BSG fic: Prayers Unspoken (R)
Prayers Unspoken
Author: SabaceanBabe
Rating: R
Word count: 9,300+
Primary characters: Sharon, Helo, Marine Corporal Venner
Spoilers: through Resurrection Ship 2
Summary: God, please! But as with her shouts, she knew there was no one there to care. God had abandoned her.
Disclaimer: Not mine, but that frakking nice Mr. Moore said I could play in his sandbox.
Warning: this fic includes a depiction of rape, please don't read it if that will cause you any distress.
Author’s note: this has been in the works since the night Pegasus aired and is what I more-or-less wanted to see as the resolution to this plot-thread. Originally, I had hoped to get it posted before the end of the hiatus, but obviously that didn’t happen. Needless to say, the latter half of the fic was completely Moored, but that’s okay - I like AU, too. Even so, I still made some edits based on things that actually happened in RS 1 & 2. Thank you to un4scene and repr0b8 for once again stepping up to the plate with beta duties, made a little more difficult this time because of the subject matter of the fic.
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…breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…
…flex, relax, flex, relax…
Heart and lungs pump, muscles burn with the effort to lift head and torso while keeping legs and hips stationary. A slight twinge in her mid-section might be the growing presence of her baby, but is more likely just a muscle cramp.
No visitors today. No one to talk to. Nothing to occupy her mind. Helo has been called to duty. A new battlestar has arrived and she is forgotten.
And so… What else is there to do?
…breathe in, breathe out…
***
At the desk in the main part of the brig, Corporal Venner read a book, its cover worn with use. Occasionally, he glanced at a viewscreen that had been installed following construction of the maximum-security cell that housed Galactica’s Cylon prisoner; the screen rested on a shelf suspended from the structure of the ceiling. The last few times he had looked, it had shown his sole prisoner exercising in her cell, and this time was no different.
He watched her for a moment. Venner hadn’t spoken to her any more than was necessary, but he was curious about her. It. Curious about it. He was forever reminding himself that she wasn’t human, wasn’t a Raptor pilot assigned to Galactica at the start of the war, wasn’t a woman he had seen running with Lieutenant Thrace through the corridors of the ship before the worlds had ended. The thing doing sit-ups in that cell was either a Cylon replicant of a human being and thus something to be destroyed, or it was a minor demon sent by the Gods to help humanity and thus something to be respected and of which to be wary. Either way, it wasn’t a pretty young woman with whom he might engage in conversation.
Venner had just found his place on the page when he heard the whirring sound as the hatch was released from the outside. He marked his spot by the simple expedient of folding the page and stood, expecting to see Lieutenant Agathon. The Lieutenant didn’t talk much when he came to visit, but he was always pleasant and Corporal Venner respected that.
The hatch opened on well-oiled hinges and he heard Private Bonnington say, “Corporal Venner will assist you, sir.” The formality of her words and tone told him that it wasn’t Agathon who had business in the brig and Venner was glad he had put his book aside.
The cumbersome hatch clanged shut behind a heavy-set officer and two armed Marines Venner had never seen before. He stood at attention and saluted the officer, noting with surprise that the man wore a sidearm.
“Take me to the Cylon.” The man’s soft-voiced demand sent a chill down Venner’s spine. The Marines stood to either side of him and a step behind, rifles held at ready.
Suddenly nervous, Venner said, “I need to see your orders, sir.”
“Excuse me?” The officer, who still hadn’t introduced himself, cocked his head and raised a brow, but made no move to produce any paperwork.
Corporal Venner held his ground. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll have to see your orders before I can take you to the prisoner.” This definitely wasn’t normal. Like everyone else on board, Venner knew that the Galactica had met up with the Pegasus, and these three must be from the other battlestar, but he didn’t know them. The Cylon prisoner - a quick look up told him that she was still doing sit-ups - was his responsibility.
***
Sweat runs down her face, into her eyes, in tickling rivulets between her shoulder blades and her breasts.
Breathe in, breathe out, faster than before, sucking air more quickly into lungs for redistribution to oxygen-starved cells, feeling the spark of her muscles as they work.
She focuses only on moving those muscles, tries to keep at bay the loneliness and the boredom…
***
For a moment, Thorne couldn’t process what he heard. A mere corporal questioned his orders? He looked the man up and down, an unimpressive specimen. Wouldn’t survive ten minutes on Pegasus, he decided. Soft. “You have your orders, Corporal. Now take me to the Cylon.”
He could’ve sworn a flush suffused the man’s dark skin, making it even darker, but he stood his ground, Thorne had to give him that. “No, sir. My orders are that no one is to see the prisoner without proper authorization. I can’t take you to her until I’ve seen your orders.”
Not taking his eyes from the obstinate Marine, Thorne briskly produced signed and sealed papers, proof of his authority as the Pegasus’ Cylon Interrogator, a post that hadn’t been needed in the Colonial Fleet for more than forty years. He studied the corporal as he read those orders, which gave Thorne complete autonomy in his interrogation of all Cylon prisoners, in particular one female-form Cylon in the possession of the battlestar Galactica.
The man’s jaw tightened as he handed the papers back to Thorne, but he led them into the recesses of the brig without another word, apparently satisfied that those orders were legitimate.
Thorne followed the Galactica Marine and wondered what he’d find in that maximum-security cell. The Pegasus’ Cylon had been pretty once and he thought this one might be, too. Why bother investing time and materials in an ugly robot? he thought and allowed himself a small, anticipatory smile. Behind him, his guards discussed interrogating the prisoner with some enthusiasm; Private Redman in particular seemed to look forward to helping him break its will.
Yes, their little Gina had been pretty once, had been someone that the crew of Pegasus had thought of as a real girl before they’d learned the truth. When Admiral Cain had appointed Thorne her Cylon Interrogator - he’d been a police Captain a lifetime ago, on Scorpio - he hadn’t at first been able to see beyond that pretty exterior to the thing within. It had taken the death at her hands (her bare hands!) of seven of his men before he had realized just what needed to happen to break the bitch.
He suspected, given how soft and lax this old bucket’s entire crew seemed to be, that the Galactica’s Cylon hadn’t been treated as it deserved. The Marine ahead of him unlocked the cell and stood aside once the door was open. That toaster whore has been accorded prisoner-of-war status, Thorne realized when he saw the comfortable bed, the chair, the spacious cell. A sneer stole over his face and he shook his head in disgust, motioned his own Marines to enter ahead of him.
***
There is a party going on in the tool room when he arrives. He looks for the Chief, but Tyrol isn’t there, no one has seen him.
“He should be here any minute, Lieutenant, why don’t you wait with us?” one of the women offers and he realizes with some surprise that it’s Cally. Others of the deck crew also invite him to stay, to have a drink with them and the new guys visiting from Pegasus. He’s a little uneasy about it - it’s the first time he’s been invited to just hang with anyone at all save Kara in the weeks since he’s been back, and it was Cally who issued the initial invitation.
He has to wonder what’s up. He’s the only officer there, but they’re all off-duty, even the knuckledraggers from Pegasus, and he’s not exactly in uniform… He has something he needs to address with Tyrol, and so he stays.
A man whose arm is gaudy with tattoos hands him a jar of Tyrol’s ‘shine. “This shit is amazing.” He says nothing in response, but lifts the jar in a salute and takes a healthy swallow, forcing down the urge to gasp at the burn. The man claps him on the back and laughs. “You’re all right, for an officer…”
***
Venner had felt as though a target was painted between his shoulder blades when he led the Pegasus party to the prisoner. Lieutenant Thorne had been quiet, but his escort… He had a very bad feeling about what might be ahead for Lieutenant Valerii. In fact, he thought it might be a good idea to have Bonnington locate Lieutenant Agathon, have him come to the brig as soon as possible.
The prisoner had still been doing sit-ups when he’d opened the door, but she’d scrambled to her bare feet, startled by the intrusion and the rifles the two Pegasus Marines trained on her. Now those Marines fanned out to either side of the door and ignored Venner, who remained just outside. Thorne entered the cell with a swagger and the Cylon’s dark eyes were immediately drawn to him, clearly the most dangerous of the three in spite of the fact that his sidearm was holstered. Her look was wary.
The dark-haired Marine glanced at his blond companion and, seeing the light in the man’s eyes as Thorne took a step toward Valerii, Venner abruptly turned and walked away, leaving the door wide in the hope that his prisoner might be able to make use of that, if there came a need. His only other conscious thought was to get word to Lieutenant Agathon before it was too late.
***
He is relieved when Tyrol finally shows up. He’s been here waiting and drinking too damn long. The crewmen from the other battlestar are crude and he just doesn’t want to be in their company any longer than he has to be. Listening to them trash-talk, he feels sorry for the women on board Pegasus, even as he realizes that this must by why Cally and the others were so enthusiastic with their invitation.
The Chief joins the little group, refusing the offer of one of his own jars of hooch, and the talk turns darker. The word “Cylon” penetrates the almost-pleasant fog in his brain and then “heard she’s a hot one, too.” For just a moment, he forgets to breathe. The women in the room look a little sick as the tattooed man and another from Pegasus high-five each other.
Insensitive to the Galactica crew surrounding them, the men from Pegasus continue to spout their garbage, even after the Chief tells them to stop, even after Cally and the other women walk out in disgust.
And then they’re talking about having “a chance at this one, too” and he realizes that they’re talking about Sharon. He takes a step toward Tattoo-boy, but Tyrol intervenes, turns him away.
Not willing to drop it, he stabs out, “Who the hell’s this ‘Thorne?’”
“Lieutenant Thorne, sir,” the other one, the one who offered the Chief a jar, responds. “ Cylon interrogator. Rides ‘em hard and keeps ‘em talking.” There is pride in his voice.
A look is exchanged with the Chief, but before either of them can say anything else, Tattoo-boy tells them, “Your little robot-girl is in for quite a ride. Yeehah!” and he sees red, goes for the obnoxious asshole. Tyrol again puts himself between the two men.
“Think about it! We need to go.”
***
Sharon heard the door to her cage open and scrambled to her feet as a rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She moved so quickly the end of her ponytail tickled her shoulders, not enough time to stick to her sweaty skin. Admiral Cain was the last person who had been to see her and the unpleasant memory was still fresh in her mind.
Three strangers entered her cell, all of them armed. She absently swiped at the strands of hair stuck to her forehead. She felt a frisson of fear, but she’d be damned if she’d let them see it. Corporal Venner watched them from beyond the walls of her cage and she wondered why he remained outside.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
The bald one wearing the blue uniform of a Colonial officer stared at her, but none of them said anything. Sharon, hands on her hips, spared a glance toward the still-open door as she saw a slight movement there - Venner beating a hasty retreat - but quickly returned her attention to the man before her.
He took a step toward Sharon, his expression neutral, and tossed a small stack of photographs onto her cot. Relaxing a bit, she followed the stack with her eyes, curious. The photos were black and white, grainy and out of focus as though taken from a great distance or with deficient equipment.
“What is the function of this ship?”
His light voice was conversational. Sharon took a step toward the man, stood next to him as she looked down at the photos. The one on top showed a pair of Cylon basestars, but she didn’t know what the other ship depicted might be; its design was nothing she had ever seen before. For all she could tell, it was a stray ship from the human fleet, one separated from the others in the most recent raid.
“I dunno.” Sharon looked at the human and shrugged, returned her attention to the photo. The outline of the mystery ship was odd, almost like some kind of antenna or repeater. A wisp of memory tickled the back of her mind, something she - a mere foot-soldier - wasn’t supposed to know…
“Here,” the man said mildly as she leaned in toward the picture, “take a closer look.” Suddenly there was a vice-like grip at her throat past which she couldn’t breathe. The man’s hand drew tighter. She clawed at that hand as he all but lifted her by her throat. “What makes it so important?” The expression on his face, the tone of his voice never changed. “Why would two basestars be tasked to protect it?”
Struggling for the smallest breath, she tried to respond, her mind whirling at lightning speed, searching the sparsely furnished cell for anything she might use as a weapon even as her vision began to turn white at the edges. “I… I don’t…” She could barely force the words out and the man squeezed tighter yet, clearly not interested in what she knew or didn’t know. He glared at her now and she could see that the Marines who had accompanied him still had their rifles trained on her. If she had expected his attack, she might have been able to counteract it and thus their fear - she could smell it on them - and their weapons would have been necessary…
The man’s eyes narrowed and he brought his ear closer to her mouth as she continued to struggle for breath, for a way to respond, to make this stop. Oh, God, please don’t let him hurt my baby.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the Marines circle around, take up positions to either side of the bed. Her grip on the man’s hand began to weaken and his face contorted in disgust as he threw her from him, toward the corner of the bed. “Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”
Abruptly able to breathe again, Sharon pulled great gulps of air into her lungs. She coughed and clutched reflexively at her bruised throat, looked up at her tormentor in disbelief. Reeling between terror and fury, she pushed herself to her feet, glared at the men who looked at her with varying expressions of revulsion and anticipation. Enunciating each word precisely, she threw at her attacker, “I. Don’t. Know.”
The officer took a step toward her, looking incredulous. Without warning, he backhanded her - the force of the blow spun her around, knocked her from her feet. She landed on her elbows on the bed and immediately pushed herself up. She had to get away from these men. Had to. Her eyes locked on the still-open door. Anywhere was better than in this cell.
He must have seen in her eyes that she would bolt for the open door. His fist slammed into her face and she was again knocked from her feet. Stunned by the blow, she looked up at him, tried to regain her balance. “What the frak?” There was no way these men were here at Adama’s orders. He might hate her for what her counterpart had done, but he would never condone this…
“We’ll do it the hard way.” With a rough hand in the center of her back, he pinned her face first to her bed. Before she could process what was happening, the two Marines, who had set aside their weapons, moved in. One grabbed her hard by the wrists, yanking her toward him while the other pinned her legs, allowing their leader to take a step back.
“NO!” she screamed, although she knew there was no one there to care what happened to her. Throat still hurting, fear pounding through her, she fought to break free of the grip on her wrists. Her eyes met those of the dark-haired Marine and he smiled. “No, no, no…” She heard the slight clink of metal against metal behind her and then the awful sound of a zipper being lowered. God, please! But as with her shouts, she knew there was no one there to care. God had abandoned her.
***
“Comin’ through! Get out of the way!”
The last traces of alcohol have been burned away by fear and adrenaline and not a little shame.
“…rides ‘em hard and keeps ‘em talking…”
He should have been with her, dammit, should be with her now, should be protecting her as she’d always protected him.
“…Cylon interrogator…”
“Out of the way!” The blood pounds in his ears as he follows on Tyrol’s heels.
“…your little robot-girl is in for quite a ride…”
“Coming through!” He stumbles a bit as he clips a crewman in passing, but quickly regains his balance.
A few more strides and they’re nearing the brig. There are no more crewmen to pass, no more collisions to avoid. In fact, the hatch to the brig is ajar, the room beyond deserted. What the frak? There is noise from the back of the brig, from the direction of Sharon’s cell. Her voice, screaming.
Gods, no, please don’t let this be happening.
Please.
***
Staring into the excited eyes of the dark-haired Marine, Sharon couldn’t think. She knew what was about to happen, but they held her too tightly, the grip on her wrists so strong the man all but ground the bones together. And it was her own fear that she smelled now, tasted, as rough hands groped at her waist, crude fingers hooked into the waistband of her sweats, hurtful fingernails scraped at her hips in his zeal as he pulled her sweats and underwear down to tangle around her ankles. “NOOOOOO!”
Some small part of her brain that could still function beyond her panic heard the sound of pounding footsteps, but the hope that surged inside her was sent gibbering into a corner at the feel of hot, naked skin against her buttocks as cruel fingers pulled her thighs wide.
“Get off her!” a man’s voice roared and she thought, somehow, that it might be the Chief. Suddenly her legs were free, the cool air causing her skin to pebble. Something - someone? - flew over her, there was a heavy thud and her wrists were released. She could move again.
Sharon scrambled to get off that bed and in her haste, she fell to the floor, shaking, crying. She couldn’t make the tears go away, couldn’t make the pitiful whimpering stop. To either side of her were the sickening sounds of flesh slamming violently into flesh.
“Mother-frakking bastard!” Again, the voice was that of the Chief and she knew that Helo was here, too, though she didn’t hear his voice, that somehow they had known what was happening and come to help her.
She tried to stand, tried to pull her sweats back up, tried to cover herself - she couldn’t let Helo or the Chief see her like this, she just couldn’t. She stumbled, unsteady on her feet, but finally grasped the waistband, pulled the sweats back up over her hips. Behind her, a black shadow moved and she heard the unmistakable sound of a round being jacked into its chamber. Oh, God, please…
The blond Marine, the one who had held her legs, aimed his rifle at Tyrol, who still pounded his fists into the limp body of the unknown Colonial officer. “Freeze!” he shouted. When Tyrol didn’t stop, he kicked him, yelled something else, but she wasn’t able to make out the words past the roaring in her ears. Eyes wide, she looked from the Marine to Tyrol and finally, dreading what she would see, to the other side of the bed - a piece of furniture she never wanted to see again - to her beloved Helo, at his rage as he held his fist back from smashing once again into the face of the man who had held her wrists and smiled.
As she watched, the dark-haired Marine scrambled back on his elbows and heels, his face bloodied, eyes terrified, and Helo straightened. His eyes met hers and she crumbled, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. She curled into herself and began to sob while the bloodied Marine regained his feet and his rifle and some of his composure.
“Don’t either of you frakkin’ move.” The bloody-faced Marine also jacked round into chamber.
In contradiction of his order, the other Marine motioned for Helo to circle the end of the bed and join Tyrol, who knelt between her and her attacker. “Get down!” he ordered, his voice harsh. She could feel Helo’s eyes on her as he reluctantly moved to comply, stopping beside the Chief. “On your knees! Hands behind your head!”
It hit her, then. Helo and Tyrol were prisoners now of the same animals who had assaulted her. Nononononono… She heard more than saw Helo take a half-step toward her, despite two rifles trained on him.
“Now!” Helo dropped to his knees. “Hands behind your head! Do it now!” More shuffling. “Do it!” And then nothing but the sound of harsh breathing and her own strangled cries.
Forcing back the horrible sounds coming from her own throat, Sharon tried to sit. Unable to quite get her brain back in control of her muscles, she absently took hold of one bare ankle and pulled her leg around in an absurd attempt to get more comfortable. She coughed, an almost wheezing sound, and for a moment she felt the eyes of four men - four human men - on her. She stared at the gray deck and wished that she could sink into it.
Above the strident sounds of their heavy breaths, she heard the rustle of fabric and then nothing for long seconds.
“He’s dead.” The man’s voice was flat, emotionless as he moved back into Sharon’s line of sight. Beyond him she saw the Chief lower his hands from his head, huddle in on himself, saw Helo kneeling beside him, looking a little sick. She felt Helo’s eyes on her, but she looked quickly away, unable to meet his gaze.
With no thought save the desperate desire to disappear, Sharon reached blindly over her head, grasped the edge of the blanket that had come loose during her struggles, pulled it over herself. She huddled under the scratchy gray fabric, tried to make herself as small as she could. A sob shuddered through her, another, and she began to rock.
She was only vaguely aware of the flurry of activity that swirled around her. On some level, she knew it when the Marine Helo had beaten wrenched his arms behind his back and locked his wrists into cold metal cuffs; knew when he repeated the process with Tyrol while the other Marine stood guard. She knew it, too, when the Marine who seemed to be in charge turned toward her, stared at her in fear and loathing, and she wondered if he contemplated putting a bullet into her brain. If he had, if he had pulled the trigger, she might have welcomed it, but even as a part of her allowed that thought to exist, another, deeper part caused her to curl protectively around her growing child.
Instead of shooting her, the man addressed his subordinate. “Let’s get these two back to Pegasus. Admiral Cain’ll know what to do with ‘em.”
“On your feet,” the ordered Helo and the Chief. “Move.”
No longer crying, Sharon continued to rock beneath the blanket, back and forth, back and forth, arms curled around her belly and the spark of life that existed there, a fragile flame.
***
He stares at the body, now nothing more than a piece of meat, and he can’t find it in himself to regret what they’ve done. He has killed before - the man who tried to leave Caprica on the wing of Sharon’s Raptor comes to mind. And he supposes that technically he didn’t kill this particular man, but he would have, and so there is no real distinction between himself and the Chief in his own mind. Nor, he suspects, will there be in the mind of Admiral Cain.
He stares at the body, but sees Sharon, rocking beneath a Fleet-issue blanket, the image burned into his brain for all of eternity, and he knows regret.
***
Her throat was raw, her eyes were raw, the skin at her wrists was raw, her soul was raw. And she was tired, so very tired, but she couldn’t make herself stop rocking beneath the rough gray blanket. The motion had slowed as time passed - minutes? hours? days? - but she felt as though, if she stopped that faint motion, Helo and Chief would die. Something in her knew that it was irrational, but she had to keep rocking as if the movement could somehow protect those who had tried to protect her. She knew that nothing would ever make sense again.
Helo…
Sharon didn’t know what brought her back to an awareness of her cell, but she knew with a sudden certainty that she was no longer alone. Her raw nerves tingled with the awareness of another living body nearby.
A hand tentatively touched the edge of the fabric that was her only shield. She flinched. “Shh…” A man’s voice. A human voice. “I won’t hurt you…”
But she would have none of that. She wouldn’t give him the chance to prove the lie. She lashed out from beneath the blanket, backhanded this man who might hurt her without warning. With unerring precision and a sense of despair - if only she could have done that to her initial attackers, perhaps Helo and Chief wouldn’t be in such danger now - her hand smashed into his nose, the force of the blow knocking him from his feet. She saw his startled face, dark skin painted with the red of his blood, as he lay back on the rough decking and stared at her. Corporal Venner, a distant portion of her brain noted. She thought she must have broken his nose.
Even as that small part noted that it was someone she knew, and had been decent toward her, Sharon scrambled to her feet. In response, she again heard the awful sound of rounds being jacked into chambers. All she could see were the images burned in her brain of the dark-haired Marine and the anticipation in his eyes; Helo and Chief on their knees, their hands behind their heads, guns pointed at their chests.
“No!” Venner shouted. “Hold your fire!” Sharon backed warily away from the armed Marines, from Venner as he regained his feet. He made no move to stop the flow of blood from his nose as it dripped from his chin, only held out his arms to either side as though shielding her from his fellows. “Hold your fire,” he repeated.
Her attention on Venner, one of the others made a grab for her wrist. No! Sharon dove over the bed, slid on bare feet and semi-dry blood to a stop next to the chair. Rather than let them take her, she lifted that chair, swung for the man’s head, screamed, “Don’t you touch me!”
She just kept swinging; this new movement provided a replacement for the aborted rocking. Finally another voice penetrated the static in her mind.
“Please, Sharon, we’re here to help you, not to hurt.” Medic Ishay. Human. Female.
But it didn’t matter. There was only one human she wanted to see or hear. “Where’s Helo?” Her muscles trembled with fatigue and she slowly lowered the chair, set it down carefully but kept it between her and the humans. She had backed into a corner; she wasn’t going to let them surround her again.
“I don’t know where he is, Sharon. Please, let me help you,” Ishay pleaded.
A Marine - not Venner - made a move toward Sharon and she turned baleful eyes on him, grasped the back of the chair, prepared to defend herself.
***
“I asked you a question, Lieutenant. Do you admit to having sexual congress with a Cylon agent?”
He’s already tried to answer her question three times, but apparently he isn’t giving her the answer she’s looking for. Finally, he says simply, “Yes.” He stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on a chink in the glass shelf above the Admiral’s head.
“And did you assault a Colonial Marine engaged in the lawful pursuit of his duty?”
That makes him look at her. “There was nothing lawful about-”
“Answer the question.”
“I assaulted a Colonial Marine engaged in the unlawful abuse of a prisoner of war.” He clenches his jaw, biting back the rest of the words he wants to say, knowing they won’t make any difference, that they might, in fact, cause yet more suffering for Sharon.
“I have no choice but to find you guilty as charged of treason and attempted murder under Articles 3 and 14b of the Colonial Military Code.” She shuffles papers on her desk and he is struck anew by her relative youth. “I hereby sentence you to death by firing squad, sentence to be carried out within the hour.” The words are like a fist to his gut. She looks at him then, as she hasn’t throughout the whole proceeding. “Did you have something to say, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do.” He takes a deep breath. Echoing in his ears are Sharon’s sobs as she hid herself beneath that blanket.
Something in his face makes Cain’s eyes narrow. “Be careful, Lieutenant.”
He laughs, the sound harsh. “What? Are you going to kill me twice?”
A humorless smile touches her thin lips. “I could have your Cylon whore destroyed…”
He forces himself to ignore the insult, responds only to the threat itself. “But you won’t. You wouldn’t waste a valuable military asset just to prove a point.”
“Say your piece.”
“If you do this, then the frakking Cylons have won. All they have to do is sit back and watch while we destroy ourselves.”
She shakes her head, whether in disgust or disbelief he’ll never know, and turns to the pair of Marines at the door. “Take this traitor back to his cell.”
***
Venner didn’t know how long she held them off - long enough that his nose had stopped bleeding, although it still throbbed. Medic Ishay had tried repeatedly to get her to come out from her corner and let them help her, as had he, but with no luck. He could tell the Cylon was tiring, but even so she wouldn’t give up, just stared at them and kept her hands locked to the back of the chair she used as a shield.
Private Chiang shifted and Valerii’s dark eyes tracked his movement. Unlike the other times her attention had been drawn away from Ishay and Venner, who were closest to her defensive position, it didn’t stray back to either of them but stayed with Chiang. Venner didn’t know what she looked at, but neither did he care. He just wanted this standoff to end.
As slowly as a he could, he maneuvered into position. He didn’t want to hurt her, for he was certain that she’d been hurt enough for one day, but he knew that the only way to get her the medical attention that she needed was to take her down.
Still her gaze remained trained on Chiang. Venner risked a quick glance at Ishay, who nodded - she knew what he was about to do.
Before he could lose his nerve - she might be tired and hurt, but she was still a Cylon - Venner sprang, lifting his rifle as he came at her. He had no intention of shooting her. Instead, he swung at her head, brought the butt of the rifle against her skull with a quick prayer that the blow wouldn’t kill her.
She never knew what hit her. Valerii dropped to the floor and Ishay rushed to her side, pulled the chair which had broken her fall roughly away and sent it skittering toward the bed.
“Please, tell me I didn’t kill her…” Venner breathed as he knelt down next to Ishay.
Ishay pulled back an eyelid and flashed a small light into the Cylon’s eye. The pupil contracted to a pinpoint and a wave of relief rushed through the Marine corporal. “She’s alive,” Ishay confirmed. She looked up over her shoulder at Private Chiang. “Get that gurney in here.” A rattle of wheels on metal decking and Ishay looked at Venner. “Help me lift her.”
He didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t the feather-weight of her as he lifted Valerii’s head and shoulders, Ishay at her ankles. Shouldn’t a machine weigh more than this? The warmth of her through her sweat-jacket surprised him as well. Demon or toaster, she sure felt human.
They got her onto the gurney and Ishay strapped her down. Venner looked up as a dark shadow seemed to narrow the door to the cell. “Colonel Tigh.” He straightened and saluted.
Tigh returned the salute as he entered the cell and approached the gurney. He looked down, frowned. “What the frak happened here?” He met Venner’s eyes, still frowning. “Corporal, sitrep.”
“Sir. A Lieutenant Thorne and two Marines from Pegasus had orders signed by Admiral Cain authorizing interrogation of the Cylon prisoner.” His eyes drifted from the gurney to the blood stains on the metal plating below the observation window. “I let them in, sir, and I… left them to it.” Oh, Gods, I let them…
Tigh’s frown deepened; the corners of his mouth turned down even further. “Wasn’t it you who reported trouble in the brig, Corporal?”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel turned and surveyed the cell, took in the drying red stains on wall and floor, the overturned chair, the rumpled bed and the puddle of gray fabric nearby. The cell was so sparsely furnished that it wasn’t obvious that something terrible had happened here, that anything at all had happened, save for the blood…
“Colonel?” Tigh looked up at Venner, a question in his eyes. “The Pegasus Marines… They took Lieutenant Agathon and Chief Tyrol with them when they left. Along with Lieutenant Thorne’s body.”
“Gods, what a mess.” Shaking his head, Colonel Tigh stared at the unconscious prisoner, his expression unreadable. Venner again had to remind himself that the creature on that gurney was not a young woman who had just been violated, but after having seen her, the way she fought them, the very real fear in her eyes, the way she cried for Lieutenant Agathon… It was becoming harder for him to believe it.
“Corporal, I want your report of what happened on my desk within the hour.” Tigh’s gaze focused on a bloodstained bolt.
Venner saluted and gestured for Chiang to precede Ishay and the gurney through the door. He quickly followed, leaving Colonel Tigh behind. Venner saw him kneel for a closer look at the only visible signs of what had happened.
The small party hadn’t yet left the main part of the brig when the Cylon began to wake and pull at her restraints, tentatively at first, but with growing agitation as they headed toward the main corridor. “No. Where are you taking me?” Her words were slightly mushy, as though she didn’t have complete control yet over her mouth.
Intending to reassure her, Venner began, “We’re going to-”
She cut him off with a shout. “No! Where’s Helo?! Chief?!” He reached out, touched her shoulder. “NO!” She became more and more violent; her struggles nearly toppled the gurney.
“That’s enough!” At Tigh’s bark - Venner hadn’t realized the Colonel had left the maximum-security cell - she abruptly stopped fighting, eyes wide. The Marine didn’t know if it was the Colonel’s voice or simple coincidence, but her panic subsided. “The Lieutenant and the Chief are not aboard Galactica.”
Venner didn’t think she was aware of the tears that tracked from the corners of her dark eyes into her hair. “They were only trying to help me.”
Tigh’s expression didn’t change. He nodded at Ishay. “Major Cottle’s waiting.”
***
He is stretched out on the lower bunk, arms beneath his head. There are one hundred three stripes on the mattress of the unoccupied bunk above. The count remains the same each time he restarts it.
He wants to hit something, but what would be the point?
In a matter of minutes, a bullet will end his life and that of the man who has been his rival and, most recently, his friend. Hopefully, the first bullet will be to the brain, so it’ll be over quickly, but he doesn’t expect such a boon from the Gods, for they seem to have abandoned them both.
He wonders if his daughter will be allowed to live, let alone know anything at all of the man who fathered her.
***
Dressed in a pale yellow robe, shivering with more than physical chill, Sharon waited. She would have prayed, but all of her prayers since she had come to the Fleet with Helo had at best gone unanswered. At worst… Perhaps there was no God at all. Perhaps all that the Cylons had done had been for nothing but their own vanity. Perhaps this child she had created with a human was nothing more than a cosmic accident. Deep inside, she didn’t believe that - couldn’t believe it anymore than she could believe that it had been part of God’s plan to kill Helo if he didn’t cooperate with what her handlers on Caprica had wanted. And so she had run. They had run, she and Helo.
And here she was, frightened, hurting, waiting.
Colonel Tigh had told her guards that Doc Cottle waited for her in the infirmary, but he had yet to show. She tried to make her mind a blank, but that became increasingly difficult as Venner and the other Marine with him discussed what had happened - and what was likely happening to Helo and Chief. They didn’t realize that she could hear them or she didn’t think they would have risked setting her off again by mentioning that the only two humans who had ever treated her as something other than a machine were to be executed.
She stared at a lifeless medical monitor beyond the foot of the bed on which she sat. She wouldn’t attack them again. If she did, they would only strap her to the bed, and the struggle to immobilize her might hurt the baby. And if Helo died, this baby was the only thing that mattered. Sharon curled her arms protectively around her unborn daughter, wincing as the motion pulled at her left side.
“You two, out.” Doctor Cottle had finally arrived.
“I’m sorry, si-” Corporal Venner began, but Cottle cut him off.
“I don’t give a damn what your orders are. Out.” And then he was beside her, touching her arm. His hand was gentle, at odds with the order he had issued to her watchdogs. He smelled of old cigarette smoke. “Let’s see what they’ve done to you…”
Sharon looked up; Cottle’s eyes were troubled. Make that three humans who don’t treat me like a machine.
The examination was performed quickly and efficiently. He didn’t ask her any questions and she volunteered nothing. She didn’t know how long it took - five minutes? ten? - but it was soon over. He stripped off his gloves and threw them into a waste receptacle, then asked her to wait there for a few more minutes. As if she had a choice.
Her brain felt as though it were wrapped in cotton. The Marines’ whispered conversation was no longer within her hearing. There were no other patients. She was alone.
After a time, another presence penetrated the fog. Commander Adama stood in the doorway of the infirmary, her guards just visible beyond him. Their eyes met, but he didn’t enter the room and she didn’t stand; they simply watched each other, curious, wary. Sharon couldn’t read his expression.
Cottle returned, then, clipboard in hand. He, too, looked at Adama before coming back to Sharon’s side. Adama and the two Marines entered, the Marines stopping just inside the door and Adama at the foot of her bed. She supposed Tigh must have made his report.
“Your fluid and electrolyte levels are stable,” Cottle began, “and I think the baby’s going to be fine. You do have a cracked rib though.” She shifted, uncomfortable in the thin shift as well as with Adama’s presence. Cottle glanced at the Old Man. “It’s a hairline fracture, nothing serious, but it’s going to hurt like hell for a while. No permanent damage from the attack.”
Blinking rapidly, Sharon straightened, ignoring the twinge of pain from the cracked rib. “The attack? Is that what we’re going to call it?” She still felt that bastard between her legs.
Before Cottle could respond, Adama interjected, “They were not from the Galactica.”
“They were from Pegasus. So what?” The anger felt good, better than the fog, better than the fear. “What about Helo and the Chief? I heard a rumor they’re going to be executed.” Her eyes darted to the unfamiliar Marine, who had been the one to let the information slip.
“I’m not going to let that happen.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“How are you going to do that? Isn’t Admiral Cain in command?” A more frightening human she had never met. Even President Roslin had something within her to which Sharon could appeal; Cain was empty.
Adama took a step closer to her bed, a step closer to her, but still he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “What happened to you…”
“Was unforgivable.” Cottle, as always, expressed his opinion in no uncertain terms.
Adama’s eyes flickered to the doctor and then back to Sharon, this time unflinching. “…happened aboard my ship, on my watch, and it’s my responsibility. So I just want you to know that I personally apologize.” He turned to leave. “See that she’s okay, then back to her cell.”
Sharon and Cottle both watched him go.
***
He stares out past the glass wall that separates him from freedom, from life.
At least for now, he and Tyrol still have their lives.
According to the CAG - former CAG, he supposes, since Cain has demoted the Old Man’s son and raised Kara up in his place - Commander Adama is determined to bring them back to Galactica, if only to stand trial there for crimes committed there.
He shakes his head. Apollo in disgrace, Starbuck in charge of the squadrons, and a madwoman at the helm of the entire fleet… Maybe the Gods have abandoned us all.
Pushing away from the glass, he begins to pace. Tyrol’s voice stops him.
“You know, when we get outta here, I’m gonna make some changes.”
Crossing his arms across his chest, he leans his shoulders back against his bunk, looks down at the man across from him. “Yeah? Like what?” If only to break out of his own growing depression, he wants to hear about the changes the Chief wants to make, and about the confidence in him that they’ll make it out of this cell alive and with some kind of future…
***
There was nothing to do and no one to talk to. Again. Sharon couldn’t do sit-ups because of her rib, and so she paced, bare feet slapping against cool metal. It was either this or sit and stare into space, but she had done that for hours on end and couldn’t stand to do it any longer - too much restless energy - and so she paced.
Out of the corner of her eye, each time she made a circuit around the cell and past the observation window, she saw Private Bonnington flip a page of the magazine she read. Occasionally, the woman would unfold a larger page to look at an advertisement for a product that was no longer available on a world that was dead. More frequently, though, she would look up to see what Sharon was doing, no doubt having caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye as Sharon paced.
It had been almost two days with no word about Helo and Tyrol. The only thing she knew for certain was that they had been convicted of treason and murder and sentenced to death.
Sharon began another circuit around the perimeter of her cell. She could practically do it with her eyes closed, she had been around it so many times. When she reached the wall farthest from the window, she heard the click of the lock and stopped cold, whipped her head around to stare at the door and Private Bonnington.
The Marine swung the door open and ordered, “Stay where you are.”
“What’re you doing?” Bonnington had her rifle at the ready, but Sharon wasn’t planning on getting herself shot. And if she did try to escape, where would she go?
“You’re driving me crazy, pacing like that.” She took two steps into the cell and flung a couple of magazines onto Sharon’s bed.
A wry smile stretched muscles in Sharon’s face that had gone unused for far too long. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll find a way to kill you with the pages?”
Bonnington rolled her eyes. “No.” She backed out. “Read them or not, I don’t care, just please. Stop pacing.”
The door clicked shut and Sharon was left to stare bemusedly at the magazines Bonnington had left behind.
***
“You can’t rape a machine, Lieutenant.”
The pain is excruciating, but his anger, his impotent fury at the Colonel’s contemptuous words, make it pale in comparison. He looks over at Tyrol and sees the same mixture of emotions and physical pain reflected there.
The Sunshine Boys weren’t stopped from doing any further harm to himself and the Chief because of any sense of compassion, but only because they wore Colonial uniforms, because their rank was higher than that of the pair of thugs. Because he and Tyrol are not Cylons and, apparently, aboard this ship Cylons are fair game for anything a human might want to do to them.
He watches Fisk leave, knowing that he and Tyrol are lucky the man showed up when he did, even if he didn’t know why he showed up at all.
…you can’t rape a machine…
***
Once more, Sharon was led through the ship, shackled, leashed like a rabid dog. She didn’t know where they were taking her, nor did she care. Everyone was preparing for a big operation and no one was interested in answering any questions she might have. No one cared what she thought or felt. For that matter, none of them really believed that she could feel anything.
She had thought they were taking her to CIC, but instead they turned down an unfamiliar corridor. There were no people here, no one to stare at the Commander’s pet Cylon. The collar chafed at her neck and then pulled, choking her as they stopped abruptly. Adama’s quarters. One of her guards opened the door and they entered; clearly, they were expected.
As soon as they were inside, the metal pole that served as her leash was unfastened. Adama stood beside a low table and an overstuffed leather couch. “Wait outside,” he ordered the Marines and then gestured toward Sharon. “Sit down.” Warily, she complied, sitting before a glass of water that must have been placed there for her, since the Old Man already had a glass in hand. “I’ve asked you here to find out why the Cylons hate us so much.”
She almost laughed. You’ve got to be kidding me. “I really don’t know how to answer that. I mean, ‘hate’ isn’t exactly the right word.”
“I don’t want to fence with you. I just want to know why.” He sat down on the couch, facing her, not close enough that they might accidentally touch. His craggy face was inscrutable, as it always was, but there was something in his eyes…
Sharon found that she wanted to answer him, but she truly didn’t know what to say. She closed her eyes and searched her memories, those memories borrowed from the Sharon Valerii who had served with this man for more than two years. Finally, she met his gaze again only to realize that Adama’s eyes had never left her face.
“It’s what you said at the ceremony, before the attack, when Galactica was being decommissioned. You gave a speech that sounded like it wasn’t the one you prepared. You said that humanity was a flawed creation and that people still kill one another over petty jealousy and greed. You said that humanity never asked itself why it deserved to survive.” She paused, licked suddenly dry lips. “Maybe you don’t.” She met his eyes again, troubled. “I don’t know that what we did was right, but I do know that humanity is flawed.”
He said nothing, but she knew that he no longer saw her or the room in which they sat. Sharon also didn’t know if her words would have any impact on him or on his decisions, but at least, it seemed, she had made him think.
***
She sat on the floor, her pillow cradled to her chest as though it were her child, and a blanket around her shoulders. It had been two days since “the attack.” Two agonizing days of not knowing what would be the fate - or what had been the fate - of Helo and Tyrol. She rested her head on the pillow and stared off into space. She thought she might never be warm again.
The unmistakable sound of the outer door being unlocked drifted to her, barely audible through the layers of glass and metal that were her world. Cautiously, she got to her feet and looked toward that outer door.
“Helo…”
He was there. He was alive and in three strides he was there, lifting the handset with one hand, gripping the metal mesh with the other.
Laughter bubbled up from within her, lighter than air, and she rushed to meet him, not caring for the moment that she couldn’t actually touch him, feel his skin against hers. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again…” Tears began and wouldn’t stop, mingling with the laughter as his face melted into a smile, the first she’d seen from him since Kobol.
“Same here.”
She was vaguely aware that Chief Tyrol stood just inside the doorway of the observation area, a Marine behind him, and she was glad that he, too, lived. Perhaps God hadn’t forsaken her, after all…
The sight of the armed Marine and Tyrol’s scruffy visage, the dark circles under Helo’s eyes, sobered her abruptly. “So where do we go from here?” she whispered into the handset.
Before Helo could answer, there was movement beyond him. He turned to look as the Marine closed the door, cutting off the sight of Tyrol’s retreating back. Helo’s smile faded. “I don’t know.” He turned back to her. “Try to stay alive, I guess.” He gave her a wry grin, but the laughter was gone.
There was the click of a key in the lock of her cell door and they both turned toward the sound. She hadn’t noticed when the Marine - a man whose name she couldn’t recall - approached.
“Lieutenant.” He gestured toward the now open door. “Commander Adama’s orders, sir. You’re only allowed a couple of minutes, but…” Again he motioned toward the open door.
Oh, God…
And then she was in his arms. It wasn’t a dream, this time. He was truly there; the feel, the scent, the heat of him were all real. “Oh, God,” she repeated, aloud this time, as she wrapped her arms around him.
He buried his face in her hair, breathed in deeply. “Gods, Sharon…”
She squeezed and he winced, surprising her. “Helo?” She pulled back as far as he would let her, which was only far enough that she could search his face. “What have they done to you?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that we’re alive, that our baby is alive. Everything else is just details that don’t matter.”
She opened her mouth to protest and he silenced her with a kiss. God, it had been so long since she had tasted him. She wasn’t going to let the matter drop, but she tacitly agreed to put off the discussion by sucking his lower lip into her mouth, lifting her arms to circle around his neck and shoulders rather than around his torso. She didn’t want to cause him any more pain, even as her own cracked rib protested the motion.
The kiss went on forever before reality intruded in the form of a black-clad Marine. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s time to go.”
Reluctantly, Helo tried to break away, but she wouldn’t let him. “Sharon, please. I have to go.”
“Where do you have to go?” she asked, suspicions building inside her.
The guard started to say something, either a response to her question or urging Helo to leave, but Helo stopped the man with a raised hand, silently asking for another minute. “Tyrol and I have our own luxury suite right down the hall from yours.” Again with the wry grin as he tried to make light of it.
“What? Why?” She couldn’t breathe.
“We still have to stand trial, Sharon. A man died.”
Sharon pushed away from Helo, looked from him to the waiting Marine. “He died because of what he was doing to me,” she whispered. “I won’t let them kill you.” Even as she said the words, she heard the echo of her conversation with Adama, when he’d told her that he wouldn’t let Cain execute Helo and the Chief.
“We’re not going to be killed, Sharon. Neither of us is being charged with a capital crime. At most, we’ll spend some time in the brig for assault and manslaughter. The charges of murder and treason have been dropped.”
“But why are you being charged with anything at all?”
He looked at her almost as though she were insane. “A man died,” he repeated, but then his expression cleared and he took a step toward her, pulled her in close. He rested his cheek on her head and whispered, “I promise you, we’ll get past this.” He pulled away from her again, just enough to look at her as he smoothed her hair back, then leaned in to kiss her forehead. “We’re gonna be okay.”
“How can you be so sure?”
In response, he echoed her own words to him, a lifetime ago on a world that had been dead for countless generations. “Do you love me?”
“Yes.” She reached up to stroke a finger across his lower lip.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then trust me. Trust us.”
He kissed her again and then he was gone and she knew that it would have to be enough.
Feedback is, as always, appreciated. Cross-posted lots of places. Sorry.
Author: SabaceanBabe
Rating: R
Word count: 9,300+
Primary characters: Sharon, Helo, Marine Corporal Venner
Spoilers: through Resurrection Ship 2
Summary: God, please! But as with her shouts, she knew there was no one there to care. God had abandoned her.
Disclaimer: Not mine, but that frakking nice Mr. Moore said I could play in his sandbox.
Warning: this fic includes a depiction of rape, please don't read it if that will cause you any distress.
Author’s note: this has been in the works since the night Pegasus aired and is what I more-or-less wanted to see as the resolution to this plot-thread. Originally, I had hoped to get it posted before the end of the hiatus, but obviously that didn’t happen. Needless to say, the latter half of the fic was completely Moored, but that’s okay - I like AU, too. Even so, I still made some edits based on things that actually happened in RS 1 & 2. Thank you to un4scene and repr0b8 for once again stepping up to the plate with beta duties, made a little more difficult this time because of the subject matter of the fic.
-----------------------------
…breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out…
…flex, relax, flex, relax…
Heart and lungs pump, muscles burn with the effort to lift head and torso while keeping legs and hips stationary. A slight twinge in her mid-section might be the growing presence of her baby, but is more likely just a muscle cramp.
No visitors today. No one to talk to. Nothing to occupy her mind. Helo has been called to duty. A new battlestar has arrived and she is forgotten.
And so… What else is there to do?
…breathe in, breathe out…
***
At the desk in the main part of the brig, Corporal Venner read a book, its cover worn with use. Occasionally, he glanced at a viewscreen that had been installed following construction of the maximum-security cell that housed Galactica’s Cylon prisoner; the screen rested on a shelf suspended from the structure of the ceiling. The last few times he had looked, it had shown his sole prisoner exercising in her cell, and this time was no different.
He watched her for a moment. Venner hadn’t spoken to her any more than was necessary, but he was curious about her. It. Curious about it. He was forever reminding himself that she wasn’t human, wasn’t a Raptor pilot assigned to Galactica at the start of the war, wasn’t a woman he had seen running with Lieutenant Thrace through the corridors of the ship before the worlds had ended. The thing doing sit-ups in that cell was either a Cylon replicant of a human being and thus something to be destroyed, or it was a minor demon sent by the Gods to help humanity and thus something to be respected and of which to be wary. Either way, it wasn’t a pretty young woman with whom he might engage in conversation.
Venner had just found his place on the page when he heard the whirring sound as the hatch was released from the outside. He marked his spot by the simple expedient of folding the page and stood, expecting to see Lieutenant Agathon. The Lieutenant didn’t talk much when he came to visit, but he was always pleasant and Corporal Venner respected that.
The hatch opened on well-oiled hinges and he heard Private Bonnington say, “Corporal Venner will assist you, sir.” The formality of her words and tone told him that it wasn’t Agathon who had business in the brig and Venner was glad he had put his book aside.
The cumbersome hatch clanged shut behind a heavy-set officer and two armed Marines Venner had never seen before. He stood at attention and saluted the officer, noting with surprise that the man wore a sidearm.
“Take me to the Cylon.” The man’s soft-voiced demand sent a chill down Venner’s spine. The Marines stood to either side of him and a step behind, rifles held at ready.
Suddenly nervous, Venner said, “I need to see your orders, sir.”
“Excuse me?” The officer, who still hadn’t introduced himself, cocked his head and raised a brow, but made no move to produce any paperwork.
Corporal Venner held his ground. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll have to see your orders before I can take you to the prisoner.” This definitely wasn’t normal. Like everyone else on board, Venner knew that the Galactica had met up with the Pegasus, and these three must be from the other battlestar, but he didn’t know them. The Cylon prisoner - a quick look up told him that she was still doing sit-ups - was his responsibility.
***
Sweat runs down her face, into her eyes, in tickling rivulets between her shoulder blades and her breasts.
Breathe in, breathe out, faster than before, sucking air more quickly into lungs for redistribution to oxygen-starved cells, feeling the spark of her muscles as they work.
She focuses only on moving those muscles, tries to keep at bay the loneliness and the boredom…
***
For a moment, Thorne couldn’t process what he heard. A mere corporal questioned his orders? He looked the man up and down, an unimpressive specimen. Wouldn’t survive ten minutes on Pegasus, he decided. Soft. “You have your orders, Corporal. Now take me to the Cylon.”
He could’ve sworn a flush suffused the man’s dark skin, making it even darker, but he stood his ground, Thorne had to give him that. “No, sir. My orders are that no one is to see the prisoner without proper authorization. I can’t take you to her until I’ve seen your orders.”
Not taking his eyes from the obstinate Marine, Thorne briskly produced signed and sealed papers, proof of his authority as the Pegasus’ Cylon Interrogator, a post that hadn’t been needed in the Colonial Fleet for more than forty years. He studied the corporal as he read those orders, which gave Thorne complete autonomy in his interrogation of all Cylon prisoners, in particular one female-form Cylon in the possession of the battlestar Galactica.
The man’s jaw tightened as he handed the papers back to Thorne, but he led them into the recesses of the brig without another word, apparently satisfied that those orders were legitimate.
Thorne followed the Galactica Marine and wondered what he’d find in that maximum-security cell. The Pegasus’ Cylon had been pretty once and he thought this one might be, too. Why bother investing time and materials in an ugly robot? he thought and allowed himself a small, anticipatory smile. Behind him, his guards discussed interrogating the prisoner with some enthusiasm; Private Redman in particular seemed to look forward to helping him break its will.
Yes, their little Gina had been pretty once, had been someone that the crew of Pegasus had thought of as a real girl before they’d learned the truth. When Admiral Cain had appointed Thorne her Cylon Interrogator - he’d been a police Captain a lifetime ago, on Scorpio - he hadn’t at first been able to see beyond that pretty exterior to the thing within. It had taken the death at her hands (her bare hands!) of seven of his men before he had realized just what needed to happen to break the bitch.
He suspected, given how soft and lax this old bucket’s entire crew seemed to be, that the Galactica’s Cylon hadn’t been treated as it deserved. The Marine ahead of him unlocked the cell and stood aside once the door was open. That toaster whore has been accorded prisoner-of-war status, Thorne realized when he saw the comfortable bed, the chair, the spacious cell. A sneer stole over his face and he shook his head in disgust, motioned his own Marines to enter ahead of him.
***
There is a party going on in the tool room when he arrives. He looks for the Chief, but Tyrol isn’t there, no one has seen him.
“He should be here any minute, Lieutenant, why don’t you wait with us?” one of the women offers and he realizes with some surprise that it’s Cally. Others of the deck crew also invite him to stay, to have a drink with them and the new guys visiting from Pegasus. He’s a little uneasy about it - it’s the first time he’s been invited to just hang with anyone at all save Kara in the weeks since he’s been back, and it was Cally who issued the initial invitation.
He has to wonder what’s up. He’s the only officer there, but they’re all off-duty, even the knuckledraggers from Pegasus, and he’s not exactly in uniform… He has something he needs to address with Tyrol, and so he stays.
A man whose arm is gaudy with tattoos hands him a jar of Tyrol’s ‘shine. “This shit is amazing.” He says nothing in response, but lifts the jar in a salute and takes a healthy swallow, forcing down the urge to gasp at the burn. The man claps him on the back and laughs. “You’re all right, for an officer…”
***
Venner had felt as though a target was painted between his shoulder blades when he led the Pegasus party to the prisoner. Lieutenant Thorne had been quiet, but his escort… He had a very bad feeling about what might be ahead for Lieutenant Valerii. In fact, he thought it might be a good idea to have Bonnington locate Lieutenant Agathon, have him come to the brig as soon as possible.
The prisoner had still been doing sit-ups when he’d opened the door, but she’d scrambled to her bare feet, startled by the intrusion and the rifles the two Pegasus Marines trained on her. Now those Marines fanned out to either side of the door and ignored Venner, who remained just outside. Thorne entered the cell with a swagger and the Cylon’s dark eyes were immediately drawn to him, clearly the most dangerous of the three in spite of the fact that his sidearm was holstered. Her look was wary.
The dark-haired Marine glanced at his blond companion and, seeing the light in the man’s eyes as Thorne took a step toward Valerii, Venner abruptly turned and walked away, leaving the door wide in the hope that his prisoner might be able to make use of that, if there came a need. His only other conscious thought was to get word to Lieutenant Agathon before it was too late.
***
He is relieved when Tyrol finally shows up. He’s been here waiting and drinking too damn long. The crewmen from the other battlestar are crude and he just doesn’t want to be in their company any longer than he has to be. Listening to them trash-talk, he feels sorry for the women on board Pegasus, even as he realizes that this must by why Cally and the others were so enthusiastic with their invitation.
The Chief joins the little group, refusing the offer of one of his own jars of hooch, and the talk turns darker. The word “Cylon” penetrates the almost-pleasant fog in his brain and then “heard she’s a hot one, too.” For just a moment, he forgets to breathe. The women in the room look a little sick as the tattooed man and another from Pegasus high-five each other.
Insensitive to the Galactica crew surrounding them, the men from Pegasus continue to spout their garbage, even after the Chief tells them to stop, even after Cally and the other women walk out in disgust.
And then they’re talking about having “a chance at this one, too” and he realizes that they’re talking about Sharon. He takes a step toward Tattoo-boy, but Tyrol intervenes, turns him away.
Not willing to drop it, he stabs out, “Who the hell’s this ‘Thorne?’”
“Lieutenant Thorne, sir,” the other one, the one who offered the Chief a jar, responds. “ Cylon interrogator. Rides ‘em hard and keeps ‘em talking.” There is pride in his voice.
A look is exchanged with the Chief, but before either of them can say anything else, Tattoo-boy tells them, “Your little robot-girl is in for quite a ride. Yeehah!” and he sees red, goes for the obnoxious asshole. Tyrol again puts himself between the two men.
“Think about it! We need to go.”
***
Sharon heard the door to her cage open and scrambled to her feet as a rush of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She moved so quickly the end of her ponytail tickled her shoulders, not enough time to stick to her sweaty skin. Admiral Cain was the last person who had been to see her and the unpleasant memory was still fresh in her mind.
Three strangers entered her cell, all of them armed. She absently swiped at the strands of hair stuck to her forehead. She felt a frisson of fear, but she’d be damned if she’d let them see it. Corporal Venner watched them from beyond the walls of her cage and she wondered why he remained outside.
“Who the hell are you?” she asked.
The bald one wearing the blue uniform of a Colonial officer stared at her, but none of them said anything. Sharon, hands on her hips, spared a glance toward the still-open door as she saw a slight movement there - Venner beating a hasty retreat - but quickly returned her attention to the man before her.
He took a step toward Sharon, his expression neutral, and tossed a small stack of photographs onto her cot. Relaxing a bit, she followed the stack with her eyes, curious. The photos were black and white, grainy and out of focus as though taken from a great distance or with deficient equipment.
“What is the function of this ship?”
His light voice was conversational. Sharon took a step toward the man, stood next to him as she looked down at the photos. The one on top showed a pair of Cylon basestars, but she didn’t know what the other ship depicted might be; its design was nothing she had ever seen before. For all she could tell, it was a stray ship from the human fleet, one separated from the others in the most recent raid.
“I dunno.” Sharon looked at the human and shrugged, returned her attention to the photo. The outline of the mystery ship was odd, almost like some kind of antenna or repeater. A wisp of memory tickled the back of her mind, something she - a mere foot-soldier - wasn’t supposed to know…
“Here,” the man said mildly as she leaned in toward the picture, “take a closer look.” Suddenly there was a vice-like grip at her throat past which she couldn’t breathe. The man’s hand drew tighter. She clawed at that hand as he all but lifted her by her throat. “What makes it so important?” The expression on his face, the tone of his voice never changed. “Why would two basestars be tasked to protect it?”
Struggling for the smallest breath, she tried to respond, her mind whirling at lightning speed, searching the sparsely furnished cell for anything she might use as a weapon even as her vision began to turn white at the edges. “I… I don’t…” She could barely force the words out and the man squeezed tighter yet, clearly not interested in what she knew or didn’t know. He glared at her now and she could see that the Marines who had accompanied him still had their rifles trained on her. If she had expected his attack, she might have been able to counteract it and thus their fear - she could smell it on them - and their weapons would have been necessary…
The man’s eyes narrowed and he brought his ear closer to her mouth as she continued to struggle for breath, for a way to respond, to make this stop. Oh, God, please don’t let him hurt my baby.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the Marines circle around, take up positions to either side of the bed. Her grip on the man’s hand began to weaken and his face contorted in disgust as he threw her from him, toward the corner of the bed. “Yeah, that’s about what I expected.”
Abruptly able to breathe again, Sharon pulled great gulps of air into her lungs. She coughed and clutched reflexively at her bruised throat, looked up at her tormentor in disbelief. Reeling between terror and fury, she pushed herself to her feet, glared at the men who looked at her with varying expressions of revulsion and anticipation. Enunciating each word precisely, she threw at her attacker, “I. Don’t. Know.”
The officer took a step toward her, looking incredulous. Without warning, he backhanded her - the force of the blow spun her around, knocked her from her feet. She landed on her elbows on the bed and immediately pushed herself up. She had to get away from these men. Had to. Her eyes locked on the still-open door. Anywhere was better than in this cell.
He must have seen in her eyes that she would bolt for the open door. His fist slammed into her face and she was again knocked from her feet. Stunned by the blow, she looked up at him, tried to regain her balance. “What the frak?” There was no way these men were here at Adama’s orders. He might hate her for what her counterpart had done, but he would never condone this…
“We’ll do it the hard way.” With a rough hand in the center of her back, he pinned her face first to her bed. Before she could process what was happening, the two Marines, who had set aside their weapons, moved in. One grabbed her hard by the wrists, yanking her toward him while the other pinned her legs, allowing their leader to take a step back.
“NO!” she screamed, although she knew there was no one there to care what happened to her. Throat still hurting, fear pounding through her, she fought to break free of the grip on her wrists. Her eyes met those of the dark-haired Marine and he smiled. “No, no, no…” She heard the slight clink of metal against metal behind her and then the awful sound of a zipper being lowered. God, please! But as with her shouts, she knew there was no one there to care. God had abandoned her.
***
“Comin’ through! Get out of the way!”
The last traces of alcohol have been burned away by fear and adrenaline and not a little shame.
“…rides ‘em hard and keeps ‘em talking…”
He should have been with her, dammit, should be with her now, should be protecting her as she’d always protected him.
“…Cylon interrogator…”
“Out of the way!” The blood pounds in his ears as he follows on Tyrol’s heels.
“…your little robot-girl is in for quite a ride…”
“Coming through!” He stumbles a bit as he clips a crewman in passing, but quickly regains his balance.
A few more strides and they’re nearing the brig. There are no more crewmen to pass, no more collisions to avoid. In fact, the hatch to the brig is ajar, the room beyond deserted. What the frak? There is noise from the back of the brig, from the direction of Sharon’s cell. Her voice, screaming.
Gods, no, please don’t let this be happening.
Please.
***
Staring into the excited eyes of the dark-haired Marine, Sharon couldn’t think. She knew what was about to happen, but they held her too tightly, the grip on her wrists so strong the man all but ground the bones together. And it was her own fear that she smelled now, tasted, as rough hands groped at her waist, crude fingers hooked into the waistband of her sweats, hurtful fingernails scraped at her hips in his zeal as he pulled her sweats and underwear down to tangle around her ankles. “NOOOOOO!”
Some small part of her brain that could still function beyond her panic heard the sound of pounding footsteps, but the hope that surged inside her was sent gibbering into a corner at the feel of hot, naked skin against her buttocks as cruel fingers pulled her thighs wide.
“Get off her!” a man’s voice roared and she thought, somehow, that it might be the Chief. Suddenly her legs were free, the cool air causing her skin to pebble. Something - someone? - flew over her, there was a heavy thud and her wrists were released. She could move again.
Sharon scrambled to get off that bed and in her haste, she fell to the floor, shaking, crying. She couldn’t make the tears go away, couldn’t make the pitiful whimpering stop. To either side of her were the sickening sounds of flesh slamming violently into flesh.
“Mother-frakking bastard!” Again, the voice was that of the Chief and she knew that Helo was here, too, though she didn’t hear his voice, that somehow they had known what was happening and come to help her.
She tried to stand, tried to pull her sweats back up, tried to cover herself - she couldn’t let Helo or the Chief see her like this, she just couldn’t. She stumbled, unsteady on her feet, but finally grasped the waistband, pulled the sweats back up over her hips. Behind her, a black shadow moved and she heard the unmistakable sound of a round being jacked into its chamber. Oh, God, please…
The blond Marine, the one who had held her legs, aimed his rifle at Tyrol, who still pounded his fists into the limp body of the unknown Colonial officer. “Freeze!” he shouted. When Tyrol didn’t stop, he kicked him, yelled something else, but she wasn’t able to make out the words past the roaring in her ears. Eyes wide, she looked from the Marine to Tyrol and finally, dreading what she would see, to the other side of the bed - a piece of furniture she never wanted to see again - to her beloved Helo, at his rage as he held his fist back from smashing once again into the face of the man who had held her wrists and smiled.
As she watched, the dark-haired Marine scrambled back on his elbows and heels, his face bloodied, eyes terrified, and Helo straightened. His eyes met hers and she crumbled, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. She curled into herself and began to sob while the bloodied Marine regained his feet and his rifle and some of his composure.
“Don’t either of you frakkin’ move.” The bloody-faced Marine also jacked round into chamber.
In contradiction of his order, the other Marine motioned for Helo to circle the end of the bed and join Tyrol, who knelt between her and her attacker. “Get down!” he ordered, his voice harsh. She could feel Helo’s eyes on her as he reluctantly moved to comply, stopping beside the Chief. “On your knees! Hands behind your head!”
It hit her, then. Helo and Tyrol were prisoners now of the same animals who had assaulted her. Nononononono… She heard more than saw Helo take a half-step toward her, despite two rifles trained on him.
“Now!” Helo dropped to his knees. “Hands behind your head! Do it now!” More shuffling. “Do it!” And then nothing but the sound of harsh breathing and her own strangled cries.
Forcing back the horrible sounds coming from her own throat, Sharon tried to sit. Unable to quite get her brain back in control of her muscles, she absently took hold of one bare ankle and pulled her leg around in an absurd attempt to get more comfortable. She coughed, an almost wheezing sound, and for a moment she felt the eyes of four men - four human men - on her. She stared at the gray deck and wished that she could sink into it.
Above the strident sounds of their heavy breaths, she heard the rustle of fabric and then nothing for long seconds.
“He’s dead.” The man’s voice was flat, emotionless as he moved back into Sharon’s line of sight. Beyond him she saw the Chief lower his hands from his head, huddle in on himself, saw Helo kneeling beside him, looking a little sick. She felt Helo’s eyes on her, but she looked quickly away, unable to meet his gaze.
With no thought save the desperate desire to disappear, Sharon reached blindly over her head, grasped the edge of the blanket that had come loose during her struggles, pulled it over herself. She huddled under the scratchy gray fabric, tried to make herself as small as she could. A sob shuddered through her, another, and she began to rock.
She was only vaguely aware of the flurry of activity that swirled around her. On some level, she knew it when the Marine Helo had beaten wrenched his arms behind his back and locked his wrists into cold metal cuffs; knew when he repeated the process with Tyrol while the other Marine stood guard. She knew it, too, when the Marine who seemed to be in charge turned toward her, stared at her in fear and loathing, and she wondered if he contemplated putting a bullet into her brain. If he had, if he had pulled the trigger, she might have welcomed it, but even as a part of her allowed that thought to exist, another, deeper part caused her to curl protectively around her growing child.
Instead of shooting her, the man addressed his subordinate. “Let’s get these two back to Pegasus. Admiral Cain’ll know what to do with ‘em.”
“On your feet,” the ordered Helo and the Chief. “Move.”
No longer crying, Sharon continued to rock beneath the blanket, back and forth, back and forth, arms curled around her belly and the spark of life that existed there, a fragile flame.
***
He stares at the body, now nothing more than a piece of meat, and he can’t find it in himself to regret what they’ve done. He has killed before - the man who tried to leave Caprica on the wing of Sharon’s Raptor comes to mind. And he supposes that technically he didn’t kill this particular man, but he would have, and so there is no real distinction between himself and the Chief in his own mind. Nor, he suspects, will there be in the mind of Admiral Cain.
He stares at the body, but sees Sharon, rocking beneath a Fleet-issue blanket, the image burned into his brain for all of eternity, and he knows regret.
***
Her throat was raw, her eyes were raw, the skin at her wrists was raw, her soul was raw. And she was tired, so very tired, but she couldn’t make herself stop rocking beneath the rough gray blanket. The motion had slowed as time passed - minutes? hours? days? - but she felt as though, if she stopped that faint motion, Helo and Chief would die. Something in her knew that it was irrational, but she had to keep rocking as if the movement could somehow protect those who had tried to protect her. She knew that nothing would ever make sense again.
Helo…
Sharon didn’t know what brought her back to an awareness of her cell, but she knew with a sudden certainty that she was no longer alone. Her raw nerves tingled with the awareness of another living body nearby.
A hand tentatively touched the edge of the fabric that was her only shield. She flinched. “Shh…” A man’s voice. A human voice. “I won’t hurt you…”
But she would have none of that. She wouldn’t give him the chance to prove the lie. She lashed out from beneath the blanket, backhanded this man who might hurt her without warning. With unerring precision and a sense of despair - if only she could have done that to her initial attackers, perhaps Helo and Chief wouldn’t be in such danger now - her hand smashed into his nose, the force of the blow knocking him from his feet. She saw his startled face, dark skin painted with the red of his blood, as he lay back on the rough decking and stared at her. Corporal Venner, a distant portion of her brain noted. She thought she must have broken his nose.
Even as that small part noted that it was someone she knew, and had been decent toward her, Sharon scrambled to her feet. In response, she again heard the awful sound of rounds being jacked into chambers. All she could see were the images burned in her brain of the dark-haired Marine and the anticipation in his eyes; Helo and Chief on their knees, their hands behind their heads, guns pointed at their chests.
“No!” Venner shouted. “Hold your fire!” Sharon backed warily away from the armed Marines, from Venner as he regained his feet. He made no move to stop the flow of blood from his nose as it dripped from his chin, only held out his arms to either side as though shielding her from his fellows. “Hold your fire,” he repeated.
Her attention on Venner, one of the others made a grab for her wrist. No! Sharon dove over the bed, slid on bare feet and semi-dry blood to a stop next to the chair. Rather than let them take her, she lifted that chair, swung for the man’s head, screamed, “Don’t you touch me!”
She just kept swinging; this new movement provided a replacement for the aborted rocking. Finally another voice penetrated the static in her mind.
“Please, Sharon, we’re here to help you, not to hurt.” Medic Ishay. Human. Female.
But it didn’t matter. There was only one human she wanted to see or hear. “Where’s Helo?” Her muscles trembled with fatigue and she slowly lowered the chair, set it down carefully but kept it between her and the humans. She had backed into a corner; she wasn’t going to let them surround her again.
“I don’t know where he is, Sharon. Please, let me help you,” Ishay pleaded.
A Marine - not Venner - made a move toward Sharon and she turned baleful eyes on him, grasped the back of the chair, prepared to defend herself.
***
“I asked you a question, Lieutenant. Do you admit to having sexual congress with a Cylon agent?”
He’s already tried to answer her question three times, but apparently he isn’t giving her the answer she’s looking for. Finally, he says simply, “Yes.” He stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on a chink in the glass shelf above the Admiral’s head.
“And did you assault a Colonial Marine engaged in the lawful pursuit of his duty?”
That makes him look at her. “There was nothing lawful about-”
“Answer the question.”
“I assaulted a Colonial Marine engaged in the unlawful abuse of a prisoner of war.” He clenches his jaw, biting back the rest of the words he wants to say, knowing they won’t make any difference, that they might, in fact, cause yet more suffering for Sharon.
“I have no choice but to find you guilty as charged of treason and attempted murder under Articles 3 and 14b of the Colonial Military Code.” She shuffles papers on her desk and he is struck anew by her relative youth. “I hereby sentence you to death by firing squad, sentence to be carried out within the hour.” The words are like a fist to his gut. She looks at him then, as she hasn’t throughout the whole proceeding. “Did you have something to say, Lieutenant?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do.” He takes a deep breath. Echoing in his ears are Sharon’s sobs as she hid herself beneath that blanket.
Something in his face makes Cain’s eyes narrow. “Be careful, Lieutenant.”
He laughs, the sound harsh. “What? Are you going to kill me twice?”
A humorless smile touches her thin lips. “I could have your Cylon whore destroyed…”
He forces himself to ignore the insult, responds only to the threat itself. “But you won’t. You wouldn’t waste a valuable military asset just to prove a point.”
“Say your piece.”
“If you do this, then the frakking Cylons have won. All they have to do is sit back and watch while we destroy ourselves.”
She shakes her head, whether in disgust or disbelief he’ll never know, and turns to the pair of Marines at the door. “Take this traitor back to his cell.”
***
Venner didn’t know how long she held them off - long enough that his nose had stopped bleeding, although it still throbbed. Medic Ishay had tried repeatedly to get her to come out from her corner and let them help her, as had he, but with no luck. He could tell the Cylon was tiring, but even so she wouldn’t give up, just stared at them and kept her hands locked to the back of the chair she used as a shield.
Private Chiang shifted and Valerii’s dark eyes tracked his movement. Unlike the other times her attention had been drawn away from Ishay and Venner, who were closest to her defensive position, it didn’t stray back to either of them but stayed with Chiang. Venner didn’t know what she looked at, but neither did he care. He just wanted this standoff to end.
As slowly as a he could, he maneuvered into position. He didn’t want to hurt her, for he was certain that she’d been hurt enough for one day, but he knew that the only way to get her the medical attention that she needed was to take her down.
Still her gaze remained trained on Chiang. Venner risked a quick glance at Ishay, who nodded - she knew what he was about to do.
Before he could lose his nerve - she might be tired and hurt, but she was still a Cylon - Venner sprang, lifting his rifle as he came at her. He had no intention of shooting her. Instead, he swung at her head, brought the butt of the rifle against her skull with a quick prayer that the blow wouldn’t kill her.
She never knew what hit her. Valerii dropped to the floor and Ishay rushed to her side, pulled the chair which had broken her fall roughly away and sent it skittering toward the bed.
“Please, tell me I didn’t kill her…” Venner breathed as he knelt down next to Ishay.
Ishay pulled back an eyelid and flashed a small light into the Cylon’s eye. The pupil contracted to a pinpoint and a wave of relief rushed through the Marine corporal. “She’s alive,” Ishay confirmed. She looked up over her shoulder at Private Chiang. “Get that gurney in here.” A rattle of wheels on metal decking and Ishay looked at Venner. “Help me lift her.”
He didn’t know what to expect, but it wasn’t the feather-weight of her as he lifted Valerii’s head and shoulders, Ishay at her ankles. Shouldn’t a machine weigh more than this? The warmth of her through her sweat-jacket surprised him as well. Demon or toaster, she sure felt human.
They got her onto the gurney and Ishay strapped her down. Venner looked up as a dark shadow seemed to narrow the door to the cell. “Colonel Tigh.” He straightened and saluted.
Tigh returned the salute as he entered the cell and approached the gurney. He looked down, frowned. “What the frak happened here?” He met Venner’s eyes, still frowning. “Corporal, sitrep.”
“Sir. A Lieutenant Thorne and two Marines from Pegasus had orders signed by Admiral Cain authorizing interrogation of the Cylon prisoner.” His eyes drifted from the gurney to the blood stains on the metal plating below the observation window. “I let them in, sir, and I… left them to it.” Oh, Gods, I let them…
Tigh’s frown deepened; the corners of his mouth turned down even further. “Wasn’t it you who reported trouble in the brig, Corporal?”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel turned and surveyed the cell, took in the drying red stains on wall and floor, the overturned chair, the rumpled bed and the puddle of gray fabric nearby. The cell was so sparsely furnished that it wasn’t obvious that something terrible had happened here, that anything at all had happened, save for the blood…
“Colonel?” Tigh looked up at Venner, a question in his eyes. “The Pegasus Marines… They took Lieutenant Agathon and Chief Tyrol with them when they left. Along with Lieutenant Thorne’s body.”
“Gods, what a mess.” Shaking his head, Colonel Tigh stared at the unconscious prisoner, his expression unreadable. Venner again had to remind himself that the creature on that gurney was not a young woman who had just been violated, but after having seen her, the way she fought them, the very real fear in her eyes, the way she cried for Lieutenant Agathon… It was becoming harder for him to believe it.
“Corporal, I want your report of what happened on my desk within the hour.” Tigh’s gaze focused on a bloodstained bolt.
Venner saluted and gestured for Chiang to precede Ishay and the gurney through the door. He quickly followed, leaving Colonel Tigh behind. Venner saw him kneel for a closer look at the only visible signs of what had happened.
The small party hadn’t yet left the main part of the brig when the Cylon began to wake and pull at her restraints, tentatively at first, but with growing agitation as they headed toward the main corridor. “No. Where are you taking me?” Her words were slightly mushy, as though she didn’t have complete control yet over her mouth.
Intending to reassure her, Venner began, “We’re going to-”
She cut him off with a shout. “No! Where’s Helo?! Chief?!” He reached out, touched her shoulder. “NO!” She became more and more violent; her struggles nearly toppled the gurney.
“That’s enough!” At Tigh’s bark - Venner hadn’t realized the Colonel had left the maximum-security cell - she abruptly stopped fighting, eyes wide. The Marine didn’t know if it was the Colonel’s voice or simple coincidence, but her panic subsided. “The Lieutenant and the Chief are not aboard Galactica.”
Venner didn’t think she was aware of the tears that tracked from the corners of her dark eyes into her hair. “They were only trying to help me.”
Tigh’s expression didn’t change. He nodded at Ishay. “Major Cottle’s waiting.”
***
He is stretched out on the lower bunk, arms beneath his head. There are one hundred three stripes on the mattress of the unoccupied bunk above. The count remains the same each time he restarts it.
He wants to hit something, but what would be the point?
In a matter of minutes, a bullet will end his life and that of the man who has been his rival and, most recently, his friend. Hopefully, the first bullet will be to the brain, so it’ll be over quickly, but he doesn’t expect such a boon from the Gods, for they seem to have abandoned them both.
He wonders if his daughter will be allowed to live, let alone know anything at all of the man who fathered her.
***
Dressed in a pale yellow robe, shivering with more than physical chill, Sharon waited. She would have prayed, but all of her prayers since she had come to the Fleet with Helo had at best gone unanswered. At worst… Perhaps there was no God at all. Perhaps all that the Cylons had done had been for nothing but their own vanity. Perhaps this child she had created with a human was nothing more than a cosmic accident. Deep inside, she didn’t believe that - couldn’t believe it anymore than she could believe that it had been part of God’s plan to kill Helo if he didn’t cooperate with what her handlers on Caprica had wanted. And so she had run. They had run, she and Helo.
And here she was, frightened, hurting, waiting.
Colonel Tigh had told her guards that Doc Cottle waited for her in the infirmary, but he had yet to show. She tried to make her mind a blank, but that became increasingly difficult as Venner and the other Marine with him discussed what had happened - and what was likely happening to Helo and Chief. They didn’t realize that she could hear them or she didn’t think they would have risked setting her off again by mentioning that the only two humans who had ever treated her as something other than a machine were to be executed.
She stared at a lifeless medical monitor beyond the foot of the bed on which she sat. She wouldn’t attack them again. If she did, they would only strap her to the bed, and the struggle to immobilize her might hurt the baby. And if Helo died, this baby was the only thing that mattered. Sharon curled her arms protectively around her unborn daughter, wincing as the motion pulled at her left side.
“You two, out.” Doctor Cottle had finally arrived.
“I’m sorry, si-” Corporal Venner began, but Cottle cut him off.
“I don’t give a damn what your orders are. Out.” And then he was beside her, touching her arm. His hand was gentle, at odds with the order he had issued to her watchdogs. He smelled of old cigarette smoke. “Let’s see what they’ve done to you…”
Sharon looked up; Cottle’s eyes were troubled. Make that three humans who don’t treat me like a machine.
The examination was performed quickly and efficiently. He didn’t ask her any questions and she volunteered nothing. She didn’t know how long it took - five minutes? ten? - but it was soon over. He stripped off his gloves and threw them into a waste receptacle, then asked her to wait there for a few more minutes. As if she had a choice.
Her brain felt as though it were wrapped in cotton. The Marines’ whispered conversation was no longer within her hearing. There were no other patients. She was alone.
After a time, another presence penetrated the fog. Commander Adama stood in the doorway of the infirmary, her guards just visible beyond him. Their eyes met, but he didn’t enter the room and she didn’t stand; they simply watched each other, curious, wary. Sharon couldn’t read his expression.
Cottle returned, then, clipboard in hand. He, too, looked at Adama before coming back to Sharon’s side. Adama and the two Marines entered, the Marines stopping just inside the door and Adama at the foot of her bed. She supposed Tigh must have made his report.
“Your fluid and electrolyte levels are stable,” Cottle began, “and I think the baby’s going to be fine. You do have a cracked rib though.” She shifted, uncomfortable in the thin shift as well as with Adama’s presence. Cottle glanced at the Old Man. “It’s a hairline fracture, nothing serious, but it’s going to hurt like hell for a while. No permanent damage from the attack.”
Blinking rapidly, Sharon straightened, ignoring the twinge of pain from the cracked rib. “The attack? Is that what we’re going to call it?” She still felt that bastard between her legs.
Before Cottle could respond, Adama interjected, “They were not from the Galactica.”
“They were from Pegasus. So what?” The anger felt good, better than the fog, better than the fear. “What about Helo and the Chief? I heard a rumor they’re going to be executed.” Her eyes darted to the unfamiliar Marine, who had been the one to let the information slip.
“I’m not going to let that happen.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“How are you going to do that? Isn’t Admiral Cain in command?” A more frightening human she had never met. Even President Roslin had something within her to which Sharon could appeal; Cain was empty.
Adama took a step closer to her bed, a step closer to her, but still he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “What happened to you…”
“Was unforgivable.” Cottle, as always, expressed his opinion in no uncertain terms.
Adama’s eyes flickered to the doctor and then back to Sharon, this time unflinching. “…happened aboard my ship, on my watch, and it’s my responsibility. So I just want you to know that I personally apologize.” He turned to leave. “See that she’s okay, then back to her cell.”
Sharon and Cottle both watched him go.
***
He stares out past the glass wall that separates him from freedom, from life.
At least for now, he and Tyrol still have their lives.
According to the CAG - former CAG, he supposes, since Cain has demoted the Old Man’s son and raised Kara up in his place - Commander Adama is determined to bring them back to Galactica, if only to stand trial there for crimes committed there.
He shakes his head. Apollo in disgrace, Starbuck in charge of the squadrons, and a madwoman at the helm of the entire fleet… Maybe the Gods have abandoned us all.
Pushing away from the glass, he begins to pace. Tyrol’s voice stops him.
“You know, when we get outta here, I’m gonna make some changes.”
Crossing his arms across his chest, he leans his shoulders back against his bunk, looks down at the man across from him. “Yeah? Like what?” If only to break out of his own growing depression, he wants to hear about the changes the Chief wants to make, and about the confidence in him that they’ll make it out of this cell alive and with some kind of future…
***
There was nothing to do and no one to talk to. Again. Sharon couldn’t do sit-ups because of her rib, and so she paced, bare feet slapping against cool metal. It was either this or sit and stare into space, but she had done that for hours on end and couldn’t stand to do it any longer - too much restless energy - and so she paced.
Out of the corner of her eye, each time she made a circuit around the cell and past the observation window, she saw Private Bonnington flip a page of the magazine she read. Occasionally, the woman would unfold a larger page to look at an advertisement for a product that was no longer available on a world that was dead. More frequently, though, she would look up to see what Sharon was doing, no doubt having caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye as Sharon paced.
It had been almost two days with no word about Helo and Tyrol. The only thing she knew for certain was that they had been convicted of treason and murder and sentenced to death.
Sharon began another circuit around the perimeter of her cell. She could practically do it with her eyes closed, she had been around it so many times. When she reached the wall farthest from the window, she heard the click of the lock and stopped cold, whipped her head around to stare at the door and Private Bonnington.
The Marine swung the door open and ordered, “Stay where you are.”
“What’re you doing?” Bonnington had her rifle at the ready, but Sharon wasn’t planning on getting herself shot. And if she did try to escape, where would she go?
“You’re driving me crazy, pacing like that.” She took two steps into the cell and flung a couple of magazines onto Sharon’s bed.
A wry smile stretched muscles in Sharon’s face that had gone unused for far too long. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll find a way to kill you with the pages?”
Bonnington rolled her eyes. “No.” She backed out. “Read them or not, I don’t care, just please. Stop pacing.”
The door clicked shut and Sharon was left to stare bemusedly at the magazines Bonnington had left behind.
***
“You can’t rape a machine, Lieutenant.”
The pain is excruciating, but his anger, his impotent fury at the Colonel’s contemptuous words, make it pale in comparison. He looks over at Tyrol and sees the same mixture of emotions and physical pain reflected there.
The Sunshine Boys weren’t stopped from doing any further harm to himself and the Chief because of any sense of compassion, but only because they wore Colonial uniforms, because their rank was higher than that of the pair of thugs. Because he and Tyrol are not Cylons and, apparently, aboard this ship Cylons are fair game for anything a human might want to do to them.
He watches Fisk leave, knowing that he and Tyrol are lucky the man showed up when he did, even if he didn’t know why he showed up at all.
…you can’t rape a machine…
***
Once more, Sharon was led through the ship, shackled, leashed like a rabid dog. She didn’t know where they were taking her, nor did she care. Everyone was preparing for a big operation and no one was interested in answering any questions she might have. No one cared what she thought or felt. For that matter, none of them really believed that she could feel anything.
She had thought they were taking her to CIC, but instead they turned down an unfamiliar corridor. There were no people here, no one to stare at the Commander’s pet Cylon. The collar chafed at her neck and then pulled, choking her as they stopped abruptly. Adama’s quarters. One of her guards opened the door and they entered; clearly, they were expected.
As soon as they were inside, the metal pole that served as her leash was unfastened. Adama stood beside a low table and an overstuffed leather couch. “Wait outside,” he ordered the Marines and then gestured toward Sharon. “Sit down.” Warily, she complied, sitting before a glass of water that must have been placed there for her, since the Old Man already had a glass in hand. “I’ve asked you here to find out why the Cylons hate us so much.”
She almost laughed. You’ve got to be kidding me. “I really don’t know how to answer that. I mean, ‘hate’ isn’t exactly the right word.”
“I don’t want to fence with you. I just want to know why.” He sat down on the couch, facing her, not close enough that they might accidentally touch. His craggy face was inscrutable, as it always was, but there was something in his eyes…
Sharon found that she wanted to answer him, but she truly didn’t know what to say. She closed her eyes and searched her memories, those memories borrowed from the Sharon Valerii who had served with this man for more than two years. Finally, she met his gaze again only to realize that Adama’s eyes had never left her face.
“It’s what you said at the ceremony, before the attack, when Galactica was being decommissioned. You gave a speech that sounded like it wasn’t the one you prepared. You said that humanity was a flawed creation and that people still kill one another over petty jealousy and greed. You said that humanity never asked itself why it deserved to survive.” She paused, licked suddenly dry lips. “Maybe you don’t.” She met his eyes again, troubled. “I don’t know that what we did was right, but I do know that humanity is flawed.”
He said nothing, but she knew that he no longer saw her or the room in which they sat. Sharon also didn’t know if her words would have any impact on him or on his decisions, but at least, it seemed, she had made him think.
***
She sat on the floor, her pillow cradled to her chest as though it were her child, and a blanket around her shoulders. It had been two days since “the attack.” Two agonizing days of not knowing what would be the fate - or what had been the fate - of Helo and Tyrol. She rested her head on the pillow and stared off into space. She thought she might never be warm again.
The unmistakable sound of the outer door being unlocked drifted to her, barely audible through the layers of glass and metal that were her world. Cautiously, she got to her feet and looked toward that outer door.
“Helo…”
He was there. He was alive and in three strides he was there, lifting the handset with one hand, gripping the metal mesh with the other.
Laughter bubbled up from within her, lighter than air, and she rushed to meet him, not caring for the moment that she couldn’t actually touch him, feel his skin against hers. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again…” Tears began and wouldn’t stop, mingling with the laughter as his face melted into a smile, the first she’d seen from him since Kobol.
“Same here.”
She was vaguely aware that Chief Tyrol stood just inside the doorway of the observation area, a Marine behind him, and she was glad that he, too, lived. Perhaps God hadn’t forsaken her, after all…
The sight of the armed Marine and Tyrol’s scruffy visage, the dark circles under Helo’s eyes, sobered her abruptly. “So where do we go from here?” she whispered into the handset.
Before Helo could answer, there was movement beyond him. He turned to look as the Marine closed the door, cutting off the sight of Tyrol’s retreating back. Helo’s smile faded. “I don’t know.” He turned back to her. “Try to stay alive, I guess.” He gave her a wry grin, but the laughter was gone.
There was the click of a key in the lock of her cell door and they both turned toward the sound. She hadn’t noticed when the Marine - a man whose name she couldn’t recall - approached.
“Lieutenant.” He gestured toward the now open door. “Commander Adama’s orders, sir. You’re only allowed a couple of minutes, but…” Again he motioned toward the open door.
Oh, God…
And then she was in his arms. It wasn’t a dream, this time. He was truly there; the feel, the scent, the heat of him were all real. “Oh, God,” she repeated, aloud this time, as she wrapped her arms around him.
He buried his face in her hair, breathed in deeply. “Gods, Sharon…”
She squeezed and he winced, surprising her. “Helo?” She pulled back as far as he would let her, which was only far enough that she could search his face. “What have they done to you?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is that we’re alive, that our baby is alive. Everything else is just details that don’t matter.”
She opened her mouth to protest and he silenced her with a kiss. God, it had been so long since she had tasted him. She wasn’t going to let the matter drop, but she tacitly agreed to put off the discussion by sucking his lower lip into her mouth, lifting her arms to circle around his neck and shoulders rather than around his torso. She didn’t want to cause him any more pain, even as her own cracked rib protested the motion.
The kiss went on forever before reality intruded in the form of a black-clad Marine. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s time to go.”
Reluctantly, Helo tried to break away, but she wouldn’t let him. “Sharon, please. I have to go.”
“Where do you have to go?” she asked, suspicions building inside her.
The guard started to say something, either a response to her question or urging Helo to leave, but Helo stopped the man with a raised hand, silently asking for another minute. “Tyrol and I have our own luxury suite right down the hall from yours.” Again with the wry grin as he tried to make light of it.
“What? Why?” She couldn’t breathe.
“We still have to stand trial, Sharon. A man died.”
Sharon pushed away from Helo, looked from him to the waiting Marine. “He died because of what he was doing to me,” she whispered. “I won’t let them kill you.” Even as she said the words, she heard the echo of her conversation with Adama, when he’d told her that he wouldn’t let Cain execute Helo and the Chief.
“We’re not going to be killed, Sharon. Neither of us is being charged with a capital crime. At most, we’ll spend some time in the brig for assault and manslaughter. The charges of murder and treason have been dropped.”
“But why are you being charged with anything at all?”
He looked at her almost as though she were insane. “A man died,” he repeated, but then his expression cleared and he took a step toward her, pulled her in close. He rested his cheek on her head and whispered, “I promise you, we’ll get past this.” He pulled away from her again, just enough to look at her as he smoothed her hair back, then leaned in to kiss her forehead. “We’re gonna be okay.”
“How can you be so sure?”
In response, he echoed her own words to him, a lifetime ago on a world that had been dead for countless generations. “Do you love me?”
“Yes.” She reached up to stroke a finger across his lower lip.
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Then trust me. Trust us.”
He kissed her again and then he was gone and she knew that it would have to be enough.
Feedback is, as always, appreciated. Cross-posted lots of places. Sorry.