The Devil You Know Pt 2
Thanks to SVR and Ellisandra for awesome beta work and for letting me rack their brains.
New Caprica
6 months before the Occupation
Laura stood outside her tent and looked up and down the dull row of dark green shelters. As near as anyone could figure, it was summer. Yet the wind was bracing, even in the morning, and temperatures were mild only on the rare sunny day.
Some families had made attempts to customize their makeshift homes. One tent had colourful strips of material tied to its main support brace. The colours flapped and swirled in the wind. From another she heard the faint clinking of tiny pebbles against an empty ration can. The sound was just perceptible below the ever-present drone of the public address system.
Which way? Laura closed her eyes and tried to picture the school tent, but she could not focus. The wind roared by her ears, people were chatting, arguing and children were laughing and screaming. A dog barked in the distance. Everything was louder and somehow more vivid. Her mind fed her a jumble of images and sensations.
The blush on Bill’s face when she’d pulled her wrap around her shoulders.
A concrete floor, damp and cold against her naked skin.
The press of the edge of Richard’s desk against the back of her thighs.
A blonde Cylon, her hair as bright as the sun, stroking her face.
The wet heat of a long desired kiss.
The glitter of Bill’s uniform buttons and rank insignia in the sunlight when she had waited for him to wake.
She shook her head and turned her face into the bitter wind. The images faded.
I can get through this.
She took a deep breath, wrapped her arms across her middle and opened her eyes. She had just spotted a familiar looking young boy running recklessly through the sea of legs in front of him when she felt Maya’s hand on her shoulder.
“Good morning, ma’am.” Maya said gently and shifted Isis against her hip.
“Hello Maya.” Laura reached to brush her finger over Isis’ cheek. “And good morning to you too, little one.” Isis let out a wet sounding giggle and swatted at Laura’s hand. She then tucked her head against Maya’s chest and away from the wind.
In that moment, Laura felt grounded and the two women set off towards the school.
***
Battlestar Galactica
6 months before the Occupation
His comm buzzed for the second time. I feel like crap. Why didn’t I just tell Saul to go away?
Adama leaned out of his rack and groped for the receiver. It slipped from his hand as he went to open the line and he groaned at the clatter when it struck the bulkhead. He sat up. He felt an unwelcome twinge in his back as he reached over to collect the phone.
“Go,” he said automatically, breaking the string of confused greetings from the crewman on the other end. He worked the fingers of his other hand into the muscles of his lower back and tried to stop the spasms.
“Sir? Sorry to disturb you, sir, but President Baltar has moved up the time of your meeting to 06:30 hours.”
Adama glanced at his clock. 05:15. Fifteen minutes before Jaffey -- no, Manchin now -- would bring his coffee and breakfast.
“Alert the hangar bay to have a Raptor prepped and ready in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Adama put a hand over his eyes and reached to turn on the light over his rack. He winced at brightness that slipped through the gaps between his fingers.
As he moved to the head he slowly peeled off the alcohol stained remainders of his uniform. He turned on the shower and didn’t wait for it to heat up before he stepped fully into the stream of water. His whole body spasmed at the chill, but his head cleared. He rubbed the military issue soap over his aching muscles while the water slowly heated to scorching. The transition was familiar.
The memory was blurred at the edges and seemed to threaten to slip away if he focused all of his attention on it. He soaped his hair. The mind numbing after effects of weed and alcohol had left him with the memory of an intense mix of hot and cold and a lingering impression of her body, soft and yielding, under his hands. Laura.
Desire. Regret. Fear. The same litany of emotions he always seemed to experience in her presence warred automatically for his attention. Only this time there was something more. He turned his face into the scalding spray. Hope.
The memory may have been fleeting but he knew … knew … that Laura had responded to his reckless advance.
She was drunk. High. It was a moment of weakness, nothing more. When you see her again, nothing will have changed. You can take comfort in that.
He turned off the taps and rested his head against the slick tile. Steam continued to rise around him.
Maybe I don’t want that comfort.
Grabbing a towel, he drew it roughly over his skin. His mind was threatening to indulge in what that night might have led to and he was already halfway hard.
A knock at the hatch signaled that his coffee had arrived. It jarred his mind into military mode and he made quick work of donning a fresh uniform and collecting his breakfast. He turned his thoughts towards Baltar and the impending meeting.
He downed the coffee and stuffed a crusty piece of toast into his mouth.
***
Colonial One
1 hour later.
“Mmm… yes … right there.” President Gaius Baltar was stretched out on his leather sofa, naked to the waist. A woman leaned over him. Her long black hair occasionally made teasing contact with his skin. Her chest strained against her low cut blouse, its styling was similar to a maid’s, and she continued to work the muscles of his back with long, lean fingers.
“Mr. President!”
Why in God’s name are you yelling? Baltar realized that the same voice had been begging for his attention for some time. He lifted his head fractionally and fixed Gaeta with an annoyed glare.
“What?” God, woman, don’t stop.
Gaeta looked mortified. “Sir, Admiral Adama and Minister Markos are waiting.”
Oh. Frak. He sat up abruptly and pushed away … Rachel’s? Diane’s? … hands from where they hovered over his skin.
“So sorry, dear.” He ran his finger down the outside of her arm. “This will only take a minute.” He was momentarily distracted by the sheen of the massage oil on her fingers and the heaving cleavage now at eye level.
“Sir!”
Reluctantly turning his head, Baltar began a frantic search for his shirt and ended up on his knees beside the sofa to reach for it underneath. He could feel her gaze on his rear.
Wait. Am I the President or not? “Tell the Admiral and Mister Markos that I’ll see them when I’m ready.”
“But sir, the schedule change, they’ve been waiting almost half an hour.”
So Adama will be even grumpier than usual. So what. You’ve really got to shake all that military discipline, Mister Gaeta.
“And?” He glared at Gaeta from the floor.
Gaeta took a step back.
“I’ll tell them, sir.”
“Good.” Baltar dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He took his time shrugging back into his shirt and allowed … definitely Diane … to do up the buttons. The fabric stuck slightly to the oil on his back. He kissed her chin gently. “I’ll be back.”
He pulled on his suit coat and glanced at the tie that was strewn over the arm of the sofa. He decided against it.
When he finally crossed into his office the Admiral’s glare could have killed him where he stood.
“Thank you both for coming.” Keep a straight face. Just get it over with.
Markos nodded. Adama’s expression remained unchanged.
“Right then. I’ll make this quick. Admiral, you’ve met my Minister of Public Security?”
Adama glanced to where Markos stood with his hands braced on a chair. “At least three times before, Mr. President,” he said, somehow managing not to sound disrespectful. “He’s brought me up to speed on recruitment and training efforts for the civilian police.”
“Excellent,” Baltar leaned his hip onto his desk and scooped up the papers that Gaeta had left for him on the surface. He handed them to Markos. “You will provide Mr. Markos with any support or material that he may require.”
“Understood.” Adama nodded almost imperceptibly.
Well, that was easy.
“You know,” Baltar walked casually around his desk and sat down. “It pleases me that you and Mr. Markos are getting along so well. In fact … we’ve decided … well … I’ve decided that any further communication between this office and the military will take place through him.”
Adama’s cheek twitched. “That’s hardly practical. There are times when I will need to contact you directly.”
Baltar grabbed a cigarette from a worn box on his desk. He lit it, sat back in his chair and regarded Adama through the smoke. “Yes, of course … you’re right. Only I’ll decide when those times are.”
“The Cylons -“
“Have been gone a long time. I don’t need you to approve of this arrangement, just to follow orders. That is what you do … isn’t it?” I’m pissing you off aren’t I? Must you always stand like that …have you any idea what psychologists would say about where you’ve got your hands folded?
“Are we done here?”
“Ah, ah,” Baltar waggled a finger at Adama and indicated Markos. He turned his back on the Admiral and reached to extinguish the cigarette. He could hear the drone of Markos’ voice as he parted the curtains to his quarters and left the room entirely.
An impish smile on his face, Baltar sauntered up to Diane and slipped his arms around her waist.
“So,” he said softly and paused to nip at her earlobe, “where were we?”
***
New Caprica
School Tent
5 months, 3weeks before the Occupation
The tent was large compared to what the colonists were using for their homes. Tables had been begged and borrowed from every ship that was willing to spare them. Baltar had replaced almost everything in her office in a matter of weeks and she had been able to lay claim to her desk. It sat at an angle at the front of the room. There was always a healthy dusting of chalk along its edge as it sat near the bank of blackboards that had been lifted from a storage room on the Galactica.
Early on the kids had enjoyed kicking sand at each other under the tables. There had been several accidentally dropped writing utensils for the purpose of snagging a few handfuls to be slipped down the backs of, or generally tossed at, nearby classmates. Laura had put a stop to it quickly. The near impossible task of washing all the sand from the tables and chairs was an excellent deterrent, especially when the guilty students knew that their friends were out having fun.
It had been a long time and she had forgotten how consuming the job could be. Every minute of the day there were students at her elbow. They asked for help, begged for stories or field trips or just an ear to listen to the excited retelling of something that had happened at what passed for home. It was as rewarding as it was exhausting.
At the end of another day, she collapsed into the chair behind her desk. She watched the slight tremor in her hands as she sifted through the papers on its surface, looking for the seating plan.
Corina Avalon, Adam Brooks, Henry Edom, Peter Grey, Nathan Icaria, Lucia Kalamata -
Laura stopped when the names seemed to blur. She sighed. Halfway through today’s algebra lesson all of her students’ names had dropped from her mind. She had made it though the lesson. Barely.
She set the seating plan back down on her desk and closed her eyes. She leaned back in her chair, pulled off her glasses and rested them as quietly as possible on the desk. She pressed her fingers to the bone next to her right eye. A little more pressure and she could almost pretend that her searing headache was bearable. You won’t be able to ignore this. You should go before--.
Someone cleared his throat.
She took a deep breath, slowly dropped her hand and opened her eyes. Frak that hurts. She blinked rapidly and tried to force her mind to focus on the face in front of her.
Wally Grey.
Laura’s already churning stomach sank. Playing the political game always came with a cost, in this case a long and dear friendship. She found Wally’s eyes and waited for him to break the silence unsure of how he would react to her.
“Look,” Wally shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He had lost weight but not his bad taste in shirts. “I’m just here about Peter.”
So I’m not forgiven.
“All right,” she said quietly and folded her hands on the desk.
“I … um … probably should have told you this sooner … somehow I just figured he would take care of it himself … twelve year olds …” He shook his head and gestured to the tables behind him. “Peter sits in the back row?”
Laura glanced surreptitiously at the seating plan and nodded. Wally sighed.
“He won’t be able to see a thing from there. He ruined his glasses on the pyramid court … he knew better … and I haven’t had any way of replacing them since the attack.” He paused and she caught a hint of a smile. “Don’t suppose you know if any optometrists survived?”
Her gentle laugh echoed loudly in her ears. She winced. “I’ll move him closer to the front.”
“You all right, Laura?” Wally still looked uncomfortable but he didn’t leave.
She ignored the question and the fact that Wally appeared three times taller than he should. “What have you been doing, Wally?”
“Me? Well … someone must have convinced Baltar that I’m still useful to the government. I’m in charge of verifying the inventory of our supplies and preparing plans for their distribution. I’ve been through half of the grounded ships. It’s slow work.” Wally’s voice was as monotonous as ever.
The tables in front of her were tiny and they were moving. Her heart began to pound. Wally, you need to go.
“Any surprises?” she managed.
Wally snickered. “Some. The Gemenon Traveler carried live chickens. They claim it was for religious purposes. Nothing religious about that smell.” His smile disappeared. “Peter’s not giving you any trouble is he?”
Laura could do no more than shake her head in the negative. The tent expanded. Contracted. At some point, ancient text appeared on the blackboard.
No. Not now. Not in front of Wally.
“I swear that kid is always doing at least three things at once.” Wally continued, oblivious to Laura’s discomfort. He’s been like that since he was two.” He looked away from Laura. “It’s been worse since the attacks.”
Her head picked that moment to ache with frightening intensity. Her ears began to ring. She couldn’t suppress a gasp as she dropped her head into her hand. Someone was talking but the throbbing and ringing would not subside enough for her to understand the words.
She felt a warm hand on her back. She forced her eyes open and struggled to recognize the woman leaning over her.
***
3 days later
Everything is slow, blurry. The light fades to darkness and she is left with the voices. She wants them to go away and they won’t. They are not normal; they are atrophied somehow.
I’m afraid the mass is malignant.
Laura … oh Laura, I’m so sorry. There’s been an accident.
… And unto the leader they gave a vision of serpents, numbering two and ten …
My parents are going to meet me in the spaceport. On Caprica City. We’re going to dinner. And I’m having chicken pie. And then daddy’s going to read to me. Then I’m going to bed.
Laura, honey, it’ll just be you now. You’ve always been strong … just … promise me you won’t spend your life alone.
My father’s been shot
Lords of Kobol, we trust in your benevolence and praise your righteousness. Give the people of this fleet the wisdom to see the goodness and the strength of your servant, Laura Roslin. Amen.
What are you waiting for? Restrain her and do it.
Her muscles go limp and she slides from her makeshift bed to the sand lined floor of her tent. She doesn’t like the floor. She doesn’t want to be there but she can’t stop herself. She hates the sand. It’s all over her. She tries to reach to brush it away only her mind can’t make her hand move. She tries her other hand.
Nothing works.
There is a blinding flash and suddenly she is walking alone. Sand shifts under her bare feet, searing her pale skin.
The horizon is endless.
The sun, its disk hanging oppressively low over the sand, has turned the sky white. The landscape shudders as it throws off the endless pounding heat.
She has so far to go.
Even though her eyes cannot perceive it, she knows that her destination lies ahead of her. It will be blue and green and cool and it will be home.
Seconds feel like hours.
There is no breeze, no sound.
The heart of the day offers no distraction. No respite from the blazing sun.
Sweat runs down her stomach and her arms and the back of her legs. It stings. She feels the sun scorch the salty liquid from her skin and feels the resulting blisters as they form and bubble and crack. The pain is beyond reason.
Still she walks on.
Her head begins to swim, spin, and her heartbeat races in her chest. Her stomach roils and she tastes the tang of bile in the back of her throat.
The sand is deeper now, heavier, and hotter and the muscles in her legs are cramping. Her vision is reduced to flashes: blues and oranges and reds as deep as the red of her blood.
Her skin is suddenly on fire and she knows that she has fallen. She is taking in sand with every breath. The grains are gritty and sharp and she can feel her throat begin to bleed. She wants to cry in frustration but there is no moisture left in her for tears.
Slowly, slowly she begins to sink.
The hiss of the sand rising around her is deafening. Its weight increases increases increases until it’s crushing on her back. Consumed with panic, she opens her mouth to scream and the sand rushes in. Its weight settles in her lungs. It’s dry and it’s heavy and it’s choking. She can feel the sand crawling slowly through her heart with the blood. She is choking and her heart is failing and --
“Laura.”
She recognizes the voice. It is soft and rough and male. Her mind clings to it like a lifeline and the panic begins to ebb.
“You’re shaking.”
She is almost slippery in his arms; her body is so drenched in cold sweat. Shudders run through her. His touch and the press of his body against hers can do little to still them. She pushes her hands against his chest and he doesn’t resist. He lets her push away and watches confused as she struggles to back away from him.
It was noon. On one of countless dreary days. A mining survey team had been scheduled for planet fall and on the last minute he had decided to join them. Frak Baltar and his protocols, he was not going to submit a landing request only to have it languish for weeks on Markos’ desk. This was Admiral’s prerogative. Plain and simple. His personal life wasn’t anyone’s business.
The rain had been light. Tory had tried to stop him outside of Laura’s tent.
“You don’t want to go in there, sir.” Her grip on his arm was tight.
“Why?” He fixed the young woman with a hair-straightening glare.
“Miss Roslin has asked that her privacy be respected.”
It was then that Laura screamed.
“Like hell.”
He had nearly torn the sturdy green fabric in his haste to open the tent.
Now as he knelt across from Laura, her breathing loud and ragged in the space between them, he tried to decide what might have caused this.
She was preoccupied with the floor of the tent near her feet. Her head was cradled in her hands and she rocked back and forth on her heels.
“Laura -“
“We’re here. Admiral Adama and Tory Foster. Laura, you’re in your tent,” came from Tory behind him.
When she looked up this time she saw him. He could read the recognition and her embarrassment on her face.
“Go away, Bill,” her voice wavered slightly. She cleared her throat and ran her hand over the ground, but did not touch it. “Frakking sand … I can’t get away from the frakking sand.”
He didn’t move. She didn’t look hurt and Tory seemed to know what was going on. He didn’t want to leave her shaking on the floor of her tent.
“Can I get someone?” He said at last.
She had her face pressed against her knees but lifted it when she realized that no one had left.
“No!” Her voice was harsh, sharper now that he’d ever heard it. She sat back fully onto her heels and tried to relax her shoulders. Seemingly shocked at the sound of her own voice, she took a deep breath and started again.
“No. Please.” There was a long pause. “I’m sorry, I can’t think. I just need to be alone. I’m all right Bill … I will be all right.”
He studied her eyes then. They were calm; they held his gaze effortlessly and kept him from seeing the woman with the wild hair and clinging nightgown who continued to clutch at her legs.
You don’t look all right, Laura. Even when you were sick, you never looked like this. I never saw you like this. The mental correction stung. He knew that Laura had suffered with the cancer but she had kept so much to herself. He pictured her like this in her tiny personal space on Colonial One and his chest ached. Maybe Billy had been a comfort to her.
He folded his hands in front of him and lifted his chin. She doesn’t want your help.
“Will I see you at the blessing?” he asked. New Caprica had been graced with its first native resident. A ceremony had been planned to mark the occasion.
She nodded her head and didn’t offer any further words. It took all of his strength to turn from her. He grabbed Tory’s arm as he stepped from the tent and they stood out in the now pouring rain.
“What’s going on?” He tried to keep his disappointment out of his voice. The sand was rapidly turning to mud.
She shook out of his grip.
“I’m not sure she’d want me to tell you. You weren’t supposed to be planet side until next month.”
He wanted to shake Tory, yell at her, anything that might get him a better answer. He would stand until he was soaked to the bone if that was what it took.
“It will pass, sir,” was all she offered.
***
Continued in part 3