Through a Glass, Lightly: Set Asunder - Chapter Four
Title: Through a Glass, Lightly: Set Asunder - Chapter Four
Summary: In the aftermath of New Caprica, nothing will be the same.
Genre: Alternate universe, but very familiar.
Rating: T
~ ~ ~ chapter four ~ ~ ~
Somewhere along the line, he'd laid his head back on the pillow and fallen asleep again. When he awakened an indeterminate amount of time later, there was a set of neatly folded clothes at the foot of his bed and a pair of shoes on the floor. Bill winced as he sat up and bit back bile from the gnawing hunger he now felt.
They'd thought of that too, he realized, as his new vantage point showed a small tray with fruits and some sort of soup, covered with a clear glass shield. His stomach growled loudly and he forced himself fully upright. He pulled on the button-down shirt with a great deal of effort as his entire body screamed in pain. The pants were no easier to put on, his ribcage afire from the considerable bruising that colored it. No belt, so he tucked the shirt into the waist to help keep them more comfortably seated above his hips. He didn't bother with the socks as it would have been too painful to bend over again and slip them over his feet. He toed the shoes on and padded over to the food tray, which sat on a small ledge that protruded from the wall. He lifted the lid and picked up a piece of fruit, sniffing it suspiciously.
"It won't bite back," a woman's voice called from the doorway.
He nearly dropped the small yellow fruit as he jumped and turned toward her. It was one of the Six models, though this one had traded the typical bleached blonde hair for a darker honey-toned mane. After seeing so many of them come and go while in detention and the few times he had dared peek out from the underground bunker, to see one so subtly different was intriguing.
She walked slowly into the room and paused halfway between him and the entrance, lacing her fingers together in front of her. Also interesting. This one seemed a bit more subdued, more demure than the hyper-sexualized and overly confident ones he'd seen.
"Why are you holding me?" Bill finally said before taking a small nibble of the unknown fruit. It was surprisingly sweet, contrary to the citrus smell of it. The sugary tang made his mouth water and he had to restrain himself to keep from devouring the rest in a frenzy. Never knew if there was something lacing the food.
Her face flickered and she looked at a spot beyond his shoulder. "I found you," she said a bit hesitantly. "You had been injured in an explosion on New Caprica."
Bill only gave her a terse nod before picking up another piece of fruit. "One of your Raiders crashed. I remember trying to jump out of the way." Unbidden, the memory of trying to dodge the falling machine made him shudder. "I'll assume that I'm a prisoner of war. Some kind of bargaining chip yet to be played."
The Six frowned and turned to the Centurion, who watched the exchange impassively. "Leave us," she ordered sharply. The machine after a moment of hesitation, though the hierarchy was clear as machine deferred to skinjob. She waited until it was out of earshot before speaking again. "I brought you here to be treated," she said. "You would have died otherwise."
"Why?"
Her eyes darted back and forth for a moment, some internal struggle inside her artificial mind making her hesitate. "You were worthy of saving," she finally said.
Bill chuckled wryly and shook his head. "I'm not worth saving any more than anyone else," he said. "Did you find anyone else on the planet and bring them here to be saved?"
The Six blinked and shook her head. "I brought no one else."
The distinction of separating herself from her fellow Cylons gave him pause. "Because you didn't want to or there were no others?" he asked.
She seemed distressed by what he said and her shoulders bowed slightly. She hugged her midsection and looked away from him. "I brought no one else," she repeated.
"I'll take it that I was the only one deemed worthy of saving by you," he decided. "I'm of more use to you than just your average human who happened to be lucky enough to survive the first destruction of our society but not enough for the second." He covered the tray, having only eaten two small pieces of fruit, and returned to his bed. He sat down and swung his feet onto the mattress with a wince of pain. "I won't be your pawn," he said firmly, then turned on his side away from her.
He heard her pick up the tray and leave the room. Seconds later, the Centurion returned to its post, watching silently.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She busied herself the only way she knew how to, by burying herself in her work. She had walked the ship from bow to stern, from port to starboard, personally overseeing many of the repairs. She had even gotten her hands dirty and her uniform stained by oil when she noticed a deckhand struggling with the placement of a primary thrust control of a Viper, almost losing his balance with the effort. She didn't hesitate to grab the machinery and put all of her strength into helping the specialist set it in place, only noting the black stains on her jacket an hour later when another crewman kept glancing down as he made his report. She checked in on Lifestation several times, personally talking with and comforting each of her injured crew. Some had been wounded in the rescue, but many more bore the wounds of detention. It would take longer for the psychological scars to heal.
She wasn't sure hers ever would. But she wasn't the only one. Occasionally, she could see it in their eyes, the accusations, the disappointment. Their commanding officer wasn't there when they needed her and she was suffering the consequences of lost morale now. She knew that the trust would be hard to rebuild, but it was a necessary part of command. She never wanted to let her crew down again. Their safety and security was now her primary concern.
Laura stopped by Saul's quarters twice looking for him, but always found them empty. On the third try, a maintenance worker pointed her to the Observation Deck, where apparently he'd taken up residence of late. She called up to the CIC to assure Helo had things under control, then made her way to the ship's only window to the outside world.
She could smell the sharp tang of alcohol as soon as she entered the room, a real feat given the strong ventilation inside. He barely moved when she closed the hatch behind her, not looking up from his seat in front of the large window. Sighing heavily, she took a seat beside him and looked out into the blackness.
"Hey, Saul," she said quietly.
"Admiral," he slurred, more like a grunt than a real acknowledgment of her position.
Laura stretched her legs out and leaned back in the seat. "Haven't seen you around since..."
"Yeah," he interrupted quickly. "I know." They sat in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. "Heard about Bill."
"Yeah," Laura said, ducking her head and echoing his word softly.
"Gods dammit."
She shut her eyes tight to try to force back the wave of emotion that suddenly rose up inside her. She'd managed to stamp it down over the past two days, existing in a state of numbness brought on by the ceaseless routine of running her ship. She barely made time to eat or sleep, having worked almost the full two days straight. Now that she had finally taken a moment to sit down and relax, the weight of the world suddenly fell on her shoulders and made her want to sink into the floor below.
A few more minutes of silence, then Saul took in a shuddering breath. "I don't think she made it," he said finally. His voice broke on the last words, ending in a hoarse whisper thick with tears.
She didn't have to ask who he meant. Despite her betrayal, Ellen would never leave Saul voluntarily. If she was on another ship, she would have at least let him know, if only to spite him by staying away.
"I know what she did was wrong..." he continued, letting his voice trail off into a whimper. "But I would forgive every damned thing she's ever done if she walked off a Raptor right now. What am I going to do without her?" Saul asked in a breathy rush, his good hand covering his remaining eye in anguish. A broken man, inside and out.
Laura reached up and slid her hand across his shoulders, the rough fabric of his thin jacket scratchy against her palm. She squeezed the bony flesh behind his neck and sighed. "We have a job to do," she said flatly. "Get the fleet to Earth. That comes before everything else, especially everything that we want for ourselves."
Saul chuckled bitterly and took a swig from his silver ankle flask. "I don't know how you do it some days," he said slowly. "Sometimes you're everyone's mother or teacher or gods damned priestess, and sometimes you're just as cold as a Leonis winter. Ice water in those veins of yours."
Laura nodded slightly and reached for the flask dangling loosely in his hand. She took a quick swallow of the rotgut that passed for alcohol on this ship and winced, handing the flask back to him. "I can be cold enough for both of us, Saul," she said. "But I can't do it forever." She stood up and looked down at him in pity. "If you need some time, take it. But if you're not coming back, then let me know. I have a ship to run."
Saul only grunted and took another swig from the flask as Laura left, her burden heavier than before.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Felix felt like a cornered rat, with Zarek looking at him with a dead expression in his eyes despite the swarmy smile he put on. Felix had come back to Colonial One to retrieve the few belongings he had before approaching the Admiral about getting his old position back. He traveled Galactica when it was the least busy, sticking to little-used maintenance corridors and ducking whenever he heard someone approach. After having heard his name cursed threateningly and had a few things thrown at him, he decided it was best to lay low until he could reestablish his place within the CIC. At least, that's how he hoped things would happen.
Zarek leaned back in the opulent leather chair that Baltar had procured from one of the other ships after they landed on New Caprica, behind the overly ostentious carved wooden desk gifted from another. The portrait of their last president still hung on the wall of the office, though it was tilted slightly off balance. He remembered when Baltar sat for the portrait, devoting an entire day to sitting in one place instead of laying in another, falling asleep at times, as the artist worked furiously with wide and seemingly uncontrolled brush strokes to create what he kept calling his greatest masterpiece. The man was the best artist that humanity had left, slightly insane and out of the habit of bathing regularly. His schizophrenic strokes finally coalesced into a decent portrait done in a modern gestural style. Felix and Baltar stood back and admired the artist's work and had to forcefully restrain him from throwing white paint on it in a fit of dissatisfaction. He found himself quickly shown off the ship with his promised cubits pressed into his hands and placed on the no entry list. One of the more genuinely laughable moments of Baltar's failed presidency.
He'd walked in on Baltar abusing his power and station on more than one occasion in this room, from the lines of pills he either swallowed or ground up into a powder and sniffed deeply into his nose, to the lines of women who waited outside to serve at the pleasure of their President, to the lines of citizens petitioning for a change in their living situation while their pleas were heard only by Felix. Baltar could never be bothered to care.
Here he was again, facing a man with charisma and power who sought to change things, though Zarek was a far different man than Baltar. Both were survivalists. Both wanted control. But while Baltar was inept and a puppet of whoever pulled his strings on that particular day, Zarek was one of the master marionette handlers. He'd guided Baltar to the Presidency, groomed him, dictated from the shadows how things should be run. But as soon as the oath of office was administered, Baltar began shutting his mentor out. He stopped including Zarek in his meetings, instead choosing a cabal of mercenaries and merchants who all had their own agendas. There was money to be made, pleasure to be had, and no one, especially not Tom Zarek and his grey morals, was going to stand in Gaius Baltar's sunlight.
Felix had almost made it off the ship before Zarek spotted him in a corridor, apparently he too having taken to hiding in unassuming places. With a smile and a 'let's talk', Felix found himself being escorted back to the office where he had seen more debauchery and wastes of time and resources than he'd cared to in his entire life.
"I'd like to offer you a position within my administration," Zarek said, fiddling with a pen on the desk.
Felix stood with his hands behind his back and at parade rest, a habit hard to break from his military training. This was no different than addressing the Admiral or any other superior officer, with the exception of being able to say no and turn the offer down. He'd gotten almost the exact same opening line from Baltar. How his life would have been different if he had said no that time.
Zarek seemed to sense his hesitancy. "I know that, given the circumstances, you really didn't have a choice in following along with Baltar and the Cylons," he said.
"I didn't follow the Cylons," Felix argued with a shake of his head. "I did everything I could to make sure that they didn't just wipe us all out."
"Right," Zarek said, leaning a bit further back in the chair. "And what exactly did you do?"
Felix knew he could be treading dangerous waters, depending upon how this played out. "I transported copies of documents to the resistance," he said slowly. "Made copies either from the originals or from memory."
"Who was your contact?" Zarek asked.
"I don't know," Felix replied honestly. "I have some ideas, but it was a blind drop type of situation."
"Why did you do it?" Another rapid-fire question designed to throw him off. An interrogation.
He sighed and ran his hand through the unruly curls atop his head. "Anything to piss off the Cylons, I guess. To buy us more time until the Admiral could come back and rescue us."
Zarek leaned forward and laced his fingers together to stop the slight tremor that Felix had noticed a few moments ago. "You're a smart guy, Felix," he said quietly, with a little curl to his lips. "I really could use someone like you. Come work for me," he said, repeating the offer.
Felix put his hand up. "Look, Mister President, I appreciate it," he tried to explain. "But I've had my fill of politics. I think I'd rather go back to my old job on Galactica, if they'll have me."
The older man's jaw clenched and unclenched as he tried to hide his obvious disappointment. "That's your choice," he replied. "I doubt you'll be safe though, with everyone aboard knowing whose side you were on."
Felix felt his face flush with anger. "I was on humanity's side," he snarled. "Where the hell were you the whole time?"
Zarek rolled up his left sleeve and showed off couple of fresh scars, burns from branding by the looks of them. The ones around his wrists looked like they came from the plastic ties they used as temporary cuffs. "Entertaining the Cylons," he said in a cold voice. "I gave them a good show." He shook his head and stood up slowly, meeting Felix's eyes only after a few moments of staring at a spot on the floor. "Good luck to you, Mister Gaeta," he said as he turned away. "I wish things could have been different."
Felix spun on his heel and marched out of the office in a hurry, Zarek's personal guards following him through the ship. He figured it was standard operating procedure, given the precarious situation they were in, until he was grabbed from behind and pistol-whipped into unconsciousness.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There was no sense of time here on the Cylon ship. No day, no night, just the constant white light from above and pulsing red lights in the wall. Occasionally, they would brighten and change in their rhythm, the only inclination that anything was different at all. They pulsed brightly just before they made a jump. Nine so far that he had been awake for, though without any way of keeping time, they could be five minutes or five hours apart.
Hunger was beginning to become an issue, as was the pressing fullness of his bladder. He didn't see any options in the room for either problem and finally walked up to his Centurion guard. "I assume Cylons have to relieve themselves," he said flatly. "So unless you want me pissing in the corner..."
The Centurion's head turned slightly to one side for several seconds before returning its impassive gaze to him. Well, it was better than having a gun leveled at him like last time. A swooshing noise behind him made him turn around to see a narrow panel that had slid open in the wall. The post-apocalyptic equivalent of raising your hand in class to be excused, he supposed.
The tiny space held only a basic toilet, which he gladly made use of, and a cloth on a narrow ledge that he assumed was for cleaning. As soon as he stepped out of the room, the wall closed behind him, forming an invisible seam that he couldn't find with his fingers.
"Sneaky bastards," he muttered.
"Funny," a male voice called from the door. "That's one of the things we were calling you for a while."
A Cavil and a D'anna model had entered the room, he clad in black and she in white. She wore a smile that could only be described as a smirk and Cavil only looked at Bill coldly.
"Glad to see you found the facilities," Cavil said in his typical biting tone.
Bill didn't say a word, only folded his below his hands waist and waited for them to say something worthy of a response.
Cavil seemed to get the hint. "Right," he said shortly. "I'm sure you're wondering why you're here."
"I've sort of figured that part out," Bill bit back.
Cavil raised one hand and waggled his finger. "Probably not, but thanks for actually participating in our discussion." He glanced toward D'anna, who returned his look and quirked one cheek up as she turned back to Bill.
"I came across some very interesting information on New Caprica," she said, beginning a slow pace around the room. Bill remained rooted to his spot and didn't follow her motions, more worried about Cavil and the Centurions than D'anna's passive-aggressive posturing. "I heard from very reliable sources," she said, then paused and gave a wicked little laugh. "Well, as reliable as torture can be, anyway...that the child of Sharon Valerii and Karl Agathon is alive and well aboard Galactica."
Bill felt his heart rate increase but tried not to show any visible signs of unease. "I was on New Caprica for sixteen months," he said carefully. "I have no idea what was going on aboard Galactica."
Cavil rolled his eyes as D'anna chuckled from behind him. "Oh, come on, Bill," Cavil scoffed. "Mind if I call you Bill? Not that it matters anyway. We know about the child. We know about your little tryst with the esteemed Admiral Roslin which, by the way, led to us being able to pretty much walk all over you when we found that shithole of a planet. You know a lot more than you say you do and we know a lot more than you think we do."
"Then you apparently don't know how to defend a shithole," Bill replied with a grim smile.
"Cute," Cavil said with narrowed eyes. "I'll have to remember that one when I need an opening line for our next Cylon staff meeting."
"Cut the crap," D'anna said in irritation, finally growing tired of the verbal sparring between the two of them. "We know that Hera is alive and presumed well aboard Galactica. She's the future of our race. And you are going to tell us everything we want to know and help us get her, whether you want to or not."
~ ~ ~ end chapter four ~ ~ ~
Summary: In the aftermath of New Caprica, nothing will be the same.
Genre: Alternate universe, but very familiar.
Rating: T
~ ~ ~ chapter four ~ ~ ~
Somewhere along the line, he'd laid his head back on the pillow and fallen asleep again. When he awakened an indeterminate amount of time later, there was a set of neatly folded clothes at the foot of his bed and a pair of shoes on the floor. Bill winced as he sat up and bit back bile from the gnawing hunger he now felt.
They'd thought of that too, he realized, as his new vantage point showed a small tray with fruits and some sort of soup, covered with a clear glass shield. His stomach growled loudly and he forced himself fully upright. He pulled on the button-down shirt with a great deal of effort as his entire body screamed in pain. The pants were no easier to put on, his ribcage afire from the considerable bruising that colored it. No belt, so he tucked the shirt into the waist to help keep them more comfortably seated above his hips. He didn't bother with the socks as it would have been too painful to bend over again and slip them over his feet. He toed the shoes on and padded over to the food tray, which sat on a small ledge that protruded from the wall. He lifted the lid and picked up a piece of fruit, sniffing it suspiciously.
"It won't bite back," a woman's voice called from the doorway.
He nearly dropped the small yellow fruit as he jumped and turned toward her. It was one of the Six models, though this one had traded the typical bleached blonde hair for a darker honey-toned mane. After seeing so many of them come and go while in detention and the few times he had dared peek out from the underground bunker, to see one so subtly different was intriguing.
She walked slowly into the room and paused halfway between him and the entrance, lacing her fingers together in front of her. Also interesting. This one seemed a bit more subdued, more demure than the hyper-sexualized and overly confident ones he'd seen.
"Why are you holding me?" Bill finally said before taking a small nibble of the unknown fruit. It was surprisingly sweet, contrary to the citrus smell of it. The sugary tang made his mouth water and he had to restrain himself to keep from devouring the rest in a frenzy. Never knew if there was something lacing the food.
Her face flickered and she looked at a spot beyond his shoulder. "I found you," she said a bit hesitantly. "You had been injured in an explosion on New Caprica."
Bill only gave her a terse nod before picking up another piece of fruit. "One of your Raiders crashed. I remember trying to jump out of the way." Unbidden, the memory of trying to dodge the falling machine made him shudder. "I'll assume that I'm a prisoner of war. Some kind of bargaining chip yet to be played."
The Six frowned and turned to the Centurion, who watched the exchange impassively. "Leave us," she ordered sharply. The machine after a moment of hesitation, though the hierarchy was clear as machine deferred to skinjob. She waited until it was out of earshot before speaking again. "I brought you here to be treated," she said. "You would have died otherwise."
"Why?"
Her eyes darted back and forth for a moment, some internal struggle inside her artificial mind making her hesitate. "You were worthy of saving," she finally said.
Bill chuckled wryly and shook his head. "I'm not worth saving any more than anyone else," he said. "Did you find anyone else on the planet and bring them here to be saved?"
The Six blinked and shook her head. "I brought no one else."
The distinction of separating herself from her fellow Cylons gave him pause. "Because you didn't want to or there were no others?" he asked.
She seemed distressed by what he said and her shoulders bowed slightly. She hugged her midsection and looked away from him. "I brought no one else," she repeated.
"I'll take it that I was the only one deemed worthy of saving by you," he decided. "I'm of more use to you than just your average human who happened to be lucky enough to survive the first destruction of our society but not enough for the second." He covered the tray, having only eaten two small pieces of fruit, and returned to his bed. He sat down and swung his feet onto the mattress with a wince of pain. "I won't be your pawn," he said firmly, then turned on his side away from her.
He heard her pick up the tray and leave the room. Seconds later, the Centurion returned to its post, watching silently.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
She busied herself the only way she knew how to, by burying herself in her work. She had walked the ship from bow to stern, from port to starboard, personally overseeing many of the repairs. She had even gotten her hands dirty and her uniform stained by oil when she noticed a deckhand struggling with the placement of a primary thrust control of a Viper, almost losing his balance with the effort. She didn't hesitate to grab the machinery and put all of her strength into helping the specialist set it in place, only noting the black stains on her jacket an hour later when another crewman kept glancing down as he made his report. She checked in on Lifestation several times, personally talking with and comforting each of her injured crew. Some had been wounded in the rescue, but many more bore the wounds of detention. It would take longer for the psychological scars to heal.
She wasn't sure hers ever would. But she wasn't the only one. Occasionally, she could see it in their eyes, the accusations, the disappointment. Their commanding officer wasn't there when they needed her and she was suffering the consequences of lost morale now. She knew that the trust would be hard to rebuild, but it was a necessary part of command. She never wanted to let her crew down again. Their safety and security was now her primary concern.
Laura stopped by Saul's quarters twice looking for him, but always found them empty. On the third try, a maintenance worker pointed her to the Observation Deck, where apparently he'd taken up residence of late. She called up to the CIC to assure Helo had things under control, then made her way to the ship's only window to the outside world.
She could smell the sharp tang of alcohol as soon as she entered the room, a real feat given the strong ventilation inside. He barely moved when she closed the hatch behind her, not looking up from his seat in front of the large window. Sighing heavily, she took a seat beside him and looked out into the blackness.
"Hey, Saul," she said quietly.
"Admiral," he slurred, more like a grunt than a real acknowledgment of her position.
Laura stretched her legs out and leaned back in the seat. "Haven't seen you around since..."
"Yeah," he interrupted quickly. "I know." They sat in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. "Heard about Bill."
"Yeah," Laura said, ducking her head and echoing his word softly.
"Gods dammit."
She shut her eyes tight to try to force back the wave of emotion that suddenly rose up inside her. She'd managed to stamp it down over the past two days, existing in a state of numbness brought on by the ceaseless routine of running her ship. She barely made time to eat or sleep, having worked almost the full two days straight. Now that she had finally taken a moment to sit down and relax, the weight of the world suddenly fell on her shoulders and made her want to sink into the floor below.
A few more minutes of silence, then Saul took in a shuddering breath. "I don't think she made it," he said finally. His voice broke on the last words, ending in a hoarse whisper thick with tears.
She didn't have to ask who he meant. Despite her betrayal, Ellen would never leave Saul voluntarily. If she was on another ship, she would have at least let him know, if only to spite him by staying away.
"I know what she did was wrong..." he continued, letting his voice trail off into a whimper. "But I would forgive every damned thing she's ever done if she walked off a Raptor right now. What am I going to do without her?" Saul asked in a breathy rush, his good hand covering his remaining eye in anguish. A broken man, inside and out.
Laura reached up and slid her hand across his shoulders, the rough fabric of his thin jacket scratchy against her palm. She squeezed the bony flesh behind his neck and sighed. "We have a job to do," she said flatly. "Get the fleet to Earth. That comes before everything else, especially everything that we want for ourselves."
Saul chuckled bitterly and took a swig from his silver ankle flask. "I don't know how you do it some days," he said slowly. "Sometimes you're everyone's mother or teacher or gods damned priestess, and sometimes you're just as cold as a Leonis winter. Ice water in those veins of yours."
Laura nodded slightly and reached for the flask dangling loosely in his hand. She took a quick swallow of the rotgut that passed for alcohol on this ship and winced, handing the flask back to him. "I can be cold enough for both of us, Saul," she said. "But I can't do it forever." She stood up and looked down at him in pity. "If you need some time, take it. But if you're not coming back, then let me know. I have a ship to run."
Saul only grunted and took another swig from the flask as Laura left, her burden heavier than before.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Felix felt like a cornered rat, with Zarek looking at him with a dead expression in his eyes despite the swarmy smile he put on. Felix had come back to Colonial One to retrieve the few belongings he had before approaching the Admiral about getting his old position back. He traveled Galactica when it was the least busy, sticking to little-used maintenance corridors and ducking whenever he heard someone approach. After having heard his name cursed threateningly and had a few things thrown at him, he decided it was best to lay low until he could reestablish his place within the CIC. At least, that's how he hoped things would happen.
Zarek leaned back in the opulent leather chair that Baltar had procured from one of the other ships after they landed on New Caprica, behind the overly ostentious carved wooden desk gifted from another. The portrait of their last president still hung on the wall of the office, though it was tilted slightly off balance. He remembered when Baltar sat for the portrait, devoting an entire day to sitting in one place instead of laying in another, falling asleep at times, as the artist worked furiously with wide and seemingly uncontrolled brush strokes to create what he kept calling his greatest masterpiece. The man was the best artist that humanity had left, slightly insane and out of the habit of bathing regularly. His schizophrenic strokes finally coalesced into a decent portrait done in a modern gestural style. Felix and Baltar stood back and admired the artist's work and had to forcefully restrain him from throwing white paint on it in a fit of dissatisfaction. He found himself quickly shown off the ship with his promised cubits pressed into his hands and placed on the no entry list. One of the more genuinely laughable moments of Baltar's failed presidency.
He'd walked in on Baltar abusing his power and station on more than one occasion in this room, from the lines of pills he either swallowed or ground up into a powder and sniffed deeply into his nose, to the lines of women who waited outside to serve at the pleasure of their President, to the lines of citizens petitioning for a change in their living situation while their pleas were heard only by Felix. Baltar could never be bothered to care.
Here he was again, facing a man with charisma and power who sought to change things, though Zarek was a far different man than Baltar. Both were survivalists. Both wanted control. But while Baltar was inept and a puppet of whoever pulled his strings on that particular day, Zarek was one of the master marionette handlers. He'd guided Baltar to the Presidency, groomed him, dictated from the shadows how things should be run. But as soon as the oath of office was administered, Baltar began shutting his mentor out. He stopped including Zarek in his meetings, instead choosing a cabal of mercenaries and merchants who all had their own agendas. There was money to be made, pleasure to be had, and no one, especially not Tom Zarek and his grey morals, was going to stand in Gaius Baltar's sunlight.
Felix had almost made it off the ship before Zarek spotted him in a corridor, apparently he too having taken to hiding in unassuming places. With a smile and a 'let's talk', Felix found himself being escorted back to the office where he had seen more debauchery and wastes of time and resources than he'd cared to in his entire life.
"I'd like to offer you a position within my administration," Zarek said, fiddling with a pen on the desk.
Felix stood with his hands behind his back and at parade rest, a habit hard to break from his military training. This was no different than addressing the Admiral or any other superior officer, with the exception of being able to say no and turn the offer down. He'd gotten almost the exact same opening line from Baltar. How his life would have been different if he had said no that time.
Zarek seemed to sense his hesitancy. "I know that, given the circumstances, you really didn't have a choice in following along with Baltar and the Cylons," he said.
"I didn't follow the Cylons," Felix argued with a shake of his head. "I did everything I could to make sure that they didn't just wipe us all out."
"Right," Zarek said, leaning a bit further back in the chair. "And what exactly did you do?"
Felix knew he could be treading dangerous waters, depending upon how this played out. "I transported copies of documents to the resistance," he said slowly. "Made copies either from the originals or from memory."
"Who was your contact?" Zarek asked.
"I don't know," Felix replied honestly. "I have some ideas, but it was a blind drop type of situation."
"Why did you do it?" Another rapid-fire question designed to throw him off. An interrogation.
He sighed and ran his hand through the unruly curls atop his head. "Anything to piss off the Cylons, I guess. To buy us more time until the Admiral could come back and rescue us."
Zarek leaned forward and laced his fingers together to stop the slight tremor that Felix had noticed a few moments ago. "You're a smart guy, Felix," he said quietly, with a little curl to his lips. "I really could use someone like you. Come work for me," he said, repeating the offer.
Felix put his hand up. "Look, Mister President, I appreciate it," he tried to explain. "But I've had my fill of politics. I think I'd rather go back to my old job on Galactica, if they'll have me."
The older man's jaw clenched and unclenched as he tried to hide his obvious disappointment. "That's your choice," he replied. "I doubt you'll be safe though, with everyone aboard knowing whose side you were on."
Felix felt his face flush with anger. "I was on humanity's side," he snarled. "Where the hell were you the whole time?"
Zarek rolled up his left sleeve and showed off couple of fresh scars, burns from branding by the looks of them. The ones around his wrists looked like they came from the plastic ties they used as temporary cuffs. "Entertaining the Cylons," he said in a cold voice. "I gave them a good show." He shook his head and stood up slowly, meeting Felix's eyes only after a few moments of staring at a spot on the floor. "Good luck to you, Mister Gaeta," he said as he turned away. "I wish things could have been different."
Felix spun on his heel and marched out of the office in a hurry, Zarek's personal guards following him through the ship. He figured it was standard operating procedure, given the precarious situation they were in, until he was grabbed from behind and pistol-whipped into unconsciousness.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
There was no sense of time here on the Cylon ship. No day, no night, just the constant white light from above and pulsing red lights in the wall. Occasionally, they would brighten and change in their rhythm, the only inclination that anything was different at all. They pulsed brightly just before they made a jump. Nine so far that he had been awake for, though without any way of keeping time, they could be five minutes or five hours apart.
Hunger was beginning to become an issue, as was the pressing fullness of his bladder. He didn't see any options in the room for either problem and finally walked up to his Centurion guard. "I assume Cylons have to relieve themselves," he said flatly. "So unless you want me pissing in the corner..."
The Centurion's head turned slightly to one side for several seconds before returning its impassive gaze to him. Well, it was better than having a gun leveled at him like last time. A swooshing noise behind him made him turn around to see a narrow panel that had slid open in the wall. The post-apocalyptic equivalent of raising your hand in class to be excused, he supposed.
The tiny space held only a basic toilet, which he gladly made use of, and a cloth on a narrow ledge that he assumed was for cleaning. As soon as he stepped out of the room, the wall closed behind him, forming an invisible seam that he couldn't find with his fingers.
"Sneaky bastards," he muttered.
"Funny," a male voice called from the door. "That's one of the things we were calling you for a while."
A Cavil and a D'anna model had entered the room, he clad in black and she in white. She wore a smile that could only be described as a smirk and Cavil only looked at Bill coldly.
"Glad to see you found the facilities," Cavil said in his typical biting tone.
Bill didn't say a word, only folded his below his hands waist and waited for them to say something worthy of a response.
Cavil seemed to get the hint. "Right," he said shortly. "I'm sure you're wondering why you're here."
"I've sort of figured that part out," Bill bit back.
Cavil raised one hand and waggled his finger. "Probably not, but thanks for actually participating in our discussion." He glanced toward D'anna, who returned his look and quirked one cheek up as she turned back to Bill.
"I came across some very interesting information on New Caprica," she said, beginning a slow pace around the room. Bill remained rooted to his spot and didn't follow her motions, more worried about Cavil and the Centurions than D'anna's passive-aggressive posturing. "I heard from very reliable sources," she said, then paused and gave a wicked little laugh. "Well, as reliable as torture can be, anyway...that the child of Sharon Valerii and Karl Agathon is alive and well aboard Galactica."
Bill felt his heart rate increase but tried not to show any visible signs of unease. "I was on New Caprica for sixteen months," he said carefully. "I have no idea what was going on aboard Galactica."
Cavil rolled his eyes as D'anna chuckled from behind him. "Oh, come on, Bill," Cavil scoffed. "Mind if I call you Bill? Not that it matters anyway. We know about the child. We know about your little tryst with the esteemed Admiral Roslin which, by the way, led to us being able to pretty much walk all over you when we found that shithole of a planet. You know a lot more than you say you do and we know a lot more than you think we do."
"Then you apparently don't know how to defend a shithole," Bill replied with a grim smile.
"Cute," Cavil said with narrowed eyes. "I'll have to remember that one when I need an opening line for our next Cylon staff meeting."
"Cut the crap," D'anna said in irritation, finally growing tired of the verbal sparring between the two of them. "We know that Hera is alive and presumed well aboard Galactica. She's the future of our race. And you are going to tell us everything we want to know and help us get her, whether you want to or not."
~ ~ ~ end chapter four ~ ~ ~