BSG Fic - You Could Be Happy Part 3/?
Title: You Could Be Happy Part 3/?
Author: redknightalex
Pairing: Cain/Gina
Word Count: 7,323
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, world, etc. They belong to RDM, SyFy, and other important people I don't know. No harm intended, I'm just a fan.
Summary: In a world where Gina isn't revealed as a Cylon when Pegasus meets Galactica, Admiral Cain has to deal with the consequences of governing the rest of humanity in her own unique fashion.
Previous Chapters
Part 0+1
Part 2
Took a lot longer than I previously imagined but two things happened along the way. I found a beta reader, egalitarianmuse, who could put up with my horrible grammar. Many thanks. I also doubled the word/page count, meaning you get two updates in one. Enjoy!
Chapter 3
Her head ached and no matter how much water she drank the pain would not go away.
Cain waited for her Raptor to touch down on Galactica's deck, thinking idly at all the ways she could have gotten her current headache.
Although it might have seemed obvious, she doubted it was from the few drinks she'd had last night. Even if her alcohol tolerance was especially low, having a few sips now and then didn't bother her. She usually abstained from most alcohol, except in the presence of other officers on a formal or semi-formal occasion. She hated the way it made her feel, how she couldn't keep a firm grip on her actions or emotions. Even from her earliest days as an ensign, she'd kept away from the stuff, ignoring the teasing remarks she received, especially from her fellow Viper pilots. She took it all in stride, focusing instead on getting ahead, on being better than everybody else. Then the day came that she outranked them. No one opened their mouth again. But last night was about celebrating, about letting go, about enjoying life for the first time in months and she was not about to squander the opportunity.
She felt the jolt as the thrusters died and the Raptor touched down.
Perhaps it could have been the rather restless night of sleep she had. She was barely able to get any sleep after that first hour. Gina was constantly moving around and it irritated her to no end. She was normally a very light sleeper--you had to be when you entered the Colonial Fleet, much less became an admiral in command of a battlestar--and with all the tossing and turning happening next to her, she found little peace. At one point she got so fed up with Gina's incessant squirming that she extracted herself from the woman's embrace, deciding instead to find comfort at the edge of the bunk. It lasted all of five seconds before Gina found her again, arms and legs wrapped around her in a haphazard and constraining fashion. After another fifteen minutes of fighting, she gave in and resorted to the relaxation exercises she'd learned on her first full command. 0500 hours couldn't have come any slower.
The hatch opened and her Marines got off before her. She hadn't been fond of taking along a security detail, concerned it might give off the wrong impression, but they had insisted. They believed, much along the same lines as their admiral, that to know a good job was done you had to do it yourself. She got up and walked quietly out.
No, in all likelihood it was the amount of damage control she had to do after the celebrations of the night before. Colonels and crewmen alike were dragging and, with the help of the infallible Lt. Shaw and Colonel Fisk, she mopped up. At first it was a satisfying task, cleaning up house. Then, after the tenth barking, she'd started to wonder if perhaps she was the one failing. Should she have stopped all celebrations of finding Galactica and the rest of the ships before it had even started? Should she have worked everyone as if nothing had happened? Should she have even celebrated? Shouldn't she have been working on all of the things still left to do, the transfers, the supplies, the exchange of civilians? How could she have let her guard down like that, allowing herself and, thus, everyone else, a moment's reprieve? Was this the Admiral Cain she thought herself to be?
She took a deep breath in, allowing it to permeate her lungs, her chest, her body. She willed the headache to leave with her exhale, to allow her just a few pain-free hours. Those hours would not be ones of joy, she promised the headache, she would be working hard, working diligently. Could she not trade one pain for another?
The ache wouldn't leave, obviously happy in its current position. In fact, it only grew worse as she opened her eyes to the bright lights of the hangar deck. The lights, like a thousand knives, thrust into her eyes. She took another deep breath while she suppressed a groan of pain.
This migraine had to be the work of the gods for no one thing could produce such anguish. How could she get through hours of meetings, conferences, and sitting? By the gods, how could she?
Then the mantra came back. She hated pills. Hate pills. No pills. Can't take pills. No pills, no pills, no pills.
Pills were for the weak.
But maybe, after all these years, she really was weak. The pain didn't seem to be worth the hassle. Furthermore, if the pain was gone she would be better equipped to handle the issues in front of her, to give it her full attention. Didn't the fleet deserve that? Could there be times when being weak was a good thing?
She turned to the detail leader, motioned for her to come close, and whispered conspiratorially into her ear.
“Go to the sickbay and find me some aspirin, some crackers, and a cup of coffee. Be discreet.”
The Marine's face never wavered as she gave Cain a curt nod and then disappeared quickly into the bowels of the battlestar.
“And you agreed with the President to abandon the offensive front? Ah, thank you, Sergeant.”
Cain took the cup in one hand and outstretched the other to accept the hidden gift from the Marine. She calmly brought the hand up to her mouth, tipped the aspirin inside, and drank the coffee. A few crackers were also taken and munched on slowly. She dismissed the Marine with a wave of her hand and the Sergeant went back to join the security detail trailing the officers.
Cain silently cursed the taste of coffee, yet another substance she refused to partake in. Although it did not have the mind altering effects of alcohol, she did not believe in its purpose. If one was prepared, had the necessary sleep, and had trained their mind well, stimulants were not required. Moreover, some stimulants could be detrimental to future operations. Or, worse, you could become addicted. She preferred her mind and body to be unaltered by any substance. But she needed the liquid, the caffeine, for both could help with her migraine. After this cup, which was more caffeine than she had had all year, she still had the full canteen she'd taken with her this morning.
Commander Adama waited patiently for the admiral to finish before answering. “Yes, I agreed with the President after some persuasion on her part.”
Cain lightly fingered the rim of the mug. At least the coffee was hot and freshly brewed even if it was not the best cup she had ever had. “I see.”
She motioned for them to continue walking towards the briefing room where Roslin would be meeting them in a few minutes. “Have you ever thought of returning to offensive action?”
“There have been times when we were placed on the offensive. I ordered an attack on a Tylium refinery station operated by the Cylons as well as numerous attacks on basestars.”
Cain sipped her cup again. It felt like liquid fire running down her throat. “Were the attacks on basetars out of necessity?”
When Adama paused to think, Cain could already deduce the answer. He had only made offense attacks when he needed to, when he had been backed into a corner with no where else to turn. One would consider them offensive strikes in name only, their spirit crushed and their bones broken until only the flesh remained. How could such a docile officer take command of a battlestar, even one as low-key as Galactica had been? It didn't make sense.
“Yes, sir,” Adama said, never losing eye contact.
Cain stopped before the briefing room door. Marines were stationed outside, along with the President's aid, so Cain figured the President must be waiting for them inside. There was only one more matter to attend to.
“Commander, as much as I do not want to interfere with your operations, there are a few changes I must make.”
Adama didn't blink. For a second she wondered how she might feel if her command was being taken over. It hadn't happened to her in years, one of the obvious perks of being a flag officer, but she could still remember a time when her decisions were not set in stone. She had felt so insignificant, so powerless, and all it had done to her spirit was make it stronger. Now things were different, she controlled the changes. In some far-off corner of her mind, she pitied the man.
“I have a personal networking specialist on-board, a survivor of the attack on the colonies, and she's been working on connecting Pegasus's systems together, firewalled of course. I will be integrating Galactica's systems into this network as well. You will still have complete control of your ship, have no doubt, but it will be easier to coordinate attacks and defensive fire if the two ships were able to communicate with each other. I will have her meet with you in the next few days. I would appreciate it if you could assign one of your own specialists to give her a tour of your systems in the next few days.”
Did she really need to ask nicely? Or even play the part of a diplomat soothing ruffled feathers? No, perhaps not, yet it would make things easier for her in the long run to show this simple act of courtesy.
Adama nodded, his expression neutral. “Yes sir.”
Cain could see right through his mask, to the pain and frustration underneath. Galactica was his, in all of her un-networked glory. She had been laid untouched by the hands of machines, by the same forces that gave intelligence to the Cylons, and now, by some play of the gods, Cain came in and flipped his world, so carefully created, upside down.
Would he feel bitter, Cain wondered as the hatch to the briefing, and the so-called President, opened? Would he protest later, in private? Would he hide his anger away, only to be used at a later time? And then would it grow to some unmanageable size? Had he lost his sense of loyalty, forgotten his training, abandoned his military bearing? Could he so easily relinquish control when he had cherished it for so long? It seemed so easy to her, so simple a problem, except, to him, to the one being jerked around, it must have hit like a fist to the gut.
Should she be concerned? Should she watch him? Should she have someone else watch him, his every move, his every minute facial tick? She would not stand for insubordination, no matter how minor, and would deal with such thoughts quickly. This was her game, her playing field, in which she controlled all the pieces.
Cain took a quiet breath, steeling herself, and spoke calmly. “Good afternoon, Madam President.”
Cain's back and head radiated pain throughout her body with each beat of her heart. The aspirin she'd taken hours ago did little to help with the migraine now. Sometimes, while she listened to Roslin and Adama bicker back and forth, she counted her breaths. It was the only way she could deal with her pain and her frustration.
Inhale. Exhale. In with the fresh, cool, soothing air. Out with the pain, the worry, the suffering.
It worked to a marginal degree. The lights still carved designs out of her eyes and her stomach started to do flips of nausea whenever she moved her head too fast. And don't get her started on her back. It hadn't been this bad in months which was only made worse by the uncomfortable chair she had to sit in for this never-ending meeting. Even when this was finished, when the President had had enough of talk, there was still the tour of Galactica to get to, including a meeting with the Cylon prisoner. That was what she really wanted to get to. Why couldn't she have had desert first?
Roslin started to ask her a question. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Cain pushed the pain away and focused her attention. Only a few more hours before she could go back to Pegasus, go back home, and just fall down on her bunk, a glass of water in hand.
“I do have a number of transfer requests that I would like you to look over as soon as possible. My ship, along with my crew, has been squeezed tight ever since we took on those extra civilians a month ago. Of course, the civilians I drafted into my crew will stay aboard and continue with their duties.”
Roslin nodded, making a quite note on her pad. “Are there any families we need to be concerned with?”
“Families? They are of no concern.”
Roslin's head whipped up, eyes finding Cain's quickly. “Of no concern?”
Cain could feel her temper flare. The overt independence she heard in Roslin's voice grated on her nerves. When was the last time she had been questioned so easily, so freely?
Ah, yes, Belzen. She could remember the occasion, remember him, clearly in her mind.
Her side arm suddenly became heavy on her leg. Even if the thought didn't fully cross her mind it tickled the back of her senses.
Could everything, would everything, be resolved by violence? Was this what they, what she, had become?
“Yes, there are families on board,” Cain said, weighing every word carefully before it left her mouth, “and, yes, some have family members that I have drafted into my crew. These families will, unfortunately, have to be broken up. However, they must understand that sacrifices must be made by everyone, not just the few.”
Was that a small frown crossing Adama's face? And, if so, why was it mirroring the much larger one now disfiguring Roslin's mouth? Why did Cain feel like she was fighting an uphill battle with these two? When had it become two against one with the odds favoring them? Why was Adama siding with the president and not his direct superior? This did not bode well.
Roslin played idly with her pen. “Is there no way to keep these families together?”
“No.”
Roslin made another, smaller note onto her pad. “Alright, I'll see what I can do for you.”
Cain wanted to snap. What she could do for her? How outrageous. Roslin and Adama should be dancing around her, catering to her every whim. She was in control, in command, and this lack of respect stung her face as if she had been slapped. She took a small, calming breath and bit the inside of her mouth. She could taste blood and the bitter sweetness of it soothed her.
She could get through this.
“Anything else we need to discuss, Admiral?”
“Yes, one other thing. I've heard the talk regarding problems with supplies and a supposed black market. I will be sending out some of my people to investigate these claims and discover any other sources of criminal activity within the fleet. Once found, they will have broad authority to fix these problems. For the time being, I will order all supplies to be handled by, and through, Pegasus.”
Roslin seemed to tense, taking a moment to compose herself before responding. “The black market I have heard of and has been on my agenda for quite some time.” She put her pen down carefully and neatly folded her hands in her lap. Cain thought she looked almost innocent, naïve, harmless. It was a good tactic. “However, with all due respect, I believe this is a civilian matter-”
“Yes,” Cain interrupted, getting even more irritated by the minute, “I have heard of your 'agreement' with Commander Adama and, for the most part, I agree with the compromise. Yet, you seem to have let this problem slide. Supplies, resources, medicines, and personnel are being wasted and this is just unacceptable. I worry that you find it so easy to ignore.”
“Admiral, I assure you, I have not ignored this problem.”
“Then, what have you done?”
“My hands have been tied up for some time with-”
“With what, Madam President? With your jail sentence, subsequent escape, and your resumption of power once you finally decided to reconcile your differences with a wounded officer?”
Did Roslin pale just a little? Did Cain find a soft spot to squeeze? Her mood started to lighten.
Cain felt a smirk color her face. “Yes, you have been tied up for some time now.”
Adama squirmed as Roslin's silence continued for a few moments longer. Would he speak up to defend her? That, Cain decided, would be worth seeing.
“However, in the name of cooperation, I would be willing to assemble a new team consisting of my crew and your civilians that would have each of our blessings to crack down on crime and violence within the fleet. Is this acceptable?”
Roslin's innocence, her hesitance, left just as quickly as it came and she stared straight into Cain's eyes. Cain felt like she was being scrutinized, studied, analyzed for any weakness, for any insincerity, for any character flaws she might wear on her sleeve like a broken heart. She laughed inside. Her walls, her mask, were impenetrable and her weaknesses were carefully boxed away. No matter who was doing the examination, she would excel.
The two stared at each other for some time, tension filling the room like an airlock being re-pressurized. Could one see the air of confidence one woman presented or recognize the intense focus on the other?
Finally, Roslin nodded. “Acceptable.”
Cain smiled. It felt genuine. “Excellent.” She glanced at the clock behind Roslin. “We certainly have been here for a while and there is still the tour of Galactica to take. So, if you will excuse me and the Commander, I would like to get started.”
The three of them stood up in unison. Even with the agreement just reached, the mood still felt strained. Cain wondered briefly, but thoroughly, about the impression she wanted to leave the President with. Should she be cordial or commanding? How about understanding, willing to work things out? What about a diplomatic stance? Should she be assuming, refuse to acknowledge the power the other woman had?
Perhaps the best way to deal with the situation was to not deal with it at all and just let it be.
Cain held out her hand. “Thank you, Madam President, for your time and attention. I hope that, in the future, our meetings will be just as fruitful.”
Roslin's smile was thin, reserved, and doubtful. But Roslin smiled.
“Thank you, Admiral, and I too hope for the best.”
How was it that they could look just like us?
Cain never put much stock in magic, or the gods, but for this she would make an exception. And for the first time in years, she felt scared.
If Cylons looked like humans, really looked like them, then what was left? What could they hold sacred, close to their hearts? What happened to the days of being able to look your enemy in the eye and knowing it was them? What had happened to simpler times? When had everything gotten so complicated?
“Meet, well, Sharon Valerii. Or, at least, one of the many copies,” Dr. Baltar said, clearing his throat in a nervous manner.
“Meet?” Cain asked while crossing her arms, the Cylon the center of her attention.
The Cylon did not look amused, standing up and crossing its own arms. How could a machine look defiant, Cain wondered.
“I may be a Cylon,” it spoke, “but I am alive.”
Skeptical, Cain thought briefly on how a thing could be alive. The idea left a sour taste in her mouth.
“You seem to treat your prisoners well.”
“Yes, we, ah, find it helps to treat them with a little humanity,” Baltar replied.
Cain's head continued to pound, the pain in her back made each second an agony to stand up straight, and her nails bit into her arms. Could a Cylon feel the type of pain she had? Did they recognize perseverance? Bearing? Fortitude? Could they ever understand what made her continue to hold her head up high and her body as straight as a rod no matter what the pain was, no matter what the cost?
She laughed at the thought. It was outrageous.
She studied the Cylon, wondering if it had any emotions-or thoughts, behind that human-looking face. If she didn't know any better, she would have said the Cylon looked agitated.
“I guess we've come across another battletar then,” it spoke.
Cain dug her fingers even harder into her arm.
“Have you gained any intelligence from it?”
Baltar shifted on his feet. “Ah, yes, we have gained some, well, information from her. In fact, on several occasions, she has provided useful information. Vital information, even.”
“On some occasions?” Cain's voice's held an edge of suspicion to it.
“She helped on Kobol, finding the Tomb of Athena for us. There was also a case, ah, a few weeks ago where we were attacked by a Cylon logic bomb.” Baltar paused and out of the corner of her eye, Cain saw him glance to a corner of the cell. “Yes, yes, very helpful.”
Cain was unconvinced.
And she'd had enough. Without a nod, a word, or a look, she left the Cylon in its cell.
Adama was waiting for her outside the cage, his arms relaxed at his side. When she turned to face him, she saw those same arms tense.
“You treat your prisoners well,” she accused. “Is there a particular reason for this?”
Adama looked unfazed. “Numerous interrogation techniques have been used. However, we have found that by treating them as the humans they believe they are equivalent to has yielded the best results.”
Cain could almost see the words he wasn't saying, could almost hear them ringing around in her head with all of his hollow sentiments. But that inquiry was not for today.
No, she wanted to be done with this. She wanted to go back home, to Pegasus, and nurse her migraine and back ache. Tomorrow she could start anew, get a fresh start, and go over everything with an eager mind. So, only this one time would she let Adama off the hook.
“That is unsatisfactory,” Cain began, putting her hands on her hips and dug into them, hard. “And I will expect you to have an explanation for me tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cain turned to find Baltar just exiting the cell, smiling. Whatever could Baltar be smiling about?
“Dr. Baltar, I would like you to accompany me on my way back to the hangar deck, please. Commander,” Cain said before looking at Adama once again, “I appreciate the time you've given me thus far. A weekly meeting is in order. I'm sure we will be in contact before then.”
Adama nodded and brought his arm sharply up to his forehead in what Cain considered to be a near-perfect salute. He must have been practicing. She returned the salute with equal precision and felt like her headache lessened just a tiny amount.
Cain and Baltar started walking towards the hangar, leaving Adama behind. It took a few moments of going through hatches and maneuvering around people before Baltar could walk side-by-side with her.
“I have a networking specialist working on Pegasus that would very much like to meet with you,” Cain started when she could see Baltar out of the corner of her eye. “She's been working on your code for some time and she has a few,” Cain paused. How best to put this? “Questions she would like answered.”
Baltar stopped dead in his tracks, his face taunt with fear. His eyes darted between Cain's and an empty spot in the corridor. It seemed like he couldn't figure out which one was more important: her or an empty hole.
Cain got even more annoyed. She didn't understand Baltar at all. He was rude, obnoxious, and unfocused. This did not seem to be the same man that she had hard about in the news and seen on the media vids. She wondered how such an inattentive and scattered man could have been so successful and popular. Had something traumatic happened to him after the fall of the colonies? Had he been scarred by something he'd seen there? Did he feel guilty over how his code had been used by the Cylons during the attack? Or was he really just psychotic?
After a few moments, he shook his head and returned his gaze to Cain.
“Yes, yes, certainly. I would, ah, be delighted to, of course. Do you know what she may be inquiring about? Any, um, idea?”
“I believe she is trying to replace some of the backdoors found in the code that the Cylons used to break through our defenses during the attack. She was hoping to gain some insight as to how you developed the code and maybe work with you to prevent further infiltration to the system in the future.”
Baltar's face lit up. “Yes, yes, that would be good. I'm sure I can do that.”
“Does tomorrow morning work for you?”
Baltar looked like he wanted to say no, that he was working on other, much more important things to do. Then, he glanced over Cain's shoulders, to that spot he kept looking at, and tilted his head.
Cain was certain that if this man had been under her control she would have thrown him into the kitchens or, more likely, out the airlock. His carelessness was dangerous.
He whipped his head back to face her, a smile shining. “That sounds perfect.”
“Well then, Dr. Baltar, I will tell Ms. Inviere to meet you on Galactica at 0900 hours tomorrow morning.”
“I look forward to it.”
Cain turned to leave, just reaching the hatch to the hangar deck, when Baltar spoke up. “And it's Mr. Vice-President, Admiral.”
Cain shook her head minutely, only enough to give her satisfaction but not enough for Baltar to see. She decided not to answer and continued forward.
She could finally go home.
Aboard the Raptor, Cain finally had time to herself. She needed to give all of the information she had received today time to digest, to let it sit in her mind for a few peaceful moments, before she could make any use of it. Right now she had the luxury of time and she was eternally grateful.
Unfortunately, her pain had not left her. But neither had it gotten worse. She had to count her blessings, even if they were small.
She shifted in her chair. She was ready to be up and off her ass. Meetings were only good to a point, after that you needed action, initiative, forward movement. Now was the time for such progress. If only she knew what that progress was. She needed to do more thinking, planning, before making a decision. She had ideas, ill-formed as they were, but still, she needed time. And time was the one thing she was sure she had very little of.
Cain began to make a list in her tired mind of all the things she needed to take care of in the immediate future. The more she thought about these things the more she knew that they wouldn't get done today. She kept thinking of her cool, clean bunk and how great it would be to finally lay down.
Then another, almost unwelcome, thought entered her mind: Gina would be there.
Throughout the day Cain had actively worked at keeping the woman out of her thoughts, out of her mind, so that she could stay on-track. Even if she would allow herself the pleasure of thinking about being in bed and relatively pain-free, she would not allow herself the idea of thinking of Gina while working. This would amount to daydreaming and such useless thoughts would only crowd out the more important, tactical ones she needed to have today.
But what about now, a part of her brain asked. Couldn't she daydream now, so close to home and that pain-free comfort she'd been thinking about all day?
She rested her head against the hull, staring with heavy lids out the window. They had finally left Galactica.
Perhaps it would be acceptable to daydream now. Just for a short while, of course.
Then again, she wasn't really sure if she knew how to daydream. It couldn't be that hard, she mused. All she had to do was think of something that made her happy and then, well, go with the flow. She was pretty certain that was how one went about it. Perhaps she should start by thinking of what Gina was doing at this moment.
She was probably working with Shaw on the networking program. Cain smiled to herself. The sounds of that incessant typing did wonders for her insomnia. Could comfort be a sound? And what about domesticity?
Or perhaps Gina was enjoying a dinner, playing a game of Triad with some of the friends she had made on-board. She had organized her own class on integrating the civilians into the military lifestyle and protocol found on Pegasus and, through this, had found quite a few people who'd latched onto her as some sort of beacon. It was probably easier for them to see her as an authority figure, who was very much approachable, than Cain, the distant, but still very much in command, Admiral. Many times Gina had related the recent troubles from the civilians, most of which had been legitimate concerns, which Cain had attended to as soon as she could.
In some ways, Gina had become the public relations official. This didn't surprise Cain at all. Gina was very much a people-person. She could relate to them, talk with them, and, most important of all, listen to them. She just had this certain mixture of charisma and charm that made everyone like her. It was hard to find anyone who didn't like her which helped once the gossip made its rounds when Gina moved in with the admiral. Much easier.
And, now that Cain had a chance to let her mind wander, she was sure that even the angry Cylon would like Gina.
The Cylon.
The words entered her mind unbidden. The whole concept terrified her, more than she would admit even to herself, and the whole ordeal had taken a much larger toll on her than she had previously imagined.
Suddenly, she had come face-to-face with her demon and, much to her horror, it had stared right back.
She'd read no remorse behind those life-like eyes, no pity, no sorrow. Did it not know what it had done to all of those people? Did it not feel guilty over all of the lives taken? Did it not know of the sacrifices made by ordinary people, by those not made to excel? Did it not see firsthand the millions of lives lost?
And some part of her had wanted to scream at it. “Do you know what you've done to me?”
But no, Cain did not scream, or whisper, anything. She had just looked her nightmare in the face and calmly ignored it. For what else could she have done? When had nightmares become real? When had the feeling of fear become tangible? When had her sorrow, her guilt, her shame, become flesh and blood?
Cain felt her stomach clench, feeling sick all over again.
Cylons that looked like humans. Before this, Cylons had been almost an abstract thought, an idea, a machine, that had run amok. Now it had a face, it had the illusion of a soul, and, somehow, it made all the difference.
The Raptor touched down on the hangar deck of Pegasus, jolting Cain from her thoughts. When had they gotten to Pegasus? Why hadn't she noticed? Had she been sleeping? When had she closed her eyes? Had she just drifted away from the conscious realm and into her own little world?
How unlike her. She couldn't remember the last time she had done anything like this, even in the most stressful and trying of times. Never, even after days of just hours of sleep, had she ever done anything remotely like this.
Cain sighed. She didn't feel like delving into her deeper cognitive processes right now. Whatever it meant was what it meant and, if she were to be honest with herself, she found she rather enjoyed whatever it was anyway. She just didn't need to make it a regular occurrence.
A few minutes later, she stepped off the Raptor and onto the deck of Pegasus. She took in a deep breath, smelling Pegasus, before moving forward again.
This was what home must smell like.
After stopping five times for different, small, insignificant issues, Cain finally reached her quarters. Her head was pounding worse than ever and her back was intolerable. She needed it all to just stop. Then, when she finally opened the hatch to get inside, she found Gina waiting at her computer station, sitting with her back hunched over. She looked small, weak, and vulnerable.
“Now, what is the matter with you?” Cain yelled, her irritation, pain, and anger hitting the one person she knew could take it, could understand it.
If Cain had been in a good mood, she would have called Gina on it, saying in a teasing tone that she looked like a Cylon had just walked in. Instead, Cain found it entirely annoying and unreasonable.
Gina looked up, fear unmistakeable in her wide eyes. She didn't move, didn't speak, didn't blink.
Cain clenched her eyes shut, gnawing at the inside of her bottom lip. She gave up. Just plain old gave up. She didn't care anymore. Nope, not at all.
Cain opened her eyes, a grunt escaping her, and she walked into the room. She hadn't quite thought this part through, her focus only on getting back, on getting home, and not entirely on what she would do upon reaching it. Yes, a glass of water should be first, but she didn't know what she should do next. Should she do her stretches to relieve the tension in her back or lay down and rub her temples for a few minutes? Or did she need to take care of Gina and figure out what was going on?
Obviously nothing on today's agenda would be easy.
Gina spoke just as Cain reached her sink, cup in hand.
“How did the tour go?” Gina asked, her voice trying to sound casual, speaking like she didn't care.
Cain filled the glass to the brim. She looked at it for a moment, as if trying to deduce the correct way to get the water to enter her body. Then, in a fit of emotion, she let the glass fall back into the sink. She lowered her head, turned the tap back on, and filled her hands with water. She then doused her face in it, letting the cool liquid wash over her, granting her some reprieve from the migraine still following her every move. It was heavenly.
Cain grabbed the nearest towel, water falling neatly from her nose to the floor, and dried her face. She felt moderately better.
“Gina,” Cain sighed, letting the towel drop carelessly to the floor. She turned to get another glass of water, speaking over her shoulder. “The tour was fine, nothing of importance. You do have a meeting with Dr. Baltar before I forget. You need to be on Galactica at 0900 hours tomorrow.” Another sigh. “Look, I'm sorry but I'm just not in the mood to talk, I've been doing it all day. My head hurts, my back feels like it's on fire, and all I want to do is just go to bed.”
Cain still didn't move, instead opting to drink the glass of water. After a few moments, Cain could hear ruffling behind her and then a loud thump. She turned, her stomach just about ready to explode upwards in the most unpleasant way, but what she saw made the pain worthwhile.
Gina had somehow managed to bring down, unfold, and cover the old cot they had stashed away for Cain's back problems. Even though it had become something of a rarity over the past month, for the longest time Gina would massage Cain's back whenever the chronic pain would start again. It took only thirty minutes for the pain to go away under Gina's skilled hands with a technique that had taken hours of practice to perfect, and after a good night's sleep Cain would be as good as new, or as good she would ever be, in the morning.
“Come on,” Gina said, rubbing her hands with a lotion she had found with the cot, “get undressed and up on here.”
Cain just stared at her, incredulous. How could she have forgotten this? For too many weeks to count it had been her only solace from the horrors of commanding a broken ship and crew. And now, in a similar moment of need, it was laid out to her, welcoming her, beckoning her. It was wonderful.
Gina, her earlier terror somehow forgotten, put down the bottle of lotion. “Well, do you want a back rub or not?”
Cain snapped out of it, hands flying to her uniform. She undressed quickly, surely, quietly, moving towards the cot in a few long strides. She flopped on the bed, face first, with a loud exhale and waited with as much patience as she could manage for Gina to begin.
It didn't take long and soon cold hands were moving their way up and down Cain's back in smooth, strong strokes. For an hour, Gina worked on Cain's back and neck, kneading the ache out of Cain's muscles and bones. Every time she hit a particularly sore or rough spot Cain would gasp and let the pain leave her body with that puff of air. But when Gina changed tactics and worked instead on the areas she knew to be Cain's soft spots a quiet moan could be heard.
By the time Cain's eye lids stared to drop all but the most insistent pangs had left her. Gina had, once again, worked miracles on her back and neck, and left her feeling nearly weightless. The small circles Gina made on her back, pressing into her at all of the right places, made her feel like one big, warm pile of goo. And when she started thinking in terms of goo and warm, Cain knew it was time to hit the sack.
Cain tried to get Gina's attention, to tell her that it was time to get into bed, but it all came out in one large, muffled, “merf.”
The loving hands on her back stopped. “What was that?”
Cain groaned. This time she tried to point.
“Ready for bed, is that it?”
The effort required to nod felt monumental, but nod Cain did and with an enormous amount of help, she got up off the cot and into her bunk.
When she felt the covers being pulled and tucked in around her body, Cain tried to say thank you. What came out was unintelligible.
“Shh,” Gina hushed, soothing over black hair. “Close your eyes now.”
Cain nodded her head, the words flowing in and out of her. She didn't quite understand what they meant so she just gave up and fell asleep.
“Eat your breakfast.”
Cain looked at Gina, forgetting the bar still held within her hand. Gina had a thing for breakfasts while Cain tended to forgo them. Since Gina moved in, Cain hadn't missed a single one.
They were both in a better mood this morning. Cain had shed herself of the pain that had troubled her the previous day and Gina seemed to have discarded the uncharacteristic behavior of the past day or so. Cain felt like everything had gone back to normal, or as normal as they could ever be, and all they had needed was a few hours sleep.
Scrunching up her face in distaste, Cain chewed on her bar.
“I hate these,” Cain remarked between bites.
Gina tugged on the sides of Cain's uniform before folding the inner flap in and proceeded to button it up. “It's either that or you sit down and have a bowl of oatmeal before your shift.”
Cain sighed. “No thanks, not enough time.”
Gina smiled, finishing up the buttons on that side before moving on to the other. “Then stop your complaining.”
Cain swatted Gina's hands away and moved back. “I don't complain.”
Gina rolled her eyes and took a step forward, hanging onto Cain's jacket. “You complain and you act like a petulant child.”
For good measure Cain struggled with Gina for a moment before giving up, eating the last bite of her breakfast. It was cold, hard, and dry in her mouth but anything was better than oatmeal, which tended to remind her of the horrible mess hall visits she'd had as a young commander.
Gina worked hard at the buttons on Cain's uniform, wiping them off with her thumb before fitting them snugly through the hole. It had become one of their treasured rituals since sharing the same space. One morning, after a particularly rough night of sleep, Cain had a hard time getting her uniform together, cursing wildly at either not being able to find it or, when she did, how she couldn't work it for the first time in years. Gina had crawled out of the warm bed and helped Cain put it on, coaxing her like a patient mother. How they actually settled into doing it morning after morning, neither could remember but both could recall that first time. Cain looked forward to it every morning.
When Gina finished, Cain tried to look down at her uniform but her chin was pushed up by Gina's hands.
“Your uniform is fine. Don't you trust me?” Gina asked teasingly.
“In general? Yes,” Cain paused, a playful smile growing fast on her lips. “With my uniform? No.”
Gina grabbed Cain by the coat collars, disturbing the perfectly straight angles of the uniform, and placed a resounding kiss on Cain's lips.
“Too bad. Now get out of here!”
Cain, her early insolence forgotten, gave Gina another quick kiss before heading for the hatch. “Enjoy your stay on Galactica,” she called back, “and watch out for Baltar. He's a bit strange.”
She heard a laugh and a “Will do” just before the hatch closed.
Cain stood silently in the CIC. She needed to make her presence known after a few days' absence from her command post after being aboard Galactica for so long. She was still in command of this battlestar even if she had another one to look after. She still remembered her first born. Always.
She glanced back over her notes and Galactica's logs. The personnel issues would never end.
“Admiral,” Lt. Hoshi spoke, bringing Cain's attention back, “Galactica actual wants to speak with you.”
Cain sighed and glanced at the clock. It was only 0930 hours and she had anticipated at least another four hours before she needed to speak with Adama once more. This was entirely unexpected.
She picked up the receiver at the center console and spoke clearly. “Pegasus actual, go ahead.”
“Admiral Cain,” Adama spoke, his voice sounding angry, accusing, suspicious. “Were you aware that you were harboring a Cylon?”
Cain grew puzzled and just as suspicious. “Harboring a Cylon? That's quite a-”
“You sent over a Cylon in your latest Raptor. I believe she goes by the name of Gina Inviere.”
Cain could have sworn she felt time stop.
Author: redknightalex
Pairing: Cain/Gina
Word Count: 7,323
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, world, etc. They belong to RDM, SyFy, and other important people I don't know. No harm intended, I'm just a fan.
Summary: In a world where Gina isn't revealed as a Cylon when Pegasus meets Galactica, Admiral Cain has to deal with the consequences of governing the rest of humanity in her own unique fashion.
Previous Chapters
Part 0+1
Part 2
Took a lot longer than I previously imagined but two things happened along the way. I found a beta reader, egalitarianmuse, who could put up with my horrible grammar. Many thanks. I also doubled the word/page count, meaning you get two updates in one. Enjoy!
Chapter 3
Her head ached and no matter how much water she drank the pain would not go away.
Cain waited for her Raptor to touch down on Galactica's deck, thinking idly at all the ways she could have gotten her current headache.
Although it might have seemed obvious, she doubted it was from the few drinks she'd had last night. Even if her alcohol tolerance was especially low, having a few sips now and then didn't bother her. She usually abstained from most alcohol, except in the presence of other officers on a formal or semi-formal occasion. She hated the way it made her feel, how she couldn't keep a firm grip on her actions or emotions. Even from her earliest days as an ensign, she'd kept away from the stuff, ignoring the teasing remarks she received, especially from her fellow Viper pilots. She took it all in stride, focusing instead on getting ahead, on being better than everybody else. Then the day came that she outranked them. No one opened their mouth again. But last night was about celebrating, about letting go, about enjoying life for the first time in months and she was not about to squander the opportunity.
She felt the jolt as the thrusters died and the Raptor touched down.
Perhaps it could have been the rather restless night of sleep she had. She was barely able to get any sleep after that first hour. Gina was constantly moving around and it irritated her to no end. She was normally a very light sleeper--you had to be when you entered the Colonial Fleet, much less became an admiral in command of a battlestar--and with all the tossing and turning happening next to her, she found little peace. At one point she got so fed up with Gina's incessant squirming that she extracted herself from the woman's embrace, deciding instead to find comfort at the edge of the bunk. It lasted all of five seconds before Gina found her again, arms and legs wrapped around her in a haphazard and constraining fashion. After another fifteen minutes of fighting, she gave in and resorted to the relaxation exercises she'd learned on her first full command. 0500 hours couldn't have come any slower.
The hatch opened and her Marines got off before her. She hadn't been fond of taking along a security detail, concerned it might give off the wrong impression, but they had insisted. They believed, much along the same lines as their admiral, that to know a good job was done you had to do it yourself. She got up and walked quietly out.
No, in all likelihood it was the amount of damage control she had to do after the celebrations of the night before. Colonels and crewmen alike were dragging and, with the help of the infallible Lt. Shaw and Colonel Fisk, she mopped up. At first it was a satisfying task, cleaning up house. Then, after the tenth barking, she'd started to wonder if perhaps she was the one failing. Should she have stopped all celebrations of finding Galactica and the rest of the ships before it had even started? Should she have worked everyone as if nothing had happened? Should she have even celebrated? Shouldn't she have been working on all of the things still left to do, the transfers, the supplies, the exchange of civilians? How could she have let her guard down like that, allowing herself and, thus, everyone else, a moment's reprieve? Was this the Admiral Cain she thought herself to be?
She took a deep breath in, allowing it to permeate her lungs, her chest, her body. She willed the headache to leave with her exhale, to allow her just a few pain-free hours. Those hours would not be ones of joy, she promised the headache, she would be working hard, working diligently. Could she not trade one pain for another?
The ache wouldn't leave, obviously happy in its current position. In fact, it only grew worse as she opened her eyes to the bright lights of the hangar deck. The lights, like a thousand knives, thrust into her eyes. She took another deep breath while she suppressed a groan of pain.
This migraine had to be the work of the gods for no one thing could produce such anguish. How could she get through hours of meetings, conferences, and sitting? By the gods, how could she?
Then the mantra came back. She hated pills. Hate pills. No pills. Can't take pills. No pills, no pills, no pills.
Pills were for the weak.
But maybe, after all these years, she really was weak. The pain didn't seem to be worth the hassle. Furthermore, if the pain was gone she would be better equipped to handle the issues in front of her, to give it her full attention. Didn't the fleet deserve that? Could there be times when being weak was a good thing?
She turned to the detail leader, motioned for her to come close, and whispered conspiratorially into her ear.
“Go to the sickbay and find me some aspirin, some crackers, and a cup of coffee. Be discreet.”
The Marine's face never wavered as she gave Cain a curt nod and then disappeared quickly into the bowels of the battlestar.
“And you agreed with the President to abandon the offensive front? Ah, thank you, Sergeant.”
Cain took the cup in one hand and outstretched the other to accept the hidden gift from the Marine. She calmly brought the hand up to her mouth, tipped the aspirin inside, and drank the coffee. A few crackers were also taken and munched on slowly. She dismissed the Marine with a wave of her hand and the Sergeant went back to join the security detail trailing the officers.
Cain silently cursed the taste of coffee, yet another substance she refused to partake in. Although it did not have the mind altering effects of alcohol, she did not believe in its purpose. If one was prepared, had the necessary sleep, and had trained their mind well, stimulants were not required. Moreover, some stimulants could be detrimental to future operations. Or, worse, you could become addicted. She preferred her mind and body to be unaltered by any substance. But she needed the liquid, the caffeine, for both could help with her migraine. After this cup, which was more caffeine than she had had all year, she still had the full canteen she'd taken with her this morning.
Commander Adama waited patiently for the admiral to finish before answering. “Yes, I agreed with the President after some persuasion on her part.”
Cain lightly fingered the rim of the mug. At least the coffee was hot and freshly brewed even if it was not the best cup she had ever had. “I see.”
She motioned for them to continue walking towards the briefing room where Roslin would be meeting them in a few minutes. “Have you ever thought of returning to offensive action?”
“There have been times when we were placed on the offensive. I ordered an attack on a Tylium refinery station operated by the Cylons as well as numerous attacks on basestars.”
Cain sipped her cup again. It felt like liquid fire running down her throat. “Were the attacks on basetars out of necessity?”
When Adama paused to think, Cain could already deduce the answer. He had only made offense attacks when he needed to, when he had been backed into a corner with no where else to turn. One would consider them offensive strikes in name only, their spirit crushed and their bones broken until only the flesh remained. How could such a docile officer take command of a battlestar, even one as low-key as Galactica had been? It didn't make sense.
“Yes, sir,” Adama said, never losing eye contact.
Cain stopped before the briefing room door. Marines were stationed outside, along with the President's aid, so Cain figured the President must be waiting for them inside. There was only one more matter to attend to.
“Commander, as much as I do not want to interfere with your operations, there are a few changes I must make.”
Adama didn't blink. For a second she wondered how she might feel if her command was being taken over. It hadn't happened to her in years, one of the obvious perks of being a flag officer, but she could still remember a time when her decisions were not set in stone. She had felt so insignificant, so powerless, and all it had done to her spirit was make it stronger. Now things were different, she controlled the changes. In some far-off corner of her mind, she pitied the man.
“I have a personal networking specialist on-board, a survivor of the attack on the colonies, and she's been working on connecting Pegasus's systems together, firewalled of course. I will be integrating Galactica's systems into this network as well. You will still have complete control of your ship, have no doubt, but it will be easier to coordinate attacks and defensive fire if the two ships were able to communicate with each other. I will have her meet with you in the next few days. I would appreciate it if you could assign one of your own specialists to give her a tour of your systems in the next few days.”
Did she really need to ask nicely? Or even play the part of a diplomat soothing ruffled feathers? No, perhaps not, yet it would make things easier for her in the long run to show this simple act of courtesy.
Adama nodded, his expression neutral. “Yes sir.”
Cain could see right through his mask, to the pain and frustration underneath. Galactica was his, in all of her un-networked glory. She had been laid untouched by the hands of machines, by the same forces that gave intelligence to the Cylons, and now, by some play of the gods, Cain came in and flipped his world, so carefully created, upside down.
Would he feel bitter, Cain wondered as the hatch to the briefing, and the so-called President, opened? Would he protest later, in private? Would he hide his anger away, only to be used at a later time? And then would it grow to some unmanageable size? Had he lost his sense of loyalty, forgotten his training, abandoned his military bearing? Could he so easily relinquish control when he had cherished it for so long? It seemed so easy to her, so simple a problem, except, to him, to the one being jerked around, it must have hit like a fist to the gut.
Should she be concerned? Should she watch him? Should she have someone else watch him, his every move, his every minute facial tick? She would not stand for insubordination, no matter how minor, and would deal with such thoughts quickly. This was her game, her playing field, in which she controlled all the pieces.
Cain took a quiet breath, steeling herself, and spoke calmly. “Good afternoon, Madam President.”
Cain's back and head radiated pain throughout her body with each beat of her heart. The aspirin she'd taken hours ago did little to help with the migraine now. Sometimes, while she listened to Roslin and Adama bicker back and forth, she counted her breaths. It was the only way she could deal with her pain and her frustration.
Inhale. Exhale. In with the fresh, cool, soothing air. Out with the pain, the worry, the suffering.
It worked to a marginal degree. The lights still carved designs out of her eyes and her stomach started to do flips of nausea whenever she moved her head too fast. And don't get her started on her back. It hadn't been this bad in months which was only made worse by the uncomfortable chair she had to sit in for this never-ending meeting. Even when this was finished, when the President had had enough of talk, there was still the tour of Galactica to get to, including a meeting with the Cylon prisoner. That was what she really wanted to get to. Why couldn't she have had desert first?
Roslin started to ask her a question. Pinching the bridge of her nose, Cain pushed the pain away and focused her attention. Only a few more hours before she could go back to Pegasus, go back home, and just fall down on her bunk, a glass of water in hand.
“I do have a number of transfer requests that I would like you to look over as soon as possible. My ship, along with my crew, has been squeezed tight ever since we took on those extra civilians a month ago. Of course, the civilians I drafted into my crew will stay aboard and continue with their duties.”
Roslin nodded, making a quite note on her pad. “Are there any families we need to be concerned with?”
“Families? They are of no concern.”
Roslin's head whipped up, eyes finding Cain's quickly. “Of no concern?”
Cain could feel her temper flare. The overt independence she heard in Roslin's voice grated on her nerves. When was the last time she had been questioned so easily, so freely?
Ah, yes, Belzen. She could remember the occasion, remember him, clearly in her mind.
Her side arm suddenly became heavy on her leg. Even if the thought didn't fully cross her mind it tickled the back of her senses.
Could everything, would everything, be resolved by violence? Was this what they, what she, had become?
“Yes, there are families on board,” Cain said, weighing every word carefully before it left her mouth, “and, yes, some have family members that I have drafted into my crew. These families will, unfortunately, have to be broken up. However, they must understand that sacrifices must be made by everyone, not just the few.”
Was that a small frown crossing Adama's face? And, if so, why was it mirroring the much larger one now disfiguring Roslin's mouth? Why did Cain feel like she was fighting an uphill battle with these two? When had it become two against one with the odds favoring them? Why was Adama siding with the president and not his direct superior? This did not bode well.
Roslin played idly with her pen. “Is there no way to keep these families together?”
“No.”
Roslin made another, smaller note onto her pad. “Alright, I'll see what I can do for you.”
Cain wanted to snap. What she could do for her? How outrageous. Roslin and Adama should be dancing around her, catering to her every whim. She was in control, in command, and this lack of respect stung her face as if she had been slapped. She took a small, calming breath and bit the inside of her mouth. She could taste blood and the bitter sweetness of it soothed her.
She could get through this.
“Anything else we need to discuss, Admiral?”
“Yes, one other thing. I've heard the talk regarding problems with supplies and a supposed black market. I will be sending out some of my people to investigate these claims and discover any other sources of criminal activity within the fleet. Once found, they will have broad authority to fix these problems. For the time being, I will order all supplies to be handled by, and through, Pegasus.”
Roslin seemed to tense, taking a moment to compose herself before responding. “The black market I have heard of and has been on my agenda for quite some time.” She put her pen down carefully and neatly folded her hands in her lap. Cain thought she looked almost innocent, naïve, harmless. It was a good tactic. “However, with all due respect, I believe this is a civilian matter-”
“Yes,” Cain interrupted, getting even more irritated by the minute, “I have heard of your 'agreement' with Commander Adama and, for the most part, I agree with the compromise. Yet, you seem to have let this problem slide. Supplies, resources, medicines, and personnel are being wasted and this is just unacceptable. I worry that you find it so easy to ignore.”
“Admiral, I assure you, I have not ignored this problem.”
“Then, what have you done?”
“My hands have been tied up for some time with-”
“With what, Madam President? With your jail sentence, subsequent escape, and your resumption of power once you finally decided to reconcile your differences with a wounded officer?”
Did Roslin pale just a little? Did Cain find a soft spot to squeeze? Her mood started to lighten.
Cain felt a smirk color her face. “Yes, you have been tied up for some time now.”
Adama squirmed as Roslin's silence continued for a few moments longer. Would he speak up to defend her? That, Cain decided, would be worth seeing.
“However, in the name of cooperation, I would be willing to assemble a new team consisting of my crew and your civilians that would have each of our blessings to crack down on crime and violence within the fleet. Is this acceptable?”
Roslin's innocence, her hesitance, left just as quickly as it came and she stared straight into Cain's eyes. Cain felt like she was being scrutinized, studied, analyzed for any weakness, for any insincerity, for any character flaws she might wear on her sleeve like a broken heart. She laughed inside. Her walls, her mask, were impenetrable and her weaknesses were carefully boxed away. No matter who was doing the examination, she would excel.
The two stared at each other for some time, tension filling the room like an airlock being re-pressurized. Could one see the air of confidence one woman presented or recognize the intense focus on the other?
Finally, Roslin nodded. “Acceptable.”
Cain smiled. It felt genuine. “Excellent.” She glanced at the clock behind Roslin. “We certainly have been here for a while and there is still the tour of Galactica to take. So, if you will excuse me and the Commander, I would like to get started.”
The three of them stood up in unison. Even with the agreement just reached, the mood still felt strained. Cain wondered briefly, but thoroughly, about the impression she wanted to leave the President with. Should she be cordial or commanding? How about understanding, willing to work things out? What about a diplomatic stance? Should she be assuming, refuse to acknowledge the power the other woman had?
Perhaps the best way to deal with the situation was to not deal with it at all and just let it be.
Cain held out her hand. “Thank you, Madam President, for your time and attention. I hope that, in the future, our meetings will be just as fruitful.”
Roslin's smile was thin, reserved, and doubtful. But Roslin smiled.
“Thank you, Admiral, and I too hope for the best.”
How was it that they could look just like us?
Cain never put much stock in magic, or the gods, but for this she would make an exception. And for the first time in years, she felt scared.
If Cylons looked like humans, really looked like them, then what was left? What could they hold sacred, close to their hearts? What happened to the days of being able to look your enemy in the eye and knowing it was them? What had happened to simpler times? When had everything gotten so complicated?
“Meet, well, Sharon Valerii. Or, at least, one of the many copies,” Dr. Baltar said, clearing his throat in a nervous manner.
“Meet?” Cain asked while crossing her arms, the Cylon the center of her attention.
The Cylon did not look amused, standing up and crossing its own arms. How could a machine look defiant, Cain wondered.
“I may be a Cylon,” it spoke, “but I am alive.”
Skeptical, Cain thought briefly on how a thing could be alive. The idea left a sour taste in her mouth.
“You seem to treat your prisoners well.”
“Yes, we, ah, find it helps to treat them with a little humanity,” Baltar replied.
Cain's head continued to pound, the pain in her back made each second an agony to stand up straight, and her nails bit into her arms. Could a Cylon feel the type of pain she had? Did they recognize perseverance? Bearing? Fortitude? Could they ever understand what made her continue to hold her head up high and her body as straight as a rod no matter what the pain was, no matter what the cost?
She laughed at the thought. It was outrageous.
She studied the Cylon, wondering if it had any emotions-or thoughts, behind that human-looking face. If she didn't know any better, she would have said the Cylon looked agitated.
“I guess we've come across another battletar then,” it spoke.
Cain dug her fingers even harder into her arm.
“Have you gained any intelligence from it?”
Baltar shifted on his feet. “Ah, yes, we have gained some, well, information from her. In fact, on several occasions, she has provided useful information. Vital information, even.”
“On some occasions?” Cain's voice's held an edge of suspicion to it.
“She helped on Kobol, finding the Tomb of Athena for us. There was also a case, ah, a few weeks ago where we were attacked by a Cylon logic bomb.” Baltar paused and out of the corner of her eye, Cain saw him glance to a corner of the cell. “Yes, yes, very helpful.”
Cain was unconvinced.
And she'd had enough. Without a nod, a word, or a look, she left the Cylon in its cell.
Adama was waiting for her outside the cage, his arms relaxed at his side. When she turned to face him, she saw those same arms tense.
“You treat your prisoners well,” she accused. “Is there a particular reason for this?”
Adama looked unfazed. “Numerous interrogation techniques have been used. However, we have found that by treating them as the humans they believe they are equivalent to has yielded the best results.”
Cain could almost see the words he wasn't saying, could almost hear them ringing around in her head with all of his hollow sentiments. But that inquiry was not for today.
No, she wanted to be done with this. She wanted to go back home, to Pegasus, and nurse her migraine and back ache. Tomorrow she could start anew, get a fresh start, and go over everything with an eager mind. So, only this one time would she let Adama off the hook.
“That is unsatisfactory,” Cain began, putting her hands on her hips and dug into them, hard. “And I will expect you to have an explanation for me tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cain turned to find Baltar just exiting the cell, smiling. Whatever could Baltar be smiling about?
“Dr. Baltar, I would like you to accompany me on my way back to the hangar deck, please. Commander,” Cain said before looking at Adama once again, “I appreciate the time you've given me thus far. A weekly meeting is in order. I'm sure we will be in contact before then.”
Adama nodded and brought his arm sharply up to his forehead in what Cain considered to be a near-perfect salute. He must have been practicing. She returned the salute with equal precision and felt like her headache lessened just a tiny amount.
Cain and Baltar started walking towards the hangar, leaving Adama behind. It took a few moments of going through hatches and maneuvering around people before Baltar could walk side-by-side with her.
“I have a networking specialist working on Pegasus that would very much like to meet with you,” Cain started when she could see Baltar out of the corner of her eye. “She's been working on your code for some time and she has a few,” Cain paused. How best to put this? “Questions she would like answered.”
Baltar stopped dead in his tracks, his face taunt with fear. His eyes darted between Cain's and an empty spot in the corridor. It seemed like he couldn't figure out which one was more important: her or an empty hole.
Cain got even more annoyed. She didn't understand Baltar at all. He was rude, obnoxious, and unfocused. This did not seem to be the same man that she had hard about in the news and seen on the media vids. She wondered how such an inattentive and scattered man could have been so successful and popular. Had something traumatic happened to him after the fall of the colonies? Had he been scarred by something he'd seen there? Did he feel guilty over how his code had been used by the Cylons during the attack? Or was he really just psychotic?
After a few moments, he shook his head and returned his gaze to Cain.
“Yes, yes, certainly. I would, ah, be delighted to, of course. Do you know what she may be inquiring about? Any, um, idea?”
“I believe she is trying to replace some of the backdoors found in the code that the Cylons used to break through our defenses during the attack. She was hoping to gain some insight as to how you developed the code and maybe work with you to prevent further infiltration to the system in the future.”
Baltar's face lit up. “Yes, yes, that would be good. I'm sure I can do that.”
“Does tomorrow morning work for you?”
Baltar looked like he wanted to say no, that he was working on other, much more important things to do. Then, he glanced over Cain's shoulders, to that spot he kept looking at, and tilted his head.
Cain was certain that if this man had been under her control she would have thrown him into the kitchens or, more likely, out the airlock. His carelessness was dangerous.
He whipped his head back to face her, a smile shining. “That sounds perfect.”
“Well then, Dr. Baltar, I will tell Ms. Inviere to meet you on Galactica at 0900 hours tomorrow morning.”
“I look forward to it.”
Cain turned to leave, just reaching the hatch to the hangar deck, when Baltar spoke up. “And it's Mr. Vice-President, Admiral.”
Cain shook her head minutely, only enough to give her satisfaction but not enough for Baltar to see. She decided not to answer and continued forward.
She could finally go home.
Aboard the Raptor, Cain finally had time to herself. She needed to give all of the information she had received today time to digest, to let it sit in her mind for a few peaceful moments, before she could make any use of it. Right now she had the luxury of time and she was eternally grateful.
Unfortunately, her pain had not left her. But neither had it gotten worse. She had to count her blessings, even if they were small.
She shifted in her chair. She was ready to be up and off her ass. Meetings were only good to a point, after that you needed action, initiative, forward movement. Now was the time for such progress. If only she knew what that progress was. She needed to do more thinking, planning, before making a decision. She had ideas, ill-formed as they were, but still, she needed time. And time was the one thing she was sure she had very little of.
Cain began to make a list in her tired mind of all the things she needed to take care of in the immediate future. The more she thought about these things the more she knew that they wouldn't get done today. She kept thinking of her cool, clean bunk and how great it would be to finally lay down.
Then another, almost unwelcome, thought entered her mind: Gina would be there.
Throughout the day Cain had actively worked at keeping the woman out of her thoughts, out of her mind, so that she could stay on-track. Even if she would allow herself the pleasure of thinking about being in bed and relatively pain-free, she would not allow herself the idea of thinking of Gina while working. This would amount to daydreaming and such useless thoughts would only crowd out the more important, tactical ones she needed to have today.
But what about now, a part of her brain asked. Couldn't she daydream now, so close to home and that pain-free comfort she'd been thinking about all day?
She rested her head against the hull, staring with heavy lids out the window. They had finally left Galactica.
Perhaps it would be acceptable to daydream now. Just for a short while, of course.
Then again, she wasn't really sure if she knew how to daydream. It couldn't be that hard, she mused. All she had to do was think of something that made her happy and then, well, go with the flow. She was pretty certain that was how one went about it. Perhaps she should start by thinking of what Gina was doing at this moment.
She was probably working with Shaw on the networking program. Cain smiled to herself. The sounds of that incessant typing did wonders for her insomnia. Could comfort be a sound? And what about domesticity?
Or perhaps Gina was enjoying a dinner, playing a game of Triad with some of the friends she had made on-board. She had organized her own class on integrating the civilians into the military lifestyle and protocol found on Pegasus and, through this, had found quite a few people who'd latched onto her as some sort of beacon. It was probably easier for them to see her as an authority figure, who was very much approachable, than Cain, the distant, but still very much in command, Admiral. Many times Gina had related the recent troubles from the civilians, most of which had been legitimate concerns, which Cain had attended to as soon as she could.
In some ways, Gina had become the public relations official. This didn't surprise Cain at all. Gina was very much a people-person. She could relate to them, talk with them, and, most important of all, listen to them. She just had this certain mixture of charisma and charm that made everyone like her. It was hard to find anyone who didn't like her which helped once the gossip made its rounds when Gina moved in with the admiral. Much easier.
And, now that Cain had a chance to let her mind wander, she was sure that even the angry Cylon would like Gina.
The Cylon.
The words entered her mind unbidden. The whole concept terrified her, more than she would admit even to herself, and the whole ordeal had taken a much larger toll on her than she had previously imagined.
Suddenly, she had come face-to-face with her demon and, much to her horror, it had stared right back.
She'd read no remorse behind those life-like eyes, no pity, no sorrow. Did it not know what it had done to all of those people? Did it not feel guilty over all of the lives taken? Did it not know of the sacrifices made by ordinary people, by those not made to excel? Did it not see firsthand the millions of lives lost?
And some part of her had wanted to scream at it. “Do you know what you've done to me?”
But no, Cain did not scream, or whisper, anything. She had just looked her nightmare in the face and calmly ignored it. For what else could she have done? When had nightmares become real? When had the feeling of fear become tangible? When had her sorrow, her guilt, her shame, become flesh and blood?
Cain felt her stomach clench, feeling sick all over again.
Cylons that looked like humans. Before this, Cylons had been almost an abstract thought, an idea, a machine, that had run amok. Now it had a face, it had the illusion of a soul, and, somehow, it made all the difference.
The Raptor touched down on the hangar deck of Pegasus, jolting Cain from her thoughts. When had they gotten to Pegasus? Why hadn't she noticed? Had she been sleeping? When had she closed her eyes? Had she just drifted away from the conscious realm and into her own little world?
How unlike her. She couldn't remember the last time she had done anything like this, even in the most stressful and trying of times. Never, even after days of just hours of sleep, had she ever done anything remotely like this.
Cain sighed. She didn't feel like delving into her deeper cognitive processes right now. Whatever it meant was what it meant and, if she were to be honest with herself, she found she rather enjoyed whatever it was anyway. She just didn't need to make it a regular occurrence.
A few minutes later, she stepped off the Raptor and onto the deck of Pegasus. She took in a deep breath, smelling Pegasus, before moving forward again.
This was what home must smell like.
After stopping five times for different, small, insignificant issues, Cain finally reached her quarters. Her head was pounding worse than ever and her back was intolerable. She needed it all to just stop. Then, when she finally opened the hatch to get inside, she found Gina waiting at her computer station, sitting with her back hunched over. She looked small, weak, and vulnerable.
“Now, what is the matter with you?” Cain yelled, her irritation, pain, and anger hitting the one person she knew could take it, could understand it.
If Cain had been in a good mood, she would have called Gina on it, saying in a teasing tone that she looked like a Cylon had just walked in. Instead, Cain found it entirely annoying and unreasonable.
Gina looked up, fear unmistakeable in her wide eyes. She didn't move, didn't speak, didn't blink.
Cain clenched her eyes shut, gnawing at the inside of her bottom lip. She gave up. Just plain old gave up. She didn't care anymore. Nope, not at all.
Cain opened her eyes, a grunt escaping her, and she walked into the room. She hadn't quite thought this part through, her focus only on getting back, on getting home, and not entirely on what she would do upon reaching it. Yes, a glass of water should be first, but she didn't know what she should do next. Should she do her stretches to relieve the tension in her back or lay down and rub her temples for a few minutes? Or did she need to take care of Gina and figure out what was going on?
Obviously nothing on today's agenda would be easy.
Gina spoke just as Cain reached her sink, cup in hand.
“How did the tour go?” Gina asked, her voice trying to sound casual, speaking like she didn't care.
Cain filled the glass to the brim. She looked at it for a moment, as if trying to deduce the correct way to get the water to enter her body. Then, in a fit of emotion, she let the glass fall back into the sink. She lowered her head, turned the tap back on, and filled her hands with water. She then doused her face in it, letting the cool liquid wash over her, granting her some reprieve from the migraine still following her every move. It was heavenly.
Cain grabbed the nearest towel, water falling neatly from her nose to the floor, and dried her face. She felt moderately better.
“Gina,” Cain sighed, letting the towel drop carelessly to the floor. She turned to get another glass of water, speaking over her shoulder. “The tour was fine, nothing of importance. You do have a meeting with Dr. Baltar before I forget. You need to be on Galactica at 0900 hours tomorrow.” Another sigh. “Look, I'm sorry but I'm just not in the mood to talk, I've been doing it all day. My head hurts, my back feels like it's on fire, and all I want to do is just go to bed.”
Cain still didn't move, instead opting to drink the glass of water. After a few moments, Cain could hear ruffling behind her and then a loud thump. She turned, her stomach just about ready to explode upwards in the most unpleasant way, but what she saw made the pain worthwhile.
Gina had somehow managed to bring down, unfold, and cover the old cot they had stashed away for Cain's back problems. Even though it had become something of a rarity over the past month, for the longest time Gina would massage Cain's back whenever the chronic pain would start again. It took only thirty minutes for the pain to go away under Gina's skilled hands with a technique that had taken hours of practice to perfect, and after a good night's sleep Cain would be as good as new, or as good she would ever be, in the morning.
“Come on,” Gina said, rubbing her hands with a lotion she had found with the cot, “get undressed and up on here.”
Cain just stared at her, incredulous. How could she have forgotten this? For too many weeks to count it had been her only solace from the horrors of commanding a broken ship and crew. And now, in a similar moment of need, it was laid out to her, welcoming her, beckoning her. It was wonderful.
Gina, her earlier terror somehow forgotten, put down the bottle of lotion. “Well, do you want a back rub or not?”
Cain snapped out of it, hands flying to her uniform. She undressed quickly, surely, quietly, moving towards the cot in a few long strides. She flopped on the bed, face first, with a loud exhale and waited with as much patience as she could manage for Gina to begin.
It didn't take long and soon cold hands were moving their way up and down Cain's back in smooth, strong strokes. For an hour, Gina worked on Cain's back and neck, kneading the ache out of Cain's muscles and bones. Every time she hit a particularly sore or rough spot Cain would gasp and let the pain leave her body with that puff of air. But when Gina changed tactics and worked instead on the areas she knew to be Cain's soft spots a quiet moan could be heard.
By the time Cain's eye lids stared to drop all but the most insistent pangs had left her. Gina had, once again, worked miracles on her back and neck, and left her feeling nearly weightless. The small circles Gina made on her back, pressing into her at all of the right places, made her feel like one big, warm pile of goo. And when she started thinking in terms of goo and warm, Cain knew it was time to hit the sack.
Cain tried to get Gina's attention, to tell her that it was time to get into bed, but it all came out in one large, muffled, “merf.”
The loving hands on her back stopped. “What was that?”
Cain groaned. This time she tried to point.
“Ready for bed, is that it?”
The effort required to nod felt monumental, but nod Cain did and with an enormous amount of help, she got up off the cot and into her bunk.
When she felt the covers being pulled and tucked in around her body, Cain tried to say thank you. What came out was unintelligible.
“Shh,” Gina hushed, soothing over black hair. “Close your eyes now.”
Cain nodded her head, the words flowing in and out of her. She didn't quite understand what they meant so she just gave up and fell asleep.
“Eat your breakfast.”
Cain looked at Gina, forgetting the bar still held within her hand. Gina had a thing for breakfasts while Cain tended to forgo them. Since Gina moved in, Cain hadn't missed a single one.
They were both in a better mood this morning. Cain had shed herself of the pain that had troubled her the previous day and Gina seemed to have discarded the uncharacteristic behavior of the past day or so. Cain felt like everything had gone back to normal, or as normal as they could ever be, and all they had needed was a few hours sleep.
Scrunching up her face in distaste, Cain chewed on her bar.
“I hate these,” Cain remarked between bites.
Gina tugged on the sides of Cain's uniform before folding the inner flap in and proceeded to button it up. “It's either that or you sit down and have a bowl of oatmeal before your shift.”
Cain sighed. “No thanks, not enough time.”
Gina smiled, finishing up the buttons on that side before moving on to the other. “Then stop your complaining.”
Cain swatted Gina's hands away and moved back. “I don't complain.”
Gina rolled her eyes and took a step forward, hanging onto Cain's jacket. “You complain and you act like a petulant child.”
For good measure Cain struggled with Gina for a moment before giving up, eating the last bite of her breakfast. It was cold, hard, and dry in her mouth but anything was better than oatmeal, which tended to remind her of the horrible mess hall visits she'd had as a young commander.
Gina worked hard at the buttons on Cain's uniform, wiping them off with her thumb before fitting them snugly through the hole. It had become one of their treasured rituals since sharing the same space. One morning, after a particularly rough night of sleep, Cain had a hard time getting her uniform together, cursing wildly at either not being able to find it or, when she did, how she couldn't work it for the first time in years. Gina had crawled out of the warm bed and helped Cain put it on, coaxing her like a patient mother. How they actually settled into doing it morning after morning, neither could remember but both could recall that first time. Cain looked forward to it every morning.
When Gina finished, Cain tried to look down at her uniform but her chin was pushed up by Gina's hands.
“Your uniform is fine. Don't you trust me?” Gina asked teasingly.
“In general? Yes,” Cain paused, a playful smile growing fast on her lips. “With my uniform? No.”
Gina grabbed Cain by the coat collars, disturbing the perfectly straight angles of the uniform, and placed a resounding kiss on Cain's lips.
“Too bad. Now get out of here!”
Cain, her early insolence forgotten, gave Gina another quick kiss before heading for the hatch. “Enjoy your stay on Galactica,” she called back, “and watch out for Baltar. He's a bit strange.”
She heard a laugh and a “Will do” just before the hatch closed.
Cain stood silently in the CIC. She needed to make her presence known after a few days' absence from her command post after being aboard Galactica for so long. She was still in command of this battlestar even if she had another one to look after. She still remembered her first born. Always.
She glanced back over her notes and Galactica's logs. The personnel issues would never end.
“Admiral,” Lt. Hoshi spoke, bringing Cain's attention back, “Galactica actual wants to speak with you.”
Cain sighed and glanced at the clock. It was only 0930 hours and she had anticipated at least another four hours before she needed to speak with Adama once more. This was entirely unexpected.
She picked up the receiver at the center console and spoke clearly. “Pegasus actual, go ahead.”
“Admiral Cain,” Adama spoke, his voice sounding angry, accusing, suspicious. “Were you aware that you were harboring a Cylon?”
Cain grew puzzled and just as suspicious. “Harboring a Cylon? That's quite a-”
“You sent over a Cylon in your latest Raptor. I believe she goes by the name of Gina Inviere.”
Cain could have sworn she felt time stop.