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i.
Sun. Clouds. Blue sky. What my students and colleagues would call a beautiful day. I would have agreed.
The sun strikes me through the windows. I feel the weight of life resting against my eyelids, almost in my line of sight. The door slams. I jump. I follow the steps in my mind.
He seats himself. He needn't speak for me to know—I read his face—yet he does.
I hear 'malignant.'
It is not a beautiful day. The blue sky and sun through the window are deceiving. It is not a beautiful day.
It is a cancerous day.
ii.
He is speaking. Garbling. Words I should care about; words it is my duty to care about. I cannot. Their meaning has been robbed from me. I excuse myself and escape.
My breath comes in gasps as I clench down sobs. I clutch my chest, where I am constrained. My blouse traps me in with my disease. It holds me too tightly, buttons me to my demise. I yank it off, hear the snap of buttons released and feel no relief. Underneath my various cloths, I am still present.
They are attached; they are a part me. I am cancer.
iii.
Secretary of Education. President's Cabin. Honoured by my presence. Decommissioning ceremony. They love announcing my importance so they in turn feel significant. This would not previously have bothered me. Pre-Cancer, I would have smiled at the acknowledgement. I would have relayed it to my colleague-friends. No longer.
I will continue with the facade. There is nothing else for me to do.
Yes, I will continue. I will meet Adama. We will not get along.
He is one of 'those people' and I am not. He fears computers.
As of now, I fear life and living...because I fear my nearing death.
iv.
He is a pig-headed buffoon. Obviously, he must have his useful and charismatic characteristics or he would not have his place in leadership—assuming military hierarchies at all follow sense—but I find him lacking.
Lacking sense, incidentally enough. Perhaps he prefers the daft, uneducated masses that will inevitably form from students taught without the aid of networked computers. We've only been using them since the 21st century as a teaching device.
The confrontation did have a saving grace: it took her mind off her own mortality.
Her temper, passion for education and contempt for the military always did that.
v.
Impressive. I must admit that the decommissioning ceremony led by Lee Adama was beautiful with its backdrop of stars and infinite space. I don't think I'll ever get used to it.
The beauty is somewhat diminished when Adama Senior steps to the podium. Stubborn technology-phobic man. He states the obvious, but I detect a distinct note of...pain. Deep pain. The sort of pain I currently empathise with.
His words force me to look away. Guilt, partially. Do we deserve to live? My current state clouds my thoughts.
Can't hide from playing God? I digest his words and begin the applause.
vi.
I have been in the restroom too long. I hurry to wet a towel and halt my frenzied breathing, brush it over my tears and calm me, marginally. I replace the towel, dry off and step out, wrapping my blouse tighter around me.
I catch the tail-end of an announcement and a panicked look on my assistant's face.
"What's going on?" I inquire. He isn't sure. This does not comfort me.
We discuss the possibilities, quietly, but come to no firm conclusions. I close my eyes and listen to the whispers of my fellow passengers.
I hear 'war' and freeze.
vii.
I make my way to the captain's area after I have heard from the other passengers. I report my findings: a passenger with a short-wave radio has heard Caprica has been nuked. I watch the man's face soften with pain and fear.
"It has, hasn't it?"
"Caprica and three other colonies." His hand shakes as he passes me the paper. I grasp it and hold strong, comforting both of us. He pulls together, pulls away and mentions an announcement.
I volunteer. It is my responsibility. My mind whirs; I request he contact civil administrations. I doubt we can do anything.
viii.
"Including the colonies of Caprica, Picon, Aerilon and Tauron." I hear each gasp; they brush my heart. I am not surprised when their panic ensues, spewing questions my way: questions I wish I could answer. My heart aches. My mind rolls.
I demand peace, inform them of our lengthened stay as I wait for further governmental word and command two workers to perform an inventory check for rations.
"...who put you in charge?" I hear.
"Well that's a good question," I begin. "The answer is no one, but this is a government ship and I am a senior government official...
ix.
"... so that puts me in charge."
I request he investigate sleeping quarters. I have learned from my old students that someone who questions me joins the group best if he or she is given an important role direct from my lips. I attempt this. I encourage the others to stay calm. I inwardly salute those who can; I am a mess beneath my skin.
I ask my assistant if he is alright when I see him wordlessly take the passenger manifest. I do not believe his firm declaration and listen carefully.
"...my parents moved to Picon two months ago..."
x.
I am prepared to offer him a quick hug for the loss of his entire family, but I am called away. I send him an open look and squeeze his shoulder. I do not blame him for not appearing comforted. I am also incapable of comfort presently. I hurry out.
"Where is the president, Jack?" I question firmly, over his understandably panicked ramblings. "Is he alive?"
He thinks so based on rumours. I inquire after Cylon demands. Humans have heard nothing.
"Has anyone..." my voice falters. "Has anyone discussed the possibility of surrender?"
They Cylons did not respond to surrender.
xi.
I have learned that machines beeping seldom leads to good. This is no exception. The Cylons have found us; a missile is headed our way.
I watched, breath held, as a fighter pilot intercepts and leads the missile away. I exhale but forget to inhale. The fighter shoots down the missile and rolls. I inhale. The vessel does not reboot and requests service. It is out of my hands.
I move to a room with the pilot and my aide Billy. I make suggestions for bettering the quarters.
"A little hard work is just what the people need right now."
xii.
The man with the red jacket enters. I knew he would be trouble. He is followed by Lee Adama, the fighter pilot.
"Captain, good to see you again," I greet.
"Likewise." He shakes hands with the pilot.
I give my orders to Billy and look up at Lee Adama's apologetic interruption. He questions my use of the word 'survivors.' I explain the presence of stranded ships scattering the solar system and our intentions to rescue what we can. Red Jacket questions me.
"The tactical situation is that we are losing, is that right Captain?"
He pauses. Nods. Softly, "Right."
Right.
xiii.
Lee Adama takes my commands well. I see a twitch to his jaw, but nothing further. As I leave I faintly hear, "The lady's in charge."
I nod as I continue walking. It wasn't my intention, it isn't my desire, it is the last thing I expected...but it is the truth. This is humanity's situation, this is my situation and this is what I can do.
Official colonial government broadcast. Case Orange.
I swallow hard and blink. I explain that it's an automated message sent out if the president, the vice-president and most of the cabinet are dead or incapacitated.
xiv.
This is the message no government official wishes to hear, at least not one of any moral standing whatsoever. I feel pierced through the heart. Adar, gone...with so many others.
"I need you to send my ID code back on the exact same frequency," I declare slowly. I wish I had no need to do this. I fear the response.
D-456-345-A.
"Thank you," I conclude. I cannot stay in this room. I exit, Lee watching my back. He understands such politics, no doubt. He understands what has occurred.
He follows me to my seat, sits and sighs across from me.
xv.
I manoeuvre myself. He doesn't speak for a moment.
"How far down?" he asks.
"43rd in line of succession," I answer. I feel numb inside as I hold myself arms crossed. This was a trip I wanted. I asked to come. I was excited. "I know all 42 ahead of me from the president down."
I would have been a deceased 43rd. "Most of us served with him in the first administration."
I speak my past: following from the mayor's office, his first campaign, my dislike of politics, my desire to get out and his way of keeping me in.
xvi.
"...just couldn't say no to him," I conclude, smiling somewhat nostalgically, mostly melancholy. I turn my eyes to see the pilot standing over me, looking shell-shocked once more. He hands me another paper. At least his hand does not shake this time.
I read it. I nod and turn slightly, don't look up. "Thank you."
I sniff and shift out of my blanket, don my blouse. Now is not the time for a walk down memory lane. It is time for action.
"We'll need a priest."
I am not ready for this action. I am a teacher.
But I will.
xvii.
I am relieved the priest is a woman. She uncurls her scroll.
"Please raise your hand and repeat after me," she instructs. I follow her coaching. My voice quivers as I speak.
"I, Laura Roslin, do now avow and affirm that I accept..." there are voice recorders everywhere. I am unnerved. "...that I accept the office of the president of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol and that I will protect and defend the sovereignty of the Colonies with every fibre of my being."
My last six words are a whisper.
I touch my hair and stare. Silence. It is complete.
xviii.
We have found some survivors. I hover over the pilot's shoulder as we approach. He smiles to me as he announces our name, Colonial 1. I smile back, turn and stand. I clutch chair to steady myself.
Lee Adama snatches a printer paper from the computer.
"What is it?" I ask him, staring intently. His face has dropped.
Adama has taken control of the fleet. We are meeting for roundabout and counterattack.
My stomach drops. The technophobic man has acquired ultimate military power. The lifephobic teacher has acquired ultimate political power.
What is it, exactly, we are in for now?
xix.
I grab the paper. I reread the words.
"Captain Apollo," I commence, "Please inform Commander Adama that we are currently involved in rescue operations and we require his assistance."
I further this by questioning him on hospital bed availability and how long his trip to us will take.
"I uh..." Apollo begins.
"Yes?" I question, adding a hint of steel to my tone as if he were merely an 8th grade adolescent boy. He isn't sure Adama will respond well to that request.
"Then tell him...this comes directly from the President of the Twelve Colonies, and it's not a request."
xx.
I said it aloud. I said that I was the President of the Twelve Colonies.
"Yes sir," Apollo responds. I turn at 'sir,' secretly raising an eyebrow. He corrects me on my use of Apollo. He tells me he is Lee Adama.
"I know who you are," I acknowledge, watching him. I grin. "But Captain Apollo has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
I exit.
So, I think, I can be President of the Twelve Colonies of Kobol and remain myself. Portions of myself. I can still tease the boys I once might have taught.
This bodes well.
xxi.
I enter the room to find Captain Apollo communicating with Commander Adama.
"The President has given me a direct order," I hear him explain. His voice is hard.
"You're talking about the Secretary of Education. We're in the middle of a war and you're taking orders from a school teacher?"
I tilt my head and watch for Lee's response. I don't get to hear it. In the pilot's words, we've got trouble. Inbound Cylon fighters.
"How long until they get her?" I announce my presence and replace my glasses.
I'm told we have to go but I shake my head.
xxii.
"No."
"Madam President, we can't defend—"
"We're not going to abandon all these people." I speak over him once more. "I've made my decision, Captain." I continue watching and adjust my glasses.
"You're the President," he says as he removes himself from my vicinity.
"Alright then," I respond, pretending it doesn't affect me in the slightest. My eyes acknowledge it does. I hear Adama's voice at last ring with alarm and panic for his son.
This war will not be black and white, I recognise. It will all be grey.
A son for civilians and a captain for schoolteachers.
xxiii.
I wake up with a headache and press my lips together as I roll over and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand. I feel very uncomfortable. I am lying on the hard floor of the ship. The pilot and other flight man are coming to as well. I hear groaning and the ship starting up again as I sit and remove my glasses. I don't wish to know the state of my hair or appearance.
I run my fingers through my hair, stand and greet the pilot. We hurry down the stairs to check on our survivors.
xxiv.
I halt for a moment when I catch site of Lee Adama prostrate before one of the large round machines I cannot begin to understand. The pilot and I run to him. I am relieved that he moves as I touch him.
"Captain Apollo," I say as I lift his head. I am so filled with relief and gratitude. He remarks something and I am surprised by my own laughter.
"What exactly did you do?" I ask him, entirely unsure what the machine does. He responds with technobabble and something about disabling warheads. I support him when he nearly falls.
xxv.
I watch him closely as he finishes.
"I'm hoping that it will look like a nuclear explosion."
"So that's what that was," I conclude, finally gleaning some sense in all this. We mimicked a nuclear explosion. "Did it fool the Cylons?"
"I don't know. But if they weren't fooled then they'd be on top of us right now."
The pilot and Apollo converse about its use when tested. I hear negatives and halt the conversation.
"The lesson here is to no ask follow-up questions, but simply to say 'thank you, Captain Apollo, for saving our collective asses.'"
"You're welcome."
Thank goodness.
xxvi.
Lee prepares to offer his suggestions. I cut him off and demand we evacuate the passengers from the liner and get us out before the Cylons realise they have been had. For once, I am seeing eye-to-eye with the military. I don't want to be caught with my pants down again.
This eye-opener was unpleasant. I was trying to save lives, rescue survivors...and we were almost blown up. My headache and the bruise to my temple are reminders of what I could call a mistake. I am not sure it was. Human lives are worth rescue attempts.
Even my own.
xxvii.
I finish thanking my last order of business and turn to find Lee and Gaius Baltar. He looks as arrogant as he did on television.
"Oh," I murmur as I turn to find him. I offer my hand. "Doctor Baltar. It is a pleasure to meet you." I smile; inside, that is not my emotion. "We met at last year's Caprica City composium."
He shakes my hand and I retract it immediately. He voices his agreement; he doesn't remember my face, so he says. I wonder: had I been topless, and removed my top now, would he remember me better?
xxviii.
I tell him not to worry about it. I don't lie. "I'm sure I wouldn't remember me either."
I request he serve as my chief scientific consultant and analyst regarding the Cylons and their technology. I thought I might as well cut straight to the chase—he is an intelligent narcissist, after all.
"I'd be honoured, Madam President," he answers. I'm sure it strokes his ego enough for merit.
I turn to Lieutenant Valeri and question her ship as well as I can. She explains the ship's purpose to me—jumping ahead and back. That sounds useful for my desires.
xxix.
I inform Valeri of my intents for a convoy and her role in the plan: she must go collect the survivors she can find. We are all looking for safety. At this point, I am not sure what isn't a 'combat zone,' but I gamble my hopes that we can find one.
"Yes sir," she responds immediately. Somehow, I prefer her succinct agreement to Baltar's sleeze. I must respect him, however. He understands more than I do. He must be an ally and I must hold my tongue.
That doesn't stop me from appreciating Valeri's quiet presence over Baltar's haughtiness.
xxx.
It feels nice to see plants again. I appreciate the chirping of birds. I speak with a handsome dark-skinned man and request he write up a list of the emergency supplies.
It feels like there is earth below my feet. I won't let it distract me from my duties, but I notice it all the same. It feels like a portion of home. We discuss the battery and Lee Apollo's upcoming survey of the present ships. Billy tells me it will be evening rather than afternoon; it seems a little enough difference to me.
"You have my word on it."
xxxi.
If I thought I had to shake hands often enough to merit sanitiser when I was Secretary of Education, it was nothing on this. If I were the phobic type I would have to bathe my hand in soap for an hour before sleep. Thankfully I am not.
I witness a little girl with a doll. My face brightens. Someone I know I will do well with. I sit down next to her.
"Hi," I greet. I remove my glasses to appear more human. "What's your name?"
"Cami."
"Hello, Cami. I'm Laura."
It feels good to use my first name.
xxxii.
"Are you alone?"
She nods at me. I look up at the black man as he explains that she was travelling with her grandparents and her grandmother's health problems. Billy smiles at my interactions with a child. This is my area of expertise.
Cami tells me that her parents are going to meet her in Caprica City, where she expects to have chicken pot pie for dinner, after which her father will read to her and she will subsequently sleep. My heart cries for this girl and her lacking awareness. I fake a smile and rub her back.
No Caprica.
xxxiii.
I am reluctant to leave the botanical vessel. I sit once more in one of the seats of the colonial ship, my head resting in my hand. I feel empty. I remember the feel of a child's trusting back beneath my rubbing hand; I remember the comfort of hopes and dreams of chicken pie and time with my family.
They are gone now. Lee sits before me. Message from Valeri. She found a fuel refinery ship filled with tylium. I watch Lee.
"Ah, good. About time we got a break." We discuss our convoy and light-speed capabilities. Back to work.
xxxiv.
A Cylon has come and gone. It scanned us before it left, I'm told. We must leave. They will be here any minute.
"Will they be able to track us through a jump?" I question, unsure but hopeful. I am told it's impossible. "Theoretically impossible."
Lee agrees.
Red-Jacket and the pilot agree that we should stay and get the passengers off the sublighters. Lee and the men argue. At last Lee bring sit to a numbers game: we are speaking on the survival of our race.
"And Madam President, this is a decision that needs to be made right now."
xxxv.
I watch him and breathe. I blink.
"Order the fleet to jump to Ragnar immediately." I nod gently. Lee gazes at me with admiration. I stare at the ceiling as Billy speaks.
"Madam President, there is something else you should be aware of..."
"I have cancer," I say aloud, almost to him but mostly to me. He pauses.
"I know."
I turn to him, surprised. He explains that it was little things, some comments. I discuss my prognosis: doubtful. How the world is ending and all I can think about is my cancer and my death.
"How selfish is that?"
xxxvi.
"It's not selfish," he assures me. "It's human."
That's what we're fighting to save? Human selfishness? I watch him leave and a thought occurs.
"Is there something you wanted to say to me?"
He stops and turns to me. He informs me that Cami's ship can't make the jump. He says it slowly, regretfully, and I inwardly thank him for that. The news breaks another piece of my heart. It shows on my face; I can feel it.
"Thank you." I nod; he leaves.
I stare at the door. Is it worth meeting little girls, if we're going to die?
xxxvii.
I sit in the uncomfortable seat and think of a lonely girl and doll sitting amongst trees. I picture her watching her surroundings and excitedly expecting exploration, dinner and family comfort. I think of how I have a hand in destroying that dream, even if machines left me no choice.
My stomach churns with guilt and fear: fear for Cami, fear for humans, fear for my own insignificant life getting ripped away by mutant cells as my people are destroyed by machines they made.
I cover my forehead with my knit fingers. I position for the jump.
Tears. Goodbye, Cami.
xxxviii.
I can tell I will have a problem with this man. He tells me they are repairing the ship and can't afford to lose a single set of hands, not to care for refugees.
I look away and back to respond indignantly. "We have fifty thousand people out there, some of them are hurt! Our priority has to be caring for fugitives."
He interrupts and tells me the priority is preparing the ship for combat.
"In case you haven't heard, there's a war on."
Pig. I have a brain.
"Colonel." I step closer. "The war is over, and we lost."
xxxix.
I stare at him with as much compassion as I can muster.
"We'll see about that," he response.
"Oh yes we will," I answer in the same tone. "In the mean time, however, as President of the Colonies, I'm giving you a direct order—"
Our conversation breaks down into a tiff.
"Hold on, Colonel," Captain Apollo interjects. "At least give us a couple of disaster pods."
Lee barters for two disaster pods and receives them from the Colonel only because Commander Adama will be so thrilled to see him alive. We receive no personnel.
I nod to Lee, impressed.
xxxx.
"Medical supplies are running low again, Madam President," Billy tells me. I watch Commander Adama enter the room, the door closing behind. I listen to Billy but observe the new arrival.
I hear 'engine' and listen to the question.
"That's a good question," I tell Billy and turn to the Commander. "Hello, Commander, have a seat. I'll be with you in a moment. Keep going Billy."
"They're still human beings," I explain of my decision to keep the criminals. Selfish and criminals: we're all human and have inherent value. I threaten to leave the Astral Queen if suspicious deaths occur.
xxxxi.
I tap my pen against the ball of my hand as Billy leaves. Adama knits his fingers together in his lap.
"You planning to stage a military coup?" I question straight out.
"What?" is his eloquent response.
"Do you plan to declare martial law? Take over the government?"
"Of course not."
"Then you do acknowledge my position as President as dually constituted under the articles of colonisation."
"Ms. Roslin, my primary objective at the present time is to repair the Galactica and continue to fight."
He called me 'Ms.' I'm not sure if that collects him or docks him points.
xxxxii.
I explain the fifty thousand civilian refugees and their need for protection. He replies that they are aware of this and that we will all be safe after the Galactica leaves.
"After you leave," I respond and adjust myself. "Where are you going?"
He is looking for the enemy. My eyes narrow. I smile bitterly.
"I honestly don't know why I have to keep telling you this, but the war is over."
"It hasn't begun yet."
I shake my head. "That's insane."
"You would rather that we run?"
"Yes. Absolutely." I continue that: we must leave and not look back.
xxxxiii.
"And we go where?"
"I don't know. Another star system, another planet, somewhere where the Cylons won't find us."
"You can run if you'd like. This ship will stand and it will fight."
"I'm going to be straight with you here. The human race is about to be wiped out. We have fifty thousand people left and that's it. Now, if we are even going to survive as a species then we need to get the hell out of here and we need to start having babies."
A science fiction speech I never intended to make.
"Excuse me." He leaves.
xxxxiv.
The ceremony is beautiful. The singing of the scroll is always eerily beautiful, haunting and melodic. I stand with the strictly erect military officers. Adama steps out from beside me and I can't meet his eyes as he repeats, "So say we all" until it becomes almost a chant with us.
Are they the lucky ones? He is right. That is one of my thoughts.
His speech cuts into me. I see why he is a leader. His oration reminds me of the Shakespeare play I once read, Julius Caesar.
He mentions the 13th colony; the priestess continues the talk.
xxxxv.
Earth. The 13th colony of humans on a planet called Earth circling a distant star. An unknown star—although Adama has just argued against that. The location was only known by the senior officers of the fleet, he tells us.
A long and arduous journey to Earth. A new home. The chant continues once more.
"So say we all."
My heart wishes to believe; my mind carries much doubt. I lick my lips and cross my arms as the others cheer. It sounds too good to be true. I also feel it is just that.
Is there a new home?
xxxxvi.
I knock on Adama's door and enter to find him wiping his mouth after wolfing down noodles. It is such a masculine gesture; I can't help but smile. I inspect his surroundings and sit near him.
I begin to thank him. He interrupts.
"Listen: you were right; I was wrong." Have I just heard this? From a senior military officer? "Let's just leave it at that."
I nod and blink slowly. I whisper, "Alright."
I watch him tidy. "There's no Earth. You made it all up."
He removes his glasses as I speak of conversations with Adar about Earth legends.
xxxxvii.
Adar new nothing. Why would Adama?
"You're right," he concedes. "There's no Earth. It's all a legend." He replaces his glasses.
"Then why?"
"Because...it's not enough to just live: you have to have something to live for. Let it be Earth."
I smile hopelessly and stand, crossing my arms. I walk and watch him. My eyebrows rise as I stop and stare him down. "They'll never forgive you."
He gazes up at me. "Maybe. But in the mean time, I've given all of us a fighting chance to survive, and isn't that what you said was the most important thing?"
xxxxviii.
"Survival of the human race?" he concludes.
I cut through the inspiration talk. I want truths. "Who else knows?"
"Not a soul."
I nod my head slowly. "Alright. I'll keep your secret, but I want something in return."
"I'm listening." He buttons his top once I have mentioned civilisation's requirement for a civilian government run by the President of the colonies.
"So you'll be in charge of the fleet but military decisions stay with me."
"Yes."
"Then I'll think about it, Madam President." He offers his hand. It is rough and strong. We shake.
We are the two loneliest humans.