the priest's face in his mind.
It was the only face he knew anymore.
Forward to Part IV: The Accession of Claudius