The Resistance
The day after the shooting on consecrated ground that takes ten lives, protests erupt outside of Colonial One as people swarm to the steps by the hundreds. Gaeta watches through the windows with the others and thinks, Somebody should go out there and talk to them. If they don't calm down, it could generate even more violence.
That lasts for no more than a fleeting half-second before he turns away.
It's sure as hell not going to be him. Not this time. Not after something like this.
He steps into Milliways a few hours after. The crowds seem thinner than usual, the bubble of noises quieter; he's able to walk a straight line with no effort and take a seat on one of the bar's many vacant stools.
When he still hasn't placed an order after almost ten minutes, a tentative napkin materializes to the left of his arm. Can I get you anything while you're waiting, Felix?
Gaeta meets his eyes in the mirror behind the bar, the lines of alcohol bottles framing his reflection. He hasn't slept much lately; it shows, in the thin shadows under his eyes and the way his whole expression seems to have dragged downward, like it's pulled by a weight.
Sixty-nine days have passed since he saw Galactica vanish on local DRADIS. Multiple years have apparently gone by -- two, three, possibly even four -- since the admiral last visited the bar. For the first time, a thought kept isolated and tightly curled unfolds, inch by inch, to wrap around the others like a strangling vine.
Adama's not coming back.
The realization knots his stomach. Sickened with it, Gaeta closes his eyes, rubs a hand over his suddenly cold face. "No," he says, easing out the word around the constriction in his throat. He lets his hand drop and rests his palm flat against the bartop. "I'm done waiting, but, uh...you don't have to hang onto my notebook any longer. I'll take it home with me."
The wood of the bar mounds up under his hand, smoothing from grain to plastic. Gaeta slides his hand over the surface and meets the one hundred and thirty-five degree angle of the notebook's topmost corner. He pushes his fingertip against it, letting the point dig into his skin.
Maybe the information inside won't stop another shooting. That doesn't matter.
It's better than doing nothing.
"Thank you," he murmurs at last as he slips the notebook off of the Bar, getting to his feet. His coat pocket fits around the cover like a snugly-made sleeve; hands at his sides, he leaves as silent, and quickly, as he arrived.
"Mr. Gaeta."
Seated at his desk, Gaeta looks up from the official report on the temple shooting and into the craggy face of a One. The lines around the Cylon's mouth deepen as he smiles an empty, patronizing smirk, tapping the pages of the report with a small envelope.
"We're making a little field trip to the school." His voice soaks up the condescension of his expression. "If you'd be so kind as to accompany us."
Gaeta straightens. He doesn't deign to start his sentence with sir. "If this is about the talk of closing the school," he begins, only to be cut off as the One drops the envelope on top of the report.
"We'll discuss that on the way over," he says, and nods to the envelope as if expecting Gaeta to pick it up.
Gaeta doesn't move. "I have recent statistics on hand," he says instead, voice level, "that can testify to the necessity, the effectiveness, and," his fingers spread over the paper, "the harmlessness of New Caprica's educational system. I would be glad to present them to you before you make your final decision." A beat. "I'd be equally glad to collect more data, if you'd prefer."
The One snorts in plain amusement. "That's not going to be necessary, Mr. Gaeta." The smile disappears. "Either option. I'm not in the mood to humor you any more than my brothers and sisters are -- now," and he gestures to the envelope, "pick up the warrant like a good boy and come with us."
Silence follows, only broken by the long, low scrape of Gaeta's chair against the floor. He grasps the envelope between two fingers and stands, slowly, without looking away from the One. The Cylon's mouth curls.
"There we go," he all but croons in approval as Gaeta grits his teeth. Turning, the One waves over a few more skinjobs -- a mix of Ones, Threes, and Fives -- and heads to the front door. With little other choice, Gaeta falls in step behind them.
Finding Roslin once they arrive proves more difficult. A One (possibly the same as before, possibly a different copy -- it's not as if he can tell) instructs the group to split up, some taking the main school, some the storage area, others Roslin's personal tent. Gaeta and a Three end up in the storage tent together for as brief a time as it takes to check behind each stack of musty-smelling boxes -- as if she's hiding, not as if she's merely gone to fetch more supplies for her students. It's as condescending a gesture as the One's smile, the words that all but patted Gaeta on the head like a six-year-old.
But as he leans around a stack piled atop one of the chairs in the room, Gaeta's shoulder jostles the second box.
A scrap of paper flutters to the floor.
He frowns, but doesn't pause: doesn't consider, or even wonder. Something deeper than conscious thought, running constant calculations and probabilities and reasoning out every angle in the room, compels him to pick it up without yet knowing why. As he turns, he tucks the paper into his coat in the same movement, wiping the dust from his fingers on the hem.
"She's not here," Gaeta reports to the Three, and walks to the tent flap without further comment.
Where she is: down by the river with her students, pointing out the differences in the short, stubby grasses that grow along its banks.
Gaeta hands her the envelope. He lets the One explain why.
Much later, he takes out the slip of paper he found and unfolds it. It looks like nothing but a supply list, with additional marginalia indicating the purpose of each item, but he knows his tactics, and he knows his cryptography: nothing hidden should be taken at face value, even when it appears innocent. Maybe especially then.
Within a day, he's worked out the code.
In the earliest morning hours, alone in his tent, he adds handfuls of more current information to the notebook: conversations overheard; daily routines for each model; the progress of their most recent projects, including recruitment incentives for the humans-only New Caprica Police Force. Deliberately, Gaeta messes his handwriting to a sloping and looping scrawl, then recopies his previous notes to the same.
In his head, he starts another list and places Roslin's name at the top of it.
Jake, reads the tag at the dog's throat. His owners continued to keep him tied up outside even after the occupation started; Gaeta took to visiting him every so often once he noticed, sometimes with leftover food from Milliways in hand, in a cautious attempt to keep an eye on him. The dog licks Gaeta's fingers with unrestrained enthusiasm when he's scratched under the chin, whining excitedly the whole while.
"Hi, Jake. How're you doing?" murmurs Gaeta. He crouches down, the neat hem of his pants denting out lines in the dust. To his left, Jake's plastic bowl sits half-upended: one side's lifted in the air and the other's weighed down by scraps. Gaeta reaches out to sift through the food. "They feeding you okay?"
They can't feed him much, by the looks of it: rotted vegetable tops, rinds, a few lumps of something he hopes is processed chicken. It's more like a compost heap than a meal. Sighing and shaking his head, he scoops out the worst bits to toss aside, and without the weight to pin it down, the bowl drops flat. A small puff of dust billows out on impact.
He pauses. Jake, noticing the scritches have stopped, sticks his nose against Gaeta's palm as a reminder. Gaeta rubs the dog's ears in reply, slower this time and far more distracted.
With two fingers, he tips the yellow bowl all the way forward until it lands face down in another tiny dust cloud. He picks it up. Turns it over again. As he does, he eyes the garbage dump further down the street.
Its drawers are much better suited to hold thick, heavy objects. Discarded cans. Torn clothes.
Old notebooks.
"I'll bring you something next time," he promises, straightening up so fast as to almost be abrupt, and gives Jake a quick, conciliatory pat before dashing away.
Gaeta drags Colonial One's trash over to the dump and discards the notebook in a separate drawer alongside it. Casually, as he walks away, he steps on the yellow dog bowl to flip it upside down.
The note he leaves in the school's storage tent -- wrapped in the original message he found, and coded in the same language -- consists of two sentences.
Garbage dump, 2 down, 4th from left, it says. Flip Jake's bowl when received.
That lasts for no more than a fleeting half-second before he turns away.
It's sure as hell not going to be him. Not this time. Not after something like this.
He steps into Milliways a few hours after. The crowds seem thinner than usual, the bubble of noises quieter; he's able to walk a straight line with no effort and take a seat on one of the bar's many vacant stools.
When he still hasn't placed an order after almost ten minutes, a tentative napkin materializes to the left of his arm. Can I get you anything while you're waiting, Felix?
Gaeta meets his eyes in the mirror behind the bar, the lines of alcohol bottles framing his reflection. He hasn't slept much lately; it shows, in the thin shadows under his eyes and the way his whole expression seems to have dragged downward, like it's pulled by a weight.
Sixty-nine days have passed since he saw Galactica vanish on local DRADIS. Multiple years have apparently gone by -- two, three, possibly even four -- since the admiral last visited the bar. For the first time, a thought kept isolated and tightly curled unfolds, inch by inch, to wrap around the others like a strangling vine.
Adama's not coming back.
The realization knots his stomach. Sickened with it, Gaeta closes his eyes, rubs a hand over his suddenly cold face. "No," he says, easing out the word around the constriction in his throat. He lets his hand drop and rests his palm flat against the bartop. "I'm done waiting, but, uh...you don't have to hang onto my notebook any longer. I'll take it home with me."
The wood of the bar mounds up under his hand, smoothing from grain to plastic. Gaeta slides his hand over the surface and meets the one hundred and thirty-five degree angle of the notebook's topmost corner. He pushes his fingertip against it, letting the point dig into his skin.
Maybe the information inside won't stop another shooting. That doesn't matter.
It's better than doing nothing.
"Thank you," he murmurs at last as he slips the notebook off of the Bar, getting to his feet. His coat pocket fits around the cover like a snugly-made sleeve; hands at his sides, he leaves as silent, and quickly, as he arrived.
"Mr. Gaeta."
Seated at his desk, Gaeta looks up from the official report on the temple shooting and into the craggy face of a One. The lines around the Cylon's mouth deepen as he smiles an empty, patronizing smirk, tapping the pages of the report with a small envelope.
"We're making a little field trip to the school." His voice soaks up the condescension of his expression. "If you'd be so kind as to accompany us."
Gaeta straightens. He doesn't deign to start his sentence with sir. "If this is about the talk of closing the school," he begins, only to be cut off as the One drops the envelope on top of the report.
"We'll discuss that on the way over," he says, and nods to the envelope as if expecting Gaeta to pick it up.
Gaeta doesn't move. "I have recent statistics on hand," he says instead, voice level, "that can testify to the necessity, the effectiveness, and," his fingers spread over the paper, "the harmlessness of New Caprica's educational system. I would be glad to present them to you before you make your final decision." A beat. "I'd be equally glad to collect more data, if you'd prefer."
The One snorts in plain amusement. "That's not going to be necessary, Mr. Gaeta." The smile disappears. "Either option. I'm not in the mood to humor you any more than my brothers and sisters are -- now," and he gestures to the envelope, "pick up the warrant like a good boy and come with us."
Silence follows, only broken by the long, low scrape of Gaeta's chair against the floor. He grasps the envelope between two fingers and stands, slowly, without looking away from the One. The Cylon's mouth curls.
"There we go," he all but croons in approval as Gaeta grits his teeth. Turning, the One waves over a few more skinjobs -- a mix of Ones, Threes, and Fives -- and heads to the front door. With little other choice, Gaeta falls in step behind them.
Finding Roslin once they arrive proves more difficult. A One (possibly the same as before, possibly a different copy -- it's not as if he can tell) instructs the group to split up, some taking the main school, some the storage area, others Roslin's personal tent. Gaeta and a Three end up in the storage tent together for as brief a time as it takes to check behind each stack of musty-smelling boxes -- as if she's hiding, not as if she's merely gone to fetch more supplies for her students. It's as condescending a gesture as the One's smile, the words that all but patted Gaeta on the head like a six-year-old.
But as he leans around a stack piled atop one of the chairs in the room, Gaeta's shoulder jostles the second box.
A scrap of paper flutters to the floor.
He frowns, but doesn't pause: doesn't consider, or even wonder. Something deeper than conscious thought, running constant calculations and probabilities and reasoning out every angle in the room, compels him to pick it up without yet knowing why. As he turns, he tucks the paper into his coat in the same movement, wiping the dust from his fingers on the hem.
"She's not here," Gaeta reports to the Three, and walks to the tent flap without further comment.
Where she is: down by the river with her students, pointing out the differences in the short, stubby grasses that grow along its banks.
Gaeta hands her the envelope. He lets the One explain why.
Much later, he takes out the slip of paper he found and unfolds it. It looks like nothing but a supply list, with additional marginalia indicating the purpose of each item, but he knows his tactics, and he knows his cryptography: nothing hidden should be taken at face value, even when it appears innocent. Maybe especially then.
Within a day, he's worked out the code.
In the earliest morning hours, alone in his tent, he adds handfuls of more current information to the notebook: conversations overheard; daily routines for each model; the progress of their most recent projects, including recruitment incentives for the humans-only New Caprica Police Force. Deliberately, Gaeta messes his handwriting to a sloping and looping scrawl, then recopies his previous notes to the same.
In his head, he starts another list and places Roslin's name at the top of it.
Jake, reads the tag at the dog's throat. His owners continued to keep him tied up outside even after the occupation started; Gaeta took to visiting him every so often once he noticed, sometimes with leftover food from Milliways in hand, in a cautious attempt to keep an eye on him. The dog licks Gaeta's fingers with unrestrained enthusiasm when he's scratched under the chin, whining excitedly the whole while.
"Hi, Jake. How're you doing?" murmurs Gaeta. He crouches down, the neat hem of his pants denting out lines in the dust. To his left, Jake's plastic bowl sits half-upended: one side's lifted in the air and the other's weighed down by scraps. Gaeta reaches out to sift through the food. "They feeding you okay?"
They can't feed him much, by the looks of it: rotted vegetable tops, rinds, a few lumps of something he hopes is processed chicken. It's more like a compost heap than a meal. Sighing and shaking his head, he scoops out the worst bits to toss aside, and without the weight to pin it down, the bowl drops flat. A small puff of dust billows out on impact.
He pauses. Jake, noticing the scritches have stopped, sticks his nose against Gaeta's palm as a reminder. Gaeta rubs the dog's ears in reply, slower this time and far more distracted.
With two fingers, he tips the yellow bowl all the way forward until it lands face down in another tiny dust cloud. He picks it up. Turns it over again. As he does, he eyes the garbage dump further down the street.
Its drawers are much better suited to hold thick, heavy objects. Discarded cans. Torn clothes.
Old notebooks.
"I'll bring you something next time," he promises, straightening up so fast as to almost be abrupt, and gives Jake a quick, conciliatory pat before dashing away.
Gaeta drags Colonial One's trash over to the dump and discards the notebook in a separate drawer alongside it. Casually, as he walks away, he steps on the yellow dog bowl to flip it upside down.
The note he leaves in the school's storage tent -- wrapped in the original message he found, and coded in the same language -- consists of two sentences.
Garbage dump, 2 down, 4th from left, it says. Flip Jake's bowl when received.