Opening Night (Part 1/2)
Title: Opening Night (or, How the Colonials Came to Earth and Hollywood Made A Movie About It), Part 1/2
Author: miabicicletta
Summary: "And thus, Laura Roslin made her first true mistake on Earth: she trusted Hollywood."
Rating: PG-13
Notes: What a ridiculous thing I have created. Let's call it AU just prior to Maelstrom/Crossroads, and something of a replacement for Season 4. This is cracky and silly, and I hope you all have fun with it. It's worth noting that in this AU, Bob Dylan is not a cylon. Someone else might be, though. Endless thanks to kastari for her tireless beta effort. She is the best cheerleader a fic writer could have.
As it happened, after years of running for their lives, after the collective human failures at New Caprica, after the second exodus and the interim years of chaos and confusion, ravaged by war and desperation...the Colonial Fleet finally found the Thirteenth Colony. They were given shelter from storms that had followed them across the width and breadth of the Universe.
For their part, the people of Earth responded in much the same way as they often did in the face of incomprehensible tragedies which tested the very limits of human grief.
They made a movie about it.
***
"This is NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams..."
"The world continues to grapple with the geo-politics of the Colonial and U.S. agreement to settle all forty-one thousand refugees from the Colonial Fleet on American soil over the course of the coming year.
Reaching out to critics, President Laura Roslin continued to assuage concerns over the plan by making another stop on her ambitious one-by-one tour of the G20, the fifth such in as many weeks. She met with officials in Rome today, following last week's address of the European Union in Brussels.
The meeting with Italian Prime minister Silivio Berlusconi and Pope Benedict XVI, which included a Mass in St. Peter's Basilica, was the most recent of several attempts to reach the few remaining heads of state and religious leaders who protest the settlement of the refugees, Colonial officials say.
The Vatican has been one of the most vocal critics of the Colonial/UN negotiations since the Fleet's appearance in Earth's orbit over two months ago.
Already having spent several weeks in the US and Europe, President Roslin's grueling campaign continues with scheduled stops in Cairo, Istanbul, and Delhi, before a prolonged tour of East Asia, including a rare invitation to Pyongyang by Kim Jong II of North Korea.
Unofficial reports from the Secretary General's office have surfaced concerning the permanent establishment of a Colonial arm in the United Nations. Sources say the department is a logical next step in expanding the terms set forth in the Colonial Technology Exchange Treaty signed by President Roslin and the UN Security Council, as well as various international heads of state and religious leaders. Details are expected to emerge within several weeks..."
***
Fourteen Months Later...
Of all the surreal moments Laura Roslin had found herself faced with over the past several years, this was, surely, the most aggravating of them all.
Her homeworlds had been destroyed by a rogue and vicious race of artificial beings, and her superiors effectively slaughtered, rendering her the leader of all that remained of humanity. She was the last leader of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, annointed for her unwanted troubles with a labrynthine crown fashioned from auspicious laurels of prophecy. Hers was not to reason why; hers was but to do, and die...and it sucked.
Still, she'd lived, only to lose her title to a preening Narcisuss who had then (thank you very much) condemned them all to a cold and muddy prison, subsequently patrolled by their sworn enemies. So, of course, she needed to lead a rebellion, save what was left for humanity, and get back on the road to Earth. Had such events been the subject of literary discussion in her classroom, she'd have dismissed them as melodrama, perhaps even satire given the absurdity of it all, and swiftly moved on to more serious fields of consideration.
And yet, as Laura studied her own expression in the lovely light of the penthouse's fine vanity, she decided that having a movie made about her life had to be, quite simply, the strangest experience thus far.
Laura reached for her earring, surveying herself in the mirror as she did. Despite having been planetside for over a year now, it still struck her with a quiet thrill to possess the freedom of actual choice in her wardrobe. While she'd been president, she'd been lucky, if not blessed, to find a rare article of clothing that both fit and was relatively free of wear and tear. Clothes had been functional above all else, and any previous gravitation she'd had towards fashion aesthetics had, by necessity and lack of options, virtually winked out of existence.
At the moment, however, no matter what came of the evening ahead, one thing was for damned sure: Laura Roslin looked good.
With the eye of a woman who had once appreciated the cut and feel of the well made, Laura admired the dress she now wore: a custom made, pale gold, sleeveless Balenciaga sheath. The subtle, shimmering fabric that came just a hair past midthigh fit her like her own skin. It was a dress far more glamorous than a president would normally wear, and as she felt the way it clung to her curves -- particularly when she stepped into her three inch Christian Lacroix heels -- she reveled in the memory of the little vices that had once belonged to the stylish, but empty woman she had been, lifetimes before, in the gone-away worlds.
Still. There was no way around it: she was dreading every minute of the evening to come.
Laura sighed. That wasn't quite true, she'd see Lee and Kara, have a chance to talk with Galen Tyrol tonight, all of whom had been sequestered in San Diego along with Bill for the past few months. It would be like a family reunion, albeit one at the center of a media firestorm, but a gathering of her makeshift family nonetheless. It was almost enough to make her smile.
Her thoughts darkened as her mind drifted to the reasons she needed this little break tonight.
The events of her meeting with the Secretary General earlier in the week had not gone well. They were still pushing for her to accept and make an announcement.
"There is the option of nominating another Colonial official to the post -- a member of your Quorum of Twelve, perhaps?"
Secretary Moon had been accompanied by a score of staff members and aides. After twenty minutes of deliberating, she'd begun to unfairly resent them for anything they had to say.
If he recognized her weariness, he had shown no sign of it, and continued. "But I must impress how strongly my collegues and I feel that you, Dr. Roslin, represent the best, most natural choice to serve as Ambassador to the United Nations, and to speak as a representative at the representative meeting of the governments of Earth."
Laura gave her best politicians smile, her mind's eye instantly flashing on Tom Zarek's smarmy face , serving in her stead.
"Thank you, Secretary Moon. I shall think about it."
Think about it she had. She had thought of almost nothing else for days.
A knock at the door startled her. She glanced at the clock as she made her way to the door of her suite.
An austere looking member of her security team met her expectant look, hands clasped behind his back.
"The car is downstairs, whenever you are ready ma'am."
"Thank you, David. If you'll give me a moment..."
"Of course, ma'am."
She shut the door and closed her eyes, tempted to press up against it, turn the deadbolt and hide for the next week. Instead, she sought out companionship.
"Bill?"
He emerged from the absurdly large terrace balcony, straightening his bowtie and raising an eyebrow. His earlier good mood, a result of her current wardrobe, she mused, appeared to have entirely vanished. On the whole he looked as pertrubed as she felt about the whole affair, it not more so.
"Ready for your close up, Mr. Adama?"
She sidled up to him, tugging the ends of his bow tie for her own novelty. Another of the countless things she had found herself doing lately, just because she could. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders as his own gripped her waist.
"You know..." he sighed, affixing her with a severe look over the frames of his glasses, "Some days I hate my job."
***
The first time he'd asked had been after New Caprica. Breathless and filled with a total euphoria at being alive and untouched and off that godsdamned frakkin' mudhole, her answer had been to grin like a fool, pull him flush against her in his rack and kiss him soundly. She hoped the subsequent events quickly dispelled any lingering doubts he might have had.
It was only later that the details began to muddle the clarity of her joy.
***
At first, it seemed like good PR.
Over the course of the first few months on Earth, Laura Roslin gleaned enough about western popular culture to recognize that everyone from production studios to major corporations had a stake in the business of filmmaking. It was a huge industry, particularly in the region surrounding the temporary Colonial settlement.
But, what Laura was most keen to note was the tremendous (and rather disconcerting) influence that Hollywood had on mainstream opinion. There were still many powerful groups and leaders who were unhappy with the treaty, and with the Colonials in general. Religious figures, world leaders, celebrities...numerous authorities, of varying degrees of support and power, had voiced their discontent since the Fleet had arrived. Often, loudly.
So when NBC Universal approached her about making a film telling the Colonial story after the Cylon attack, she deliberated only a short while before giving them her blessing.
Surpringly, Lee was an ardent supporter, arguing from the get-go how much it would do much for the Colonial cause. He had managed to convince most members of the Quorum, and almost every "character" the writing team wanted to involve. (Later, Laura would blame Lee for the two inch-thick stack of forms and releases the studio required. Lee, and the universal constant that was paperwork.)
So she agreed, and lent her support to the project. It was, she recognized later, one of the rare instances in her political career that she exhibited near total, unchecked naivete.
Of course, there were negotiations involving a squadron of lawyers, for her, as well as for any other Colonial the producers approached. But much of the proceedings went in one ear and out the other. As helpful as good press was, there were real issues that demanded her attention far more than the finer points of script review. In the end, she'd shook hands with the creative team and left the heavy lifting to them.
"Gentlemen, I appreciate your candor and willingness to collaborate. It's truly a characteristic I wish more members of the Colonial Quorum of Twelve possessed. However, at this point, I'm afraid I have little to offer in terms of production value. Let us leave it in your capable hands, shall we?"
And thus, Laura Roslin made her first true mistake on Earth: she trusted Hollywood.
Having reached Earth, there were a hundred thousand things to deal with, even more so than as a Fleet on the run. Though at least her agenda contained fewer bullets on waste management and fuel supplies.
Per the terms of their settlement treaty, she'd relinquished the office of President. However, there were innumerous issues still before her as de facto leader. So, with idle curiousity and without much time to indulge it, she deferred any production oversight and power of approval. These were professionals, after all, and at one point she had caught a few minutes of some classic space, war epic, complete with dashing pilot and tenacious heroine, which she had rather enjoyed.
It was a good way to drum up support, a kind of third-party propaganda to entertain, and, she knew it was a stretch to hope for, but perhaps even educate. How bad could it be?
It was, in hindsight, an invitation for disaster.
***
"Laura, if you've changed your mind..."
"Of course not, I'm just not sure the timing is right. We have to face facts about this, Bill: no one is going to be thrilled that the President is emotionally and physically involved with the highest ranking member of her armed forces."
"I think you need to have a little more faith in the generous spirit of the Fleet, Laura. We're all human."
"The last time I relied on the will of the people, it got us a year of hard labor. That's a price I'm not willing to pay again."
"You're worried about steering public opinion?"
"I'm worried someone else will."
***
Laura and Bill saw one another nine, perhaps ten times in their entire first year on Earth, mostly during the spell of days she spent in UCLA Medical Center to remove the tumor that had reappeared in her left breast.
It was a harrowing few weeks, made worst so by the cancer's inopportune timing: they had only just begun grounding the civilian fleet and the negotiations of technology disclosure.
Having been one of the symbolic first to undergo the daunting and complete battery of medical tests required of each settling Colonial, a small army of doctors concluded, after rigorous examination and prodding, that she was in impressive physical shape for someone who showed signs of longterm anemia, had several recent bone breaks and hairline fractures courtesy of her time in cylon detention, ran a spectrum of vitamin deficiencies, and, was yet again in the early stages of breast cancer.
Most surprising, Laura found, was her lack of surprise, even in the face of Baltar's death and apparent fulfillment of the "dying leader" clause. Although she had never balked in her responsibility to the Fleet after her miracle recovery, it was a source of ire that she'd been usurped as a leader of men by a raving cad, or so it seemed it the word of the Gods was interpreted directly.
However, since her initial remission, Laura had come to view the Scriptures much the way that she had regarded her elders advice when it came to men when she was a young woman: well intentioned, though largely impractical and rather frightfully misguided at times.
When they discovered her cancer had returned, Laura feared what the knowledge of her sickness would mean in the course of the Colonial negotiations. Thanks to the savvy of a compassionate group of doctors, her illness was kept confidential, and the tumor removed before it even began to approach the level of severity it had reached at the time of her first diagnosis.
A brief operation and several weeks of daily, half-hour radiation treatments followed, during which time the Colonials had remained in a holding pattern as, one by one, ships were emptied of their civilian passengers on the base for screening and housing assignments.
Bill hadn't been there when the oncologists stared her down, faces graver than Cottle at his meanest, making her feel naked and cornered even in the pin-striped power suit she'd been given. Bill hadn't been there when they gave her the all clear.
It was a trying time for everyone.
The Admiral of the Fleet had been handed a thousand obligations; she had ten thousand of her own.
Bill's chief obligation had been to oversee operations in what had come to be known as the Colonial Zone, an almost-island military complex off the coast of Southern California. Coronado wasn't quite paradise, particularly the barracks, but with warm wind, surf and blue skies, it was close enough for the spacesick, sunlight starved civilians.
If the American and UN officials distinguished themselves by a unanimous air of anxiety in the proceedings, the Colonials were simply grateful. There were screenings and medical tests to perform. The UN outfit coordinated and administered, functioning similarly to a Red Cross or other relief agency.
To the shock of nearly all parties involved, things had gone well. The government of the United States was more than happy to comply with any and all collaboration. Laura, backed by Bill, the Quorum of Twelve and several captains from the Fleet, had negotiated the details of their settlement with extreme finesse.
It came down to quid pro quo, which Laura had expected. Politics didn't change, only the planet.
The treaty gave international proprietary access to a number of their ships designs, but in exchange for settlement rights, including housing, transitional services, and pending citizenship, the US would retain exclusive rights to the FTL drives. The American President had agreed to the proposal, and with a readiness that had surprised her. Apparently it was a deal that stoked the national ego. Or, perhaps, he was just a curious personality.
Whatever had played a role in her counterpart's decision, Laura herself had mused long and hard before even bringing the offer to the table. She'd paced miles through the hallways of the hospital and then the base offices, debating the moral and practical ramifications of ushering the people of this planet collectively through their technological adolescence. But, in the end, it remained the most viable card she could bring to the table, much more preferable than handing over the only other techno-wonder they had: Sharon Valerii.
The FTL drives for settlement, rights and citizenship.
Thus the Colonials came to Earth.
***
TRANSCRIPT:
"Thank you, Stephen. We'll see you later before our moment of Zen...
Furthering intergalactic diplomacy, today the United Nations and the White House celebrated the one year anniversary of establishing Colonial offices of representation by announcing the formal creation of a Colonial seat on the UN Security Council.
President Laura Roslin is expected to parlay her years of experience leading the survivors of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol into a bid for the Ambassadorship...or possibly world domination.
(audience laughter)
Seriously, people: She was Secretary of Education, man! She throws people out airlocks! She took on an evil race of killer robots...and won! You telling me ruler wielding nuns, are scary anymore? No frakkin' way!
Laura Roslin? A PILF who could make Stalin cry.
(audience laughter)
White House Secretary Robert Gibbs took questions on the newly inaugurated Office of Colonial Affairs. The sub cabinet level agency is dedicated to serving the forty thousand-plus refugees of, wait! wait for it...: Caprica!Tauron!Aerolon!Picon!Gemenon!Saggitaron!Viron!Leonis!Canceron!Aquaria!Libran! aaaaaaand Scopia!
(audience applause)
I actually learned those reading my Google Horoscope.
The Office of Colonial Affairs thus far has seen some rousing success in easing the transition of Colonials, and Americans, to life planetside...and confusing the (expletive) out of first graders everywhere.
(falsetto:)
"Mommy, where are their tri-cornered hats?"
(audience laughter)
Shocking no one at all: colonial Williamsburg still continues to confuse and disappoint.
(audience laughter)
More from our Senior Intergalactic Correspondent, Samantha Bee. Samantha!..."
***
Despite holding a now defunct office, she still had a job to do. President or not, Laura Roslin was still regarded as the leader and representative voice of the people (much to Tom Zarek's unending displeasure), and was expected to continue as such.
Further more, it stood to reason that Laura Roslin was not simply the former President of the Twelve Colonies, she was also their Promoter in Chief. So, obliging her citizenry, she did her part.
She smiled brightly and shook hands, as politicians had done, from time immemorial, at all ends of the Universe. She met the leaders of the many and diverse governments of this small world, astounded by the sheer diversity, asking endless questions with good cheer and a rapt attention. She held her ground in formal debates, was diplomatic, and unwavering.
She granted interviews with writers and newsanchors, appeared on the weekly television newsmagazines and talk shows -- real and fake alike. Laura found the satirical ones were her favorite; easily as intelligent as legitimate news programs, self-effacing but critical. More often than not she found the anchor's puckish observations (including those about herself) sincerely amusing. They gave her hope for civilization.
Such as it was, she was rarely to be found at Camp Picon, as the Colonial Zone was informally nicknamed. Laura Roslin was in demand, nearly every hour of the day, literally by almost everyone on Earth.
On one memorable occasion, having been routinely interrupted and oogled by an overtly misogynistic Prime Minister, she even found herself missing Baltar.
Later, she'd admitted as much to Bill, but only after she had rinsed the day from her skin and curled up in an armchair in the latest hotel, in the latest city, on the latest continent, wanting nothing more than his arms around her and unable to have even that. His voice would have to do. Though, delicious as it was, she found it a poor substitute for the steady thump of his heartbeat, the gentle way he nuzzled her neck in his sleep. A habit, she recalled fondly, he had kept up since the very first night they got their act together.
Her position demanded travel; his, exactly the opposite. They made do with phone calls, sending e-mails and Lee playing courier between rounds of their informal book club (which, given the sudden availability of reading materials, had become a favorite habit of theirs).
His voice, always a comfort, always far away.
"Where are you today?"
"Argentina, I think. I'd hardly know without the agendas at every hand."
"Lee said something about OPEC."
"Yes, the fuel issue again. I swear Bill, the logic behind using such dangerously scarce natural resources...I'm tempted to jump back to a system and drag a hunk of tylium back to Earth." She trailed off, not wanting to go off on another frustrated tangent. There had been too many in the last year. She shurgged it off. Time to enjoy the moment at hand.
"If by 'logic' you mean a lack thereof, I'm in your camp, Madame President."
She hummed an agreement. It was so good to hear his voice.
"How I wish you were, Admiral." Her mouth quirked, as she leaned back in her chair, wondering if he'd take the bait.
"That makes two of us, Madame President." She could hear her own longing in his words, nestled amid the playfulness and arousal. "Any ETA on when you'll be back?"
Tipping her head back, she took a breath.
"Next week, I think. It will be good to be home." Home was technically Camp Picon, though in her mind, she thought of it as wherever he was.
"Saw Starbuck today."
"Yes? How is Kara doing?"
"Seemed alright. Been spending a couple days with some actress. If you thought she treated nuggets bad, you should see her try to bust this little wisp of a thing into someone resembling Kara Thrace. Think she sees it as her personal duty to make sure any and all representations reflect the original."
Laura smiled at the though, not envious of the young woman dauntless enough to try on Starbuck's personality for size. It seemed a fruitless endeavor; she couldn't see how anyone could live up to the task.
"How about you, Admiral? Been giving your version of events to your fictional self? I'm rather curious to see what he'll have to say when this plays out." She giggled a little. What a ridiculous development this particular ordeal was.
"His agent or whatever keeps calling. Haven't gotten around to it."
"Likewise. Though, in the spirit of collaboration, I suppose I'd better find some time for it."
"We have another matter to discuss, Laura."
Laura, of course, knew exactly what he was referring to. She dropped the receiver a little so he couldn't here the sound of her deep breath and sigh.
"Indeed we do, sir. And we can discuss how to move forward next week when I'm back."
Bill murmured his approval, though somewhat glumly. Feeling bad, before they parted she painted a rather dramatic picture of how much she was looking forward to being home, and the many ways she planned on proving it.
Laura laughed slyly to herself as she lay her weary head down. Whatever time it was in San Diego, (and she found, somewhat cruelly, that she didn't much care) she imagined Bill was going to have a long night ahead of him.
***
He'd asked again the night after they'd found Earth. The moment the hatch had closed, he'd been on her, searing thought from her mind with the fire in his kisses. This was Bill Adama, all passion, with life enough in him for ten men at half his age.
"It is a testament to the strength of my love that I offer you this well deserved opportunity to say, 'I told you so.'"
Laura chuckled lowly. Touching her forehead to his, she brushed her nose against his fondly. He was such a dear. "Will wonders never cease? Of course, you forget, Admiral, this was all your bright idea."
"Great minds..."
"No, Bill, you were right. You gave this Fleet something to live for. You gave them a home."
"Pick a spot," he whispered, kissing her temple, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. "In a forest, below the mountains, on a cliff by the sea...pick a spot, and that's where I'll marry you."
Her pulse quickened as she felt the warm brush of his lips down the sensitive skin of her neck. Obliging the sudden, overpowering desire to divest herself of clothing, she whispered in his ear as she struggled to kick off her shoes, "That's it. Right there, Bill. Perfect."
And the discussion was waylaid by a tangent. Several, in fact.
***
Variety
Cast members added to 'Battlestar'
Beyoncé, Harrelson sign on for space epic
Adding more star power to the saga helmed by Michael Bay, Beyoncé Knowles
and Woody Harrelson have signed onto the NBC Universal Studios
feature, set to begin lensing next month. Based on the real-life journey
of the survivors of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, the BSG sceenplay
was penned by acclaimed screenwriter/director Paul Haggis. Though
roles have not yet been reported, sources say Harrelson has been cast as
Galactica XO Saul Tigh.
Harrelson and Knowles join a growing ensemble cast that includes
Richard Gere as Admiral William Adama, Kathleen York as Pres.
Laura Roslin.
Producers are Graham King, Cathy Schulman, and Jerry Bruckheimer.
'The Battlestar Galactica' is scheduled to open "Colonial Day" Weekend 2010
***
There were days when Laura Roslin hated Earth. Hated it, the whole frakkin' planet. Days that she hated the pettiness and the ethno-centric mentalities. Or, Hated the way people clung to differences in language and culture, allowing both to define them.. Hated that this one small planet - smaller than tiny Virgon and Gemenon - had given rise to a society of tribal oligarchies that fed on one another's dissent.
But then she remembered.
She remembered the ages old racism, running down through the bloodlines from parent to child; she remembered the intractable caste systems that spawned hate and violence; the face-value judgements of skin and ink that considered only the mark and never the meaning; she remembered religious intolerance, subjugation, and prejudice.
At the end of the worlds, they were no saints themselves. All their sins were equal.
Besides, there was more to love, and wasn't that the point?
The obvious absences of life in space: fresh air and rain. The elemental warmth of sunshine on her skin (a feeling she promised herself never to take for granted again). Running water, falling leaves. Warm sand and the loamy scent of earth.
Even when Laura's head ached at the problems Earth presented, her senses sang to spite it.
After years of tasteless green muck (a substance she was horrified to find was being touted by some television personalities as a surefire way to thick glorious hair and a tiny waist), she reveled in a world of new flavors and tastes. Plums and pears, the tangy sweetness of pineapple and mango; rich, savory meats that tasted like heaven to her iron-deprived body; wines that flooded her palate with bright, lingering flavors; teas with names she loved to say - darjeeling, hibiscus, lapsang suuchong; searing Thai curries and smoky pancetta; delicate seafoods, fresh aromatic vegetables that grew from actual earth; every kind of chocolate she could get her hands on.
Coffee. Real coffee. With cream and sugar or carafes of espresso. Her first cup in Rome made her cry from the joy of it.
There were silly things, too.
The American President himself caught her arm after a meeting and pressed a small blue device, thin and sleek, into her hand. A gift from his wife, he said. Laura had spent enough time with the First Lady to know she was a savvy and generous woman. Pointing out the basic functions, he clicked through the playlists and artists catalogue.
"We had the girls help us pick some of the music," he said by way of explanation. "I hope you like Lady Gaga."
Surprisingly, she did.
Laura really loved her iPod.
***
But, for every great luxury - music, wine, laughter - there were a thousand other tiresome details that consumed Laura's days and thoughts. This was precisely how she ended up granting an informal interview to the woman charged with the task of "becoming" Laura Roslin.
Regardless of how much the studio executives espoused its marketability, Laura had mixed feelings about the whole film thing.
"Have you seen the script?"
"Oh, no, I'm afraid not. My aide took the opportunity to review the story points they sent along at the outset, but that's as much time as I've been able to spare. As much as I'm looking foward to the finished product, I think it's best to let those with creative talents far greater than my own take the reins," Laura replied.
Laura was pleased to discover the redheaded actress cast to play her was age appropriate, intelligent, and rather lovely. Though she'd not actively indulged in it much, a latent vanity was appeased, and some of her concerns -- some silly, some legitimate -- were dispelled.
They'd spent the morning exploring Laura's emotional perspective on the many events that had transpired since the attacks. The production executives had cast her role thoughtfully. Her counterpart had wanted to know about the person in the position, especially the woman Laura was. It was somewhat strange unravelling the significance of events in her life with a near-perfect stranger. Laura had revisited the endless tedium and traumas alike with as much detail as she could impart.
"Besides, I imagine that if I read the thing, I'd be critical to a fault. I'd end up spoiling things with the reality of it all. Art needs to trump the bitter facts, at times."
The woman -- Kathleen -- laughed, and sipped her spring water. She had a melifluous voice that filled the stark base courtyward with dulcet tones. Apparently she was a singer as well.
"Well, I wouldn't say 'art', but I like your optimisim, Ma'am."
"Even melodrama has its charms, though let us hope it ." Laura smiled demurely. The last thing she needed was to become a fixture on some third-tier cable network.
"Naturally. No -- what's the phrase? 'So say we all.'"
"You've done your homework, I see."
"Of course. If I accomplish nothing else today, Ma'am, I hope I impress upon you that I'm taking this role very seriously. I find your story...you, fascinating. Though, I admit, I've never played a real, living person before, Madame President." Kathleen, it seemed, was intent on respectfully ignoring Laura's insistence to forgo her former title. "I wondered if you'd like to observe Rich and I run through some scenes..."
"Oh, Gods, no!" Laura grasped her arm, charmed, but adamantly against the idea. "Oh, how mortifying. I'd be self-conscious for weeks. No, no. I'm told by the people whose job it is to know that you are someone of great talent and experience. I trust your interpretation, shall we say, to be what you feel."
Her doppleganger nodded, appreciating the awkwardness of the situation.
"If I may ask, Ma'am, how would you say your relationship with Admiral Adama has changed, over the years?"
Laura clasped her hands behind her back, "The Admiral and I have nothing but the utmost respect for one another. Bill has been a true friend and great support over the years. I like to think our strengths made us complimentary. Made us better leaders. Quite honestly, I don't know what I'd do without him."
Well, that was the truth of it.
"Is that all?" Kathleen raised an eyebrow, giving Laura the somewhat eerie experience of looking in the mirror at a more dubious version of herself.
She smiled her most serene politician's smile. "For the moment, that's all I'm willing to let your bosses know."
Surely an actress of all people could understand the need for privacy.
***
Months passed. The conversation came up again, three or four times.
Three or four times, she avoided the specifics. When he asked what she was waiting for, Laura didn't have an answer for him.
"Time" seemed a poor excuse for someone with a world full of it at last, even if none of it was her own.
***
Early in their first year on Coronado, a day came when she'd found herself faced with the rare opportunity of both being in the Colonial Zone and with some time to spare. As such, she stopped by the secondary school, wanting to see how her former students were faring.
A boy walked up to her, flanked by several shy and eager companions, and offered her a small, brightly wrapped package. She opened with with a smile, and was shocked to find a framed photograph of the Forum on Caprica.
"We were going to send it to you. We found it in a magazine, it's not a real print or anything."
Laura pressed a hand to her heart, more overcome by the gesture than by her memories.
The students had retreated soon thereafter, leaving the frame with Laura. It sat on her desk, beside the photo of her and Billy. She stared at them often, and as she did, ideas began to take shape in her mind.
***
As the car ushed them down Sunset Boulevard, Bill traced the ridges of her knuckles with this thumb, attempting to allay some of her anxiety. He was well attuned to her many moods by now.
"Looking foward to this?" he asked.
His voice filled the interior of the motorcade limousine. A deep and dear sound that reverberated in all the spaces between them. At times such as these Laura felt she could spend the rest of her days exploring its infinite resonance.
She turned her attention from the window, much preferring the view at her side.
"Not particularly."
"Makes two of us."
***
There were lights. There were photographers. There were crowds of screaming fangirls.
"Kinda makes you feel bad for 'em, doesn't it?"
Sam Anders stood at her shoulder, surveying the madness on the red carpet-a number of late arrival actors besieged by reporters with microphones and demanding paparazzi.
Laura was very glad her position allowed her to have slipped in though the back entrance. Those fangirls were intimidating.
The lights in the lobby flashed off and on, signaling the film was about to begin. People began moving towards the theater entrance. Bill broke off his conversation with Galen Tyrol, who looked decidedly uncomfortable in black tie, and waited for her to join him in taking their seats.
Laura and looked up at Anders.
"Well, Mr. Anders, we might as well get this over with."
***
READ ON IN PART TWO
Author: miabicicletta
Summary: "And thus, Laura Roslin made her first true mistake on Earth: she trusted Hollywood."
Rating: PG-13
Notes: What a ridiculous thing I have created. Let's call it AU just prior to Maelstrom/Crossroads, and something of a replacement for Season 4. This is cracky and silly, and I hope you all have fun with it. It's worth noting that in this AU, Bob Dylan is not a cylon. Someone else might be, though. Endless thanks to kastari for her tireless beta effort. She is the best cheerleader a fic writer could have.
As it happened, after years of running for their lives, after the collective human failures at New Caprica, after the second exodus and the interim years of chaos and confusion, ravaged by war and desperation...the Colonial Fleet finally found the Thirteenth Colony. They were given shelter from storms that had followed them across the width and breadth of the Universe.
For their part, the people of Earth responded in much the same way as they often did in the face of incomprehensible tragedies which tested the very limits of human grief.
They made a movie about it.
***
"This is NBC Nightly News with Brian Williams..."
"The world continues to grapple with the geo-politics of the Colonial and U.S. agreement to settle all forty-one thousand refugees from the Colonial Fleet on American soil over the course of the coming year.
Reaching out to critics, President Laura Roslin continued to assuage concerns over the plan by making another stop on her ambitious one-by-one tour of the G20, the fifth such in as many weeks. She met with officials in Rome today, following last week's address of the European Union in Brussels.
The meeting with Italian Prime minister Silivio Berlusconi and Pope Benedict XVI, which included a Mass in St. Peter's Basilica, was the most recent of several attempts to reach the few remaining heads of state and religious leaders who protest the settlement of the refugees, Colonial officials say.
The Vatican has been one of the most vocal critics of the Colonial/UN negotiations since the Fleet's appearance in Earth's orbit over two months ago.
Already having spent several weeks in the US and Europe, President Roslin's grueling campaign continues with scheduled stops in Cairo, Istanbul, and Delhi, before a prolonged tour of East Asia, including a rare invitation to Pyongyang by Kim Jong II of North Korea.
Unofficial reports from the Secretary General's office have surfaced concerning the permanent establishment of a Colonial arm in the United Nations. Sources say the department is a logical next step in expanding the terms set forth in the Colonial Technology Exchange Treaty signed by President Roslin and the UN Security Council, as well as various international heads of state and religious leaders. Details are expected to emerge within several weeks..."
***
Fourteen Months Later...
Of all the surreal moments Laura Roslin had found herself faced with over the past several years, this was, surely, the most aggravating of them all.
Her homeworlds had been destroyed by a rogue and vicious race of artificial beings, and her superiors effectively slaughtered, rendering her the leader of all that remained of humanity. She was the last leader of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, annointed for her unwanted troubles with a labrynthine crown fashioned from auspicious laurels of prophecy. Hers was not to reason why; hers was but to do, and die...and it sucked.
Still, she'd lived, only to lose her title to a preening Narcisuss who had then (thank you very much) condemned them all to a cold and muddy prison, subsequently patrolled by their sworn enemies. So, of course, she needed to lead a rebellion, save what was left for humanity, and get back on the road to Earth. Had such events been the subject of literary discussion in her classroom, she'd have dismissed them as melodrama, perhaps even satire given the absurdity of it all, and swiftly moved on to more serious fields of consideration.
And yet, as Laura studied her own expression in the lovely light of the penthouse's fine vanity, she decided that having a movie made about her life had to be, quite simply, the strangest experience thus far.
Laura reached for her earring, surveying herself in the mirror as she did. Despite having been planetside for over a year now, it still struck her with a quiet thrill to possess the freedom of actual choice in her wardrobe. While she'd been president, she'd been lucky, if not blessed, to find a rare article of clothing that both fit and was relatively free of wear and tear. Clothes had been functional above all else, and any previous gravitation she'd had towards fashion aesthetics had, by necessity and lack of options, virtually winked out of existence.
At the moment, however, no matter what came of the evening ahead, one thing was for damned sure: Laura Roslin looked good.
With the eye of a woman who had once appreciated the cut and feel of the well made, Laura admired the dress she now wore: a custom made, pale gold, sleeveless Balenciaga sheath. The subtle, shimmering fabric that came just a hair past midthigh fit her like her own skin. It was a dress far more glamorous than a president would normally wear, and as she felt the way it clung to her curves -- particularly when she stepped into her three inch Christian Lacroix heels -- she reveled in the memory of the little vices that had once belonged to the stylish, but empty woman she had been, lifetimes before, in the gone-away worlds.
Still. There was no way around it: she was dreading every minute of the evening to come.
Laura sighed. That wasn't quite true, she'd see Lee and Kara, have a chance to talk with Galen Tyrol tonight, all of whom had been sequestered in San Diego along with Bill for the past few months. It would be like a family reunion, albeit one at the center of a media firestorm, but a gathering of her makeshift family nonetheless. It was almost enough to make her smile.
Her thoughts darkened as her mind drifted to the reasons she needed this little break tonight.
The events of her meeting with the Secretary General earlier in the week had not gone well. They were still pushing for her to accept and make an announcement.
"There is the option of nominating another Colonial official to the post -- a member of your Quorum of Twelve, perhaps?"
Secretary Moon had been accompanied by a score of staff members and aides. After twenty minutes of deliberating, she'd begun to unfairly resent them for anything they had to say.
If he recognized her weariness, he had shown no sign of it, and continued. "But I must impress how strongly my collegues and I feel that you, Dr. Roslin, represent the best, most natural choice to serve as Ambassador to the United Nations, and to speak as a representative at the representative meeting of the governments of Earth."
Laura gave her best politicians smile, her mind's eye instantly flashing on Tom Zarek's smarmy face , serving in her stead.
"Thank you, Secretary Moon. I shall think about it."
Think about it she had. She had thought of almost nothing else for days.
A knock at the door startled her. She glanced at the clock as she made her way to the door of her suite.
An austere looking member of her security team met her expectant look, hands clasped behind his back.
"The car is downstairs, whenever you are ready ma'am."
"Thank you, David. If you'll give me a moment..."
"Of course, ma'am."
She shut the door and closed her eyes, tempted to press up against it, turn the deadbolt and hide for the next week. Instead, she sought out companionship.
"Bill?"
He emerged from the absurdly large terrace balcony, straightening his bowtie and raising an eyebrow. His earlier good mood, a result of her current wardrobe, she mused, appeared to have entirely vanished. On the whole he looked as pertrubed as she felt about the whole affair, it not more so.
"Ready for your close up, Mr. Adama?"
She sidled up to him, tugging the ends of his bow tie for her own novelty. Another of the countless things she had found herself doing lately, just because she could. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders as his own gripped her waist.
"You know..." he sighed, affixing her with a severe look over the frames of his glasses, "Some days I hate my job."
***
The first time he'd asked had been after New Caprica. Breathless and filled with a total euphoria at being alive and untouched and off that godsdamned frakkin' mudhole, her answer had been to grin like a fool, pull him flush against her in his rack and kiss him soundly. She hoped the subsequent events quickly dispelled any lingering doubts he might have had.
It was only later that the details began to muddle the clarity of her joy.
***
At first, it seemed like good PR.
Over the course of the first few months on Earth, Laura Roslin gleaned enough about western popular culture to recognize that everyone from production studios to major corporations had a stake in the business of filmmaking. It was a huge industry, particularly in the region surrounding the temporary Colonial settlement.
But, what Laura was most keen to note was the tremendous (and rather disconcerting) influence that Hollywood had on mainstream opinion. There were still many powerful groups and leaders who were unhappy with the treaty, and with the Colonials in general. Religious figures, world leaders, celebrities...numerous authorities, of varying degrees of support and power, had voiced their discontent since the Fleet had arrived. Often, loudly.
So when NBC Universal approached her about making a film telling the Colonial story after the Cylon attack, she deliberated only a short while before giving them her blessing.
Surpringly, Lee was an ardent supporter, arguing from the get-go how much it would do much for the Colonial cause. He had managed to convince most members of the Quorum, and almost every "character" the writing team wanted to involve. (Later, Laura would blame Lee for the two inch-thick stack of forms and releases the studio required. Lee, and the universal constant that was paperwork.)
So she agreed, and lent her support to the project. It was, she recognized later, one of the rare instances in her political career that she exhibited near total, unchecked naivete.
Of course, there were negotiations involving a squadron of lawyers, for her, as well as for any other Colonial the producers approached. But much of the proceedings went in one ear and out the other. As helpful as good press was, there were real issues that demanded her attention far more than the finer points of script review. In the end, she'd shook hands with the creative team and left the heavy lifting to them.
"Gentlemen, I appreciate your candor and willingness to collaborate. It's truly a characteristic I wish more members of the Colonial Quorum of Twelve possessed. However, at this point, I'm afraid I have little to offer in terms of production value. Let us leave it in your capable hands, shall we?"
And thus, Laura Roslin made her first true mistake on Earth: she trusted Hollywood.
Having reached Earth, there were a hundred thousand things to deal with, even more so than as a Fleet on the run. Though at least her agenda contained fewer bullets on waste management and fuel supplies.
Per the terms of their settlement treaty, she'd relinquished the office of President. However, there were innumerous issues still before her as de facto leader. So, with idle curiousity and without much time to indulge it, she deferred any production oversight and power of approval. These were professionals, after all, and at one point she had caught a few minutes of some classic space, war epic, complete with dashing pilot and tenacious heroine, which she had rather enjoyed.
It was a good way to drum up support, a kind of third-party propaganda to entertain, and, she knew it was a stretch to hope for, but perhaps even educate. How bad could it be?
It was, in hindsight, an invitation for disaster.
***
"Laura, if you've changed your mind..."
"Of course not, I'm just not sure the timing is right. We have to face facts about this, Bill: no one is going to be thrilled that the President is emotionally and physically involved with the highest ranking member of her armed forces."
"I think you need to have a little more faith in the generous spirit of the Fleet, Laura. We're all human."
"The last time I relied on the will of the people, it got us a year of hard labor. That's a price I'm not willing to pay again."
"You're worried about steering public opinion?"
"I'm worried someone else will."
***
Laura and Bill saw one another nine, perhaps ten times in their entire first year on Earth, mostly during the spell of days she spent in UCLA Medical Center to remove the tumor that had reappeared in her left breast.
It was a harrowing few weeks, made worst so by the cancer's inopportune timing: they had only just begun grounding the civilian fleet and the negotiations of technology disclosure.
Having been one of the symbolic first to undergo the daunting and complete battery of medical tests required of each settling Colonial, a small army of doctors concluded, after rigorous examination and prodding, that she was in impressive physical shape for someone who showed signs of longterm anemia, had several recent bone breaks and hairline fractures courtesy of her time in cylon detention, ran a spectrum of vitamin deficiencies, and, was yet again in the early stages of breast cancer.
Most surprising, Laura found, was her lack of surprise, even in the face of Baltar's death and apparent fulfillment of the "dying leader" clause. Although she had never balked in her responsibility to the Fleet after her miracle recovery, it was a source of ire that she'd been usurped as a leader of men by a raving cad, or so it seemed it the word of the Gods was interpreted directly.
However, since her initial remission, Laura had come to view the Scriptures much the way that she had regarded her elders advice when it came to men when she was a young woman: well intentioned, though largely impractical and rather frightfully misguided at times.
When they discovered her cancer had returned, Laura feared what the knowledge of her sickness would mean in the course of the Colonial negotiations. Thanks to the savvy of a compassionate group of doctors, her illness was kept confidential, and the tumor removed before it even began to approach the level of severity it had reached at the time of her first diagnosis.
A brief operation and several weeks of daily, half-hour radiation treatments followed, during which time the Colonials had remained in a holding pattern as, one by one, ships were emptied of their civilian passengers on the base for screening and housing assignments.
Bill hadn't been there when the oncologists stared her down, faces graver than Cottle at his meanest, making her feel naked and cornered even in the pin-striped power suit she'd been given. Bill hadn't been there when they gave her the all clear.
It was a trying time for everyone.
The Admiral of the Fleet had been handed a thousand obligations; she had ten thousand of her own.
Bill's chief obligation had been to oversee operations in what had come to be known as the Colonial Zone, an almost-island military complex off the coast of Southern California. Coronado wasn't quite paradise, particularly the barracks, but with warm wind, surf and blue skies, it was close enough for the spacesick, sunlight starved civilians.
If the American and UN officials distinguished themselves by a unanimous air of anxiety in the proceedings, the Colonials were simply grateful. There were screenings and medical tests to perform. The UN outfit coordinated and administered, functioning similarly to a Red Cross or other relief agency.
To the shock of nearly all parties involved, things had gone well. The government of the United States was more than happy to comply with any and all collaboration. Laura, backed by Bill, the Quorum of Twelve and several captains from the Fleet, had negotiated the details of their settlement with extreme finesse.
It came down to quid pro quo, which Laura had expected. Politics didn't change, only the planet.
The treaty gave international proprietary access to a number of their ships designs, but in exchange for settlement rights, including housing, transitional services, and pending citizenship, the US would retain exclusive rights to the FTL drives. The American President had agreed to the proposal, and with a readiness that had surprised her. Apparently it was a deal that stoked the national ego. Or, perhaps, he was just a curious personality.
Whatever had played a role in her counterpart's decision, Laura herself had mused long and hard before even bringing the offer to the table. She'd paced miles through the hallways of the hospital and then the base offices, debating the moral and practical ramifications of ushering the people of this planet collectively through their technological adolescence. But, in the end, it remained the most viable card she could bring to the table, much more preferable than handing over the only other techno-wonder they had: Sharon Valerii.
The FTL drives for settlement, rights and citizenship.
Thus the Colonials came to Earth.
***
TRANSCRIPT:
"Thank you, Stephen. We'll see you later before our moment of Zen...
Furthering intergalactic diplomacy, today the United Nations and the White House celebrated the one year anniversary of establishing Colonial offices of representation by announcing the formal creation of a Colonial seat on the UN Security Council.
President Laura Roslin is expected to parlay her years of experience leading the survivors of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol into a bid for the Ambassadorship...or possibly world domination.
(audience laughter)
Seriously, people: She was Secretary of Education, man! She throws people out airlocks! She took on an evil race of killer robots...and won! You telling me ruler wielding nuns, are scary anymore? No frakkin' way!
Laura Roslin? A PILF who could make Stalin cry.
(audience laughter)
White House Secretary Robert Gibbs took questions on the newly inaugurated Office of Colonial Affairs. The sub cabinet level agency is dedicated to serving the forty thousand-plus refugees of, wait! wait for it...: Caprica!Tauron!Aerolon!Picon!Gemenon!Saggitaron!Viron!Leonis!Canceron!Aquaria!Libran! aaaaaaand Scopia!
(audience applause)
I actually learned those reading my Google Horoscope.
The Office of Colonial Affairs thus far has seen some rousing success in easing the transition of Colonials, and Americans, to life planetside...and confusing the (expletive) out of first graders everywhere.
(falsetto:)
"Mommy, where are their tri-cornered hats?"
(audience laughter)
Shocking no one at all: colonial Williamsburg still continues to confuse and disappoint.
(audience laughter)
More from our Senior Intergalactic Correspondent, Samantha Bee. Samantha!..."
***
Despite holding a now defunct office, she still had a job to do. President or not, Laura Roslin was still regarded as the leader and representative voice of the people (much to Tom Zarek's unending displeasure), and was expected to continue as such.
Further more, it stood to reason that Laura Roslin was not simply the former President of the Twelve Colonies, she was also their Promoter in Chief. So, obliging her citizenry, she did her part.
She smiled brightly and shook hands, as politicians had done, from time immemorial, at all ends of the Universe. She met the leaders of the many and diverse governments of this small world, astounded by the sheer diversity, asking endless questions with good cheer and a rapt attention. She held her ground in formal debates, was diplomatic, and unwavering.
She granted interviews with writers and newsanchors, appeared on the weekly television newsmagazines and talk shows -- real and fake alike. Laura found the satirical ones were her favorite; easily as intelligent as legitimate news programs, self-effacing but critical. More often than not she found the anchor's puckish observations (including those about herself) sincerely amusing. They gave her hope for civilization.
Such as it was, she was rarely to be found at Camp Picon, as the Colonial Zone was informally nicknamed. Laura Roslin was in demand, nearly every hour of the day, literally by almost everyone on Earth.
On one memorable occasion, having been routinely interrupted and oogled by an overtly misogynistic Prime Minister, she even found herself missing Baltar.
Later, she'd admitted as much to Bill, but only after she had rinsed the day from her skin and curled up in an armchair in the latest hotel, in the latest city, on the latest continent, wanting nothing more than his arms around her and unable to have even that. His voice would have to do. Though, delicious as it was, she found it a poor substitute for the steady thump of his heartbeat, the gentle way he nuzzled her neck in his sleep. A habit, she recalled fondly, he had kept up since the very first night they got their act together.
Her position demanded travel; his, exactly the opposite. They made do with phone calls, sending e-mails and Lee playing courier between rounds of their informal book club (which, given the sudden availability of reading materials, had become a favorite habit of theirs).
His voice, always a comfort, always far away.
"Where are you today?"
"Argentina, I think. I'd hardly know without the agendas at every hand."
"Lee said something about OPEC."
"Yes, the fuel issue again. I swear Bill, the logic behind using such dangerously scarce natural resources...I'm tempted to jump back to a system and drag a hunk of tylium back to Earth." She trailed off, not wanting to go off on another frustrated tangent. There had been too many in the last year. She shurgged it off. Time to enjoy the moment at hand.
"If by 'logic' you mean a lack thereof, I'm in your camp, Madame President."
She hummed an agreement. It was so good to hear his voice.
"How I wish you were, Admiral." Her mouth quirked, as she leaned back in her chair, wondering if he'd take the bait.
"That makes two of us, Madame President." She could hear her own longing in his words, nestled amid the playfulness and arousal. "Any ETA on when you'll be back?"
Tipping her head back, she took a breath.
"Next week, I think. It will be good to be home." Home was technically Camp Picon, though in her mind, she thought of it as wherever he was.
"Saw Starbuck today."
"Yes? How is Kara doing?"
"Seemed alright. Been spending a couple days with some actress. If you thought she treated nuggets bad, you should see her try to bust this little wisp of a thing into someone resembling Kara Thrace. Think she sees it as her personal duty to make sure any and all representations reflect the original."
Laura smiled at the though, not envious of the young woman dauntless enough to try on Starbuck's personality for size. It seemed a fruitless endeavor; she couldn't see how anyone could live up to the task.
"How about you, Admiral? Been giving your version of events to your fictional self? I'm rather curious to see what he'll have to say when this plays out." She giggled a little. What a ridiculous development this particular ordeal was.
"His agent or whatever keeps calling. Haven't gotten around to it."
"Likewise. Though, in the spirit of collaboration, I suppose I'd better find some time for it."
"We have another matter to discuss, Laura."
Laura, of course, knew exactly what he was referring to. She dropped the receiver a little so he couldn't here the sound of her deep breath and sigh.
"Indeed we do, sir. And we can discuss how to move forward next week when I'm back."
Bill murmured his approval, though somewhat glumly. Feeling bad, before they parted she painted a rather dramatic picture of how much she was looking forward to being home, and the many ways she planned on proving it.
Laura laughed slyly to herself as she lay her weary head down. Whatever time it was in San Diego, (and she found, somewhat cruelly, that she didn't much care) she imagined Bill was going to have a long night ahead of him.
***
He'd asked again the night after they'd found Earth. The moment the hatch had closed, he'd been on her, searing thought from her mind with the fire in his kisses. This was Bill Adama, all passion, with life enough in him for ten men at half his age.
"It is a testament to the strength of my love that I offer you this well deserved opportunity to say, 'I told you so.'"
Laura chuckled lowly. Touching her forehead to his, she brushed her nose against his fondly. He was such a dear. "Will wonders never cease? Of course, you forget, Admiral, this was all your bright idea."
"Great minds..."
"No, Bill, you were right. You gave this Fleet something to live for. You gave them a home."
"Pick a spot," he whispered, kissing her temple, her cheek, the curve of her jaw. "In a forest, below the mountains, on a cliff by the sea...pick a spot, and that's where I'll marry you."
Her pulse quickened as she felt the warm brush of his lips down the sensitive skin of her neck. Obliging the sudden, overpowering desire to divest herself of clothing, she whispered in his ear as she struggled to kick off her shoes, "That's it. Right there, Bill. Perfect."
And the discussion was waylaid by a tangent. Several, in fact.
***
Variety
Cast members added to 'Battlestar'
Beyoncé, Harrelson sign on for space epic
Adding more star power to the saga helmed by Michael Bay, Beyoncé Knowles
and Woody Harrelson have signed onto the NBC Universal Studios
feature, set to begin lensing next month. Based on the real-life journey
of the survivors of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol, the BSG sceenplay
was penned by acclaimed screenwriter/director Paul Haggis. Though
roles have not yet been reported, sources say Harrelson has been cast as
Galactica XO Saul Tigh.
Harrelson and Knowles join a growing ensemble cast that includes
Richard Gere as Admiral William Adama, Kathleen York as Pres.
Laura Roslin.
Producers are Graham King, Cathy Schulman, and Jerry Bruckheimer.
'The Battlestar Galactica' is scheduled to open "Colonial Day" Weekend 2010
***
There were days when Laura Roslin hated Earth. Hated it, the whole frakkin' planet. Days that she hated the pettiness and the ethno-centric mentalities. Or, Hated the way people clung to differences in language and culture, allowing both to define them.. Hated that this one small planet - smaller than tiny Virgon and Gemenon - had given rise to a society of tribal oligarchies that fed on one another's dissent.
But then she remembered.
She remembered the ages old racism, running down through the bloodlines from parent to child; she remembered the intractable caste systems that spawned hate and violence; the face-value judgements of skin and ink that considered only the mark and never the meaning; she remembered religious intolerance, subjugation, and prejudice.
At the end of the worlds, they were no saints themselves. All their sins were equal.
Besides, there was more to love, and wasn't that the point?
The obvious absences of life in space: fresh air and rain. The elemental warmth of sunshine on her skin (a feeling she promised herself never to take for granted again). Running water, falling leaves. Warm sand and the loamy scent of earth.
Even when Laura's head ached at the problems Earth presented, her senses sang to spite it.
After years of tasteless green muck (a substance she was horrified to find was being touted by some television personalities as a surefire way to thick glorious hair and a tiny waist), she reveled in a world of new flavors and tastes. Plums and pears, the tangy sweetness of pineapple and mango; rich, savory meats that tasted like heaven to her iron-deprived body; wines that flooded her palate with bright, lingering flavors; teas with names she loved to say - darjeeling, hibiscus, lapsang suuchong; searing Thai curries and smoky pancetta; delicate seafoods, fresh aromatic vegetables that grew from actual earth; every kind of chocolate she could get her hands on.
Coffee. Real coffee. With cream and sugar or carafes of espresso. Her first cup in Rome made her cry from the joy of it.
There were silly things, too.
The American President himself caught her arm after a meeting and pressed a small blue device, thin and sleek, into her hand. A gift from his wife, he said. Laura had spent enough time with the First Lady to know she was a savvy and generous woman. Pointing out the basic functions, he clicked through the playlists and artists catalogue.
"We had the girls help us pick some of the music," he said by way of explanation. "I hope you like Lady Gaga."
Surprisingly, she did.
Laura really loved her iPod.
***
But, for every great luxury - music, wine, laughter - there were a thousand other tiresome details that consumed Laura's days and thoughts. This was precisely how she ended up granting an informal interview to the woman charged with the task of "becoming" Laura Roslin.
Regardless of how much the studio executives espoused its marketability, Laura had mixed feelings about the whole film thing.
"Have you seen the script?"
"Oh, no, I'm afraid not. My aide took the opportunity to review the story points they sent along at the outset, but that's as much time as I've been able to spare. As much as I'm looking foward to the finished product, I think it's best to let those with creative talents far greater than my own take the reins," Laura replied.
Laura was pleased to discover the redheaded actress cast to play her was age appropriate, intelligent, and rather lovely. Though she'd not actively indulged in it much, a latent vanity was appeased, and some of her concerns -- some silly, some legitimate -- were dispelled.
They'd spent the morning exploring Laura's emotional perspective on the many events that had transpired since the attacks. The production executives had cast her role thoughtfully. Her counterpart had wanted to know about the person in the position, especially the woman Laura was. It was somewhat strange unravelling the significance of events in her life with a near-perfect stranger. Laura had revisited the endless tedium and traumas alike with as much detail as she could impart.
"Besides, I imagine that if I read the thing, I'd be critical to a fault. I'd end up spoiling things with the reality of it all. Art needs to trump the bitter facts, at times."
The woman -- Kathleen -- laughed, and sipped her spring water. She had a melifluous voice that filled the stark base courtyward with dulcet tones. Apparently she was a singer as well.
"Well, I wouldn't say 'art', but I like your optimisim, Ma'am."
"Even melodrama has its charms, though let us hope it ." Laura smiled demurely. The last thing she needed was to become a fixture on some third-tier cable network.
"Naturally. No -- what's the phrase? 'So say we all.'"
"You've done your homework, I see."
"Of course. If I accomplish nothing else today, Ma'am, I hope I impress upon you that I'm taking this role very seriously. I find your story...you, fascinating. Though, I admit, I've never played a real, living person before, Madame President." Kathleen, it seemed, was intent on respectfully ignoring Laura's insistence to forgo her former title. "I wondered if you'd like to observe Rich and I run through some scenes..."
"Oh, Gods, no!" Laura grasped her arm, charmed, but adamantly against the idea. "Oh, how mortifying. I'd be self-conscious for weeks. No, no. I'm told by the people whose job it is to know that you are someone of great talent and experience. I trust your interpretation, shall we say, to be what you feel."
Her doppleganger nodded, appreciating the awkwardness of the situation.
"If I may ask, Ma'am, how would you say your relationship with Admiral Adama has changed, over the years?"
Laura clasped her hands behind her back, "The Admiral and I have nothing but the utmost respect for one another. Bill has been a true friend and great support over the years. I like to think our strengths made us complimentary. Made us better leaders. Quite honestly, I don't know what I'd do without him."
Well, that was the truth of it.
"Is that all?" Kathleen raised an eyebrow, giving Laura the somewhat eerie experience of looking in the mirror at a more dubious version of herself.
She smiled her most serene politician's smile. "For the moment, that's all I'm willing to let your bosses know."
Surely an actress of all people could understand the need for privacy.
***
Months passed. The conversation came up again, three or four times.
Three or four times, she avoided the specifics. When he asked what she was waiting for, Laura didn't have an answer for him.
"Time" seemed a poor excuse for someone with a world full of it at last, even if none of it was her own.
***
Early in their first year on Coronado, a day came when she'd found herself faced with the rare opportunity of both being in the Colonial Zone and with some time to spare. As such, she stopped by the secondary school, wanting to see how her former students were faring.
A boy walked up to her, flanked by several shy and eager companions, and offered her a small, brightly wrapped package. She opened with with a smile, and was shocked to find a framed photograph of the Forum on Caprica.
"We were going to send it to you. We found it in a magazine, it's not a real print or anything."
Laura pressed a hand to her heart, more overcome by the gesture than by her memories.
The students had retreated soon thereafter, leaving the frame with Laura. It sat on her desk, beside the photo of her and Billy. She stared at them often, and as she did, ideas began to take shape in her mind.
***
As the car ushed them down Sunset Boulevard, Bill traced the ridges of her knuckles with this thumb, attempting to allay some of her anxiety. He was well attuned to her many moods by now.
"Looking foward to this?" he asked.
His voice filled the interior of the motorcade limousine. A deep and dear sound that reverberated in all the spaces between them. At times such as these Laura felt she could spend the rest of her days exploring its infinite resonance.
She turned her attention from the window, much preferring the view at her side.
"Not particularly."
"Makes two of us."
***
There were lights. There were photographers. There were crowds of screaming fangirls.
"Kinda makes you feel bad for 'em, doesn't it?"
Sam Anders stood at her shoulder, surveying the madness on the red carpet-a number of late arrival actors besieged by reporters with microphones and demanding paparazzi.
Laura was very glad her position allowed her to have slipped in though the back entrance. Those fangirls were intimidating.
The lights in the lobby flashed off and on, signaling the film was about to begin. People began moving towards the theater entrance. Bill broke off his conversation with Galen Tyrol, who looked decidedly uncomfortable in black tie, and waited for her to join him in taking their seats.
Laura and looked up at Anders.
"Well, Mr. Anders, we might as well get this over with."
***
READ ON IN PART TWO