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Conversations with Dead People
There are two dreams Gaeta's had that he's pretty sure everybody else has had at some point, too. (Everybody in this world, anyway, he has to clarify nowadays, chancing mild glances to the front door of Colonial One as he works on his latest report.)
In the first dream, he's talking to a man who's a perfect a mirror of himself down to the shape of each curl of hair and the pitch of his voice. That one inevitably shocks Gaeta awake within five minutes, choking up his windpipe with residual adrenaline.
The other one is about the Colonies.
Picon's covered in black and graying ash; Gaeta's footsteps crackle on burnt stones and metal. He's back in his duty blues, lieutenant insignia clipped to his collar and junior wings pinned to his chest. No sunlight makes it through the haze, but heat rises and ripples anyway to distort the first few inches above the ground.
It was always warm here -- downright tropical sometimes, in the summer.
All around him, people mill through what's left of Fleet Headquarters, laughing and joking to one another without paying any attention to the charred landscape. CONGRATULATIONS, NEW GRADUATES, says a huge banner strung up across the roof; it's remarkably clean, each letter intact, legible. "They're assigning me to the Valkyrie," a young woman tells Gaeta as she walks by, a bounce in her step and a grin spreading ear to ear. "Look."
She holds out a piece of paper to show him. It crumbles to dust in her hands, but Gaeta smiles and congratulates her anyway. Another graduate nudges her in the side and points to Gaeta's collar; quickly, her excitement fades to brief embarrassment, and she sketches out an awkward salute. "Sorry, sir," she demurs.
"Don't worry about it," answers Gaeta as he returns the salute, his own crisp and practiced. "I know they can be hard to see."
Wind stirs up the ash. By the time it clears, the two graduates have disappeared into the crowd, and Gaeta turns to keep walking.
He reaches Typhon City Park -- twelve miles from HQ -- a few minutes later. Leaning his arms on a rail overlooking the lake, Gaeta watches two circling ducks scoop bits of bread out of the murky water. They're being thrown by the white-haired men kneeling at the shoreline.
"May I?" he asks him, and a moment later the bread is in his hands. It's brittle. It takes effort to snap off a piece to toss to the ducks; fine crumbs shower his feet when he finally manages it.
"They'll be after you all day now," says the man with a chuckle. "Don't know when to quit, the greedy frakkers -- pardon my language."
"Don't worry about it. I haven't seen ducks in a while," Gaeta admits, throwing another handful of bread their way. "It's okay if they want to stay."
"Suit yourself," says the man, and hands him the rest of the bread before walking away.
For a while, Gaeta stays by the lake in contented silence. The bread never seems to run out, and soon more ducks have joined the first two, quacking out their greetings to one another. Eventually, though, he turns to a woman standing next to him who looks a little bit like his mother, more like his aunt, but mostly like nobody at all. "Can I ask you something?" he says as he hands her the bread.
She breaks off a piece, crushes it to crumbs, and tosses them toward the water. The pieces are so small that the breeze carries them off before they touch the surface. "Of course you can," she answers.
"Was it quick?"
The woman turns to him fully. She smiles, very soft and very sad, before she touches her fingertips to Gaeta's cheek. "It was over before any of us knew what was happening, Felix," she says. "Just a bright flash. That's it."
Gently, Gaeta covers her hand with his own. "That's good to know, ma'am," he whispers; his eyes close, and once they open again, he's in his private rack on Colonial One. Gaeta doesn't move at first, his gaze stuck to the ceiling. The light fixture starts to blur after a second.
He sighs, rubs each eye with the heel of his palm, and sits up.
As he sheds his pyjamas and pulls on his suit, preparing for another day, Gaeta tries not to think of how, through the ship's small rounded windows, New Caprica looks just as ashy as Picon did.
In the first dream, he's talking to a man who's a perfect a mirror of himself down to the shape of each curl of hair and the pitch of his voice. That one inevitably shocks Gaeta awake within five minutes, choking up his windpipe with residual adrenaline.
The other one is about the Colonies.
Picon's covered in black and graying ash; Gaeta's footsteps crackle on burnt stones and metal. He's back in his duty blues, lieutenant insignia clipped to his collar and junior wings pinned to his chest. No sunlight makes it through the haze, but heat rises and ripples anyway to distort the first few inches above the ground.
It was always warm here -- downright tropical sometimes, in the summer.
All around him, people mill through what's left of Fleet Headquarters, laughing and joking to one another without paying any attention to the charred landscape. CONGRATULATIONS, NEW GRADUATES, says a huge banner strung up across the roof; it's remarkably clean, each letter intact, legible. "They're assigning me to the Valkyrie," a young woman tells Gaeta as she walks by, a bounce in her step and a grin spreading ear to ear. "Look."
She holds out a piece of paper to show him. It crumbles to dust in her hands, but Gaeta smiles and congratulates her anyway. Another graduate nudges her in the side and points to Gaeta's collar; quickly, her excitement fades to brief embarrassment, and she sketches out an awkward salute. "Sorry, sir," she demurs.
"Don't worry about it," answers Gaeta as he returns the salute, his own crisp and practiced. "I know they can be hard to see."
Wind stirs up the ash. By the time it clears, the two graduates have disappeared into the crowd, and Gaeta turns to keep walking.
He reaches Typhon City Park -- twelve miles from HQ -- a few minutes later. Leaning his arms on a rail overlooking the lake, Gaeta watches two circling ducks scoop bits of bread out of the murky water. They're being thrown by the white-haired men kneeling at the shoreline.
"May I?" he asks him, and a moment later the bread is in his hands. It's brittle. It takes effort to snap off a piece to toss to the ducks; fine crumbs shower his feet when he finally manages it.
"They'll be after you all day now," says the man with a chuckle. "Don't know when to quit, the greedy frakkers -- pardon my language."
"Don't worry about it. I haven't seen ducks in a while," Gaeta admits, throwing another handful of bread their way. "It's okay if they want to stay."
"Suit yourself," says the man, and hands him the rest of the bread before walking away.
For a while, Gaeta stays by the lake in contented silence. The bread never seems to run out, and soon more ducks have joined the first two, quacking out their greetings to one another. Eventually, though, he turns to a woman standing next to him who looks a little bit like his mother, more like his aunt, but mostly like nobody at all. "Can I ask you something?" he says as he hands her the bread.
She breaks off a piece, crushes it to crumbs, and tosses them toward the water. The pieces are so small that the breeze carries them off before they touch the surface. "Of course you can," she answers.
"Was it quick?"
The woman turns to him fully. She smiles, very soft and very sad, before she touches her fingertips to Gaeta's cheek. "It was over before any of us knew what was happening, Felix," she says. "Just a bright flash. That's it."
Gently, Gaeta covers her hand with his own. "That's good to know, ma'am," he whispers; his eyes close, and once they open again, he's in his private rack on Colonial One. Gaeta doesn't move at first, his gaze stuck to the ceiling. The light fixture starts to blur after a second.
He sighs, rubs each eye with the heel of his palm, and sits up.
As he sheds his pyjamas and pulls on his suit, preparing for another day, Gaeta tries not to think of how, through the ship's small rounded windows, New Caprica looks just as ashy as Picon did.