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The Face of the Enemy/Occupation
The morning after the game, he prepares for his return home like he prepared for his first day of work.
It goes one methodical step at a time. Inside room 372, he runs handfuls of warm water over his face; he shaves; he neatens his hair as best he can, and downs a full glass of water to ease the mild hangover. He swore beforehand that he'd set strict limits on this...he supposes it was a vacation, as much of one as he could allow himself. Now the clock's run down, though. Time to move out.
(He has to wonder if he should have allowed himself this much time at all. He can feel the tug that says time's not passing, another few hours won't hurt, a good breakfast won't do any harm; Gaeta dismisses it with a practiced shove, but maybe, if he hadn't stayed this long, there wouldn't be a tug to dismiss at all.)
The painstaking preparation continues downstairs: a moment to return his key to the Bar and ask her to hang on to his Paradoxes hat for him; another to eat some eggs and toast; a third to straighten his jacket, take a breath, and walk out into the frigid New Caprica air.
It turns out that time didn't stop completely while he was gone. About fifteen minutes have passed in his world.
Just enough time for Saul Tigh to be arrested.
The notes left for Gaeta in the dead drop were never elaborate to begin with, but now they become even more terse and urgent. They ask for schedules, for the weakest jamming frequencies that will let them bypass Cylon interference, for schematics of any buildings not constructed by human hands. Leafing through them in the dim light of his tent, he stitches the pieces together into a patchwork of their plans -- or as best a guess as he can make.
Some of the schematics -- the detention center, especially (and why wouldn't they make that a target? Maybe not now, but as soon as they're able?) -- have been under lock and key ever since the facility was built. Gaeta presses a thumbnail to his mouth, thinking, rotating the possibilities from as many angles as he can...but in the end, he comes up with nothing useful. Nothing that won't expose him at best and get him killed at worst.
If nothing else, the insurgency's stepping up. That much is obvious.
And if they ever do get involved with the detention center...
How many more will die if they go in by force?
Already, one of the larger fields has turned into a makeshift graveyard with row after row of Y-shaped branches plumbing the sky. It's nearly full. It shouldn't be there at all.
He opts for the schematics to the main landing bay instead, and prepares a few other documents to go with it, but he doesn't stop thinking about the coiled blueprints protected inside Colonial One, not even as he pulls down his knit cap and walks to the dead drop just before curfew.
Jake's curled up near his dish, fast asleep, nose tucked to his paws and back legs splayed in an L. Gaeta deposits the documents, carefully slides the drawer shut before he turns to head for the bowl --
"Ten o'clock, Mr. Gaeta," he hears a nearby Eight say. "Curfew."
Gaeta freezes; only for an instant, though, before he shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a step back, ducking his head in a conciliatory nod. "I understand," he says. Another step: his heel catches on the brim of the dog bowl, and he deliberately turns it into an awkward stumble, kicking the bowl upside-down as he catches himself. "I was just disposing of some papers for President Baltar."
The Eight stretches out a hand as if to help keep him upright, and there's a tiny, amused smile just visible in the dark. "It couldn't wait until morning?" she asks.
"Ah, unfortunately, no." He makes sure to inject a regretful note into his voice, even as he draws himself straighter. "It couldn't."
The Eight nods. Crouching to the ground -- and Gaeta's heart sinks to see it -- she spins the dog bowl back upright and straightens it, neatly, in the dent it had originally occupied. Jake opens one sleepy eye and huffs out half a breath, half a whine; again, the Eight smiles, then crooks her fingers behind one of his ears to give it a scratch.
With her head bent and her hands in Jake's fur, she murmurs six words that stop him cold.
"Felix," she says, "I know what you're doing." When he can't find the voice to deny it, she tips her gaze up to him without moving the rest of her body.
Her next words clutch at his heart for an entirely different reason.
"I want to help."
"I'm not like the others," she tells him, and it is not so hard a thing to believe. Maybe this is the quirk of the Eights: to separate, to be different. One of them's already said she would contact the admiral for him; why not another?
He hesitates all the same.
"I believed them when they said we'd have a better future here. Both of us. Human and Cylon." She looks away, pressing her lips together. Her voice cracks. "But everything they've done -- "
And Gaeta stops hesitating as his throat closes up in an ache of recognition, and he reaches for her hand without a thought.
She drops by his tent a few nights later on the pretense of random curfew checks. Under the light of a single buzzing lantern, she stands at his shoulder as Gaeta pens names and serial numbers down a yellowed sheet of paper, digging through his memories, searching for faces to compare to time frames.
"This list," he tells her as he looks up. "So many of these people I haven't seen in a long time. They may already be -- " The last ends up being more to himself than to her; he drops his pen and presses his hand to his forehead. In a barely audible exhale: "Gods."
"The Ones. They keep good records," she insists. "If somebody's locked up, I can find them and get them out."
Gaeta knows she's telling the truth. The Cylons have open access to places no human could ever go, and it's what he wanted besides: to go in without bombs or gunfire. But his weariness must be weighing heavier in his expression than he thought, because the Eight, instead of elaborating further, only whispers a quiet encouragement. "We can do this. Really."
She's the one who covers his hand this time, as he picks up the pen. His mind skips sideways to Boomer. He meets her eyes; he keeps writing.
Gaeta doesn't see her again for a week (or maybe he does, and doesn't realize it). On the eighth day, half-dozing, a series of three quick raps make the entire framework of his tent shiver. By the time he's scrambled out of bed and clicked on the lantern, she's standing just inside with his list drawn taut between her shaking hands.
"I couldn't get all of them," she says in a rush. Gaeta takes the list from her, motioning for her to sit, but she stays on her feet as he settles into his desk chair. Bowing her head, she motions to a name near the center of the list. "This one, Jeremiah? He died in detention. He got sick."
Gaeta fists his hand in front of his mouth. The Eight points to another name. "And she, uh...she killed herself." Suddenly desperate, her voice starting to waver, "But these two, I got them out, but nobody -- nobody knows what happened to the child -- "
Her next words try to fight their way out, and lose against a sob as she covers her mouth. Gaeta finally manages to snap his attention away from the list.
"I tried so hard," she chokes.
"Hey, hey, hey," interrupts Gaeta, gently, and reaches to grasp her hand. "You did great. You did great, you saved so many of them." He gives her fingers a squeeze. "Okay?"
Her other palm shifts up, covering her whole face as she tries to regain her composure. By degrees, she does. Eyes still bright, she kneels next to Gaeta and encloses their clasped and faintly trembling hands.
"I'm sorry," she says. "You can think of more names and we can write more lists."
"Of course we can," he murmurs, soothing. "Of course we can. We will. Okay?" He musters up a small smile, wan but overwhelmingly grateful. "Thank you."
She mirrors the smile, no less faint -- and then, to Gaeta's surprise, she leans in and presses her mouth to his.
He stays put for one second, two, caught by uncertainty. Then, as he feels her lips part to deepen the kiss, he backs away just enough to break it, blinking at her in puzzlement.
She, too, is frowning. She looks almost hurt. "Felix?"
Quickly, he shakes his head in another reassurance. "I'm sorry," he whispers. And then: "It's not because you're a Cylon."
Understanding dawns on her face -- maybe from his words, maybe from accessing Boomer's memories -- and softens the frown, turning it up into a tiny, fond smile. She touches her hand to his cheek, nods, lets it fall away.
The Eight stays another hour, just long enough for him to draw up a second list, before she disappears into the night.
Some of them, he spots on the street. Others he sees near the Pyramid court, wrestling their way through a pick-up game or huddled against the cold on the sidelines.
But some he doesn't see at all, and those, he asks the Eight about when she comes back with news of the second list.
Her brow furrows. "Shannon Magrath and Wayne Rose had to go to the infirmary for a few days. You didn't see them?" The creases smooth. "I'm sure you'll see them tomorrow."
He doesn't. Instead, he glimpses Colonel Tigh leaning on his wife's arm the next day, one of his eyes covered by a matted white bandage. It's a confirmation, though; a progress, a hope.
None of those are so difficult to believe in either.
It goes one methodical step at a time. Inside room 372, he runs handfuls of warm water over his face; he shaves; he neatens his hair as best he can, and downs a full glass of water to ease the mild hangover. He swore beforehand that he'd set strict limits on this...he supposes it was a vacation, as much of one as he could allow himself. Now the clock's run down, though. Time to move out.
(He has to wonder if he should have allowed himself this much time at all. He can feel the tug that says time's not passing, another few hours won't hurt, a good breakfast won't do any harm; Gaeta dismisses it with a practiced shove, but maybe, if he hadn't stayed this long, there wouldn't be a tug to dismiss at all.)
The painstaking preparation continues downstairs: a moment to return his key to the Bar and ask her to hang on to his Paradoxes hat for him; another to eat some eggs and toast; a third to straighten his jacket, take a breath, and walk out into the frigid New Caprica air.
It turns out that time didn't stop completely while he was gone. About fifteen minutes have passed in his world.
Just enough time for Saul Tigh to be arrested.
The notes left for Gaeta in the dead drop were never elaborate to begin with, but now they become even more terse and urgent. They ask for schedules, for the weakest jamming frequencies that will let them bypass Cylon interference, for schematics of any buildings not constructed by human hands. Leafing through them in the dim light of his tent, he stitches the pieces together into a patchwork of their plans -- or as best a guess as he can make.
Some of the schematics -- the detention center, especially (and why wouldn't they make that a target? Maybe not now, but as soon as they're able?) -- have been under lock and key ever since the facility was built. Gaeta presses a thumbnail to his mouth, thinking, rotating the possibilities from as many angles as he can...but in the end, he comes up with nothing useful. Nothing that won't expose him at best and get him killed at worst.
If nothing else, the insurgency's stepping up. That much is obvious.
And if they ever do get involved with the detention center...
How many more will die if they go in by force?
Already, one of the larger fields has turned into a makeshift graveyard with row after row of Y-shaped branches plumbing the sky. It's nearly full. It shouldn't be there at all.
He opts for the schematics to the main landing bay instead, and prepares a few other documents to go with it, but he doesn't stop thinking about the coiled blueprints protected inside Colonial One, not even as he pulls down his knit cap and walks to the dead drop just before curfew.
Jake's curled up near his dish, fast asleep, nose tucked to his paws and back legs splayed in an L. Gaeta deposits the documents, carefully slides the drawer shut before he turns to head for the bowl --
"Ten o'clock, Mr. Gaeta," he hears a nearby Eight say. "Curfew."
Gaeta freezes; only for an instant, though, before he shoves his hands into his pockets and takes a step back, ducking his head in a conciliatory nod. "I understand," he says. Another step: his heel catches on the brim of the dog bowl, and he deliberately turns it into an awkward stumble, kicking the bowl upside-down as he catches himself. "I was just disposing of some papers for President Baltar."
The Eight stretches out a hand as if to help keep him upright, and there's a tiny, amused smile just visible in the dark. "It couldn't wait until morning?" she asks.
"Ah, unfortunately, no." He makes sure to inject a regretful note into his voice, even as he draws himself straighter. "It couldn't."
The Eight nods. Crouching to the ground -- and Gaeta's heart sinks to see it -- she spins the dog bowl back upright and straightens it, neatly, in the dent it had originally occupied. Jake opens one sleepy eye and huffs out half a breath, half a whine; again, the Eight smiles, then crooks her fingers behind one of his ears to give it a scratch.
With her head bent and her hands in Jake's fur, she murmurs six words that stop him cold.
"Felix," she says, "I know what you're doing." When he can't find the voice to deny it, she tips her gaze up to him without moving the rest of her body.
Her next words clutch at his heart for an entirely different reason.
"I want to help."
"I'm not like the others," she tells him, and it is not so hard a thing to believe. Maybe this is the quirk of the Eights: to separate, to be different. One of them's already said she would contact the admiral for him; why not another?
He hesitates all the same.
"I believed them when they said we'd have a better future here. Both of us. Human and Cylon." She looks away, pressing her lips together. Her voice cracks. "But everything they've done -- "
And Gaeta stops hesitating as his throat closes up in an ache of recognition, and he reaches for her hand without a thought.
She drops by his tent a few nights later on the pretense of random curfew checks. Under the light of a single buzzing lantern, she stands at his shoulder as Gaeta pens names and serial numbers down a yellowed sheet of paper, digging through his memories, searching for faces to compare to time frames.
"This list," he tells her as he looks up. "So many of these people I haven't seen in a long time. They may already be -- " The last ends up being more to himself than to her; he drops his pen and presses his hand to his forehead. In a barely audible exhale: "Gods."
"The Ones. They keep good records," she insists. "If somebody's locked up, I can find them and get them out."
Gaeta knows she's telling the truth. The Cylons have open access to places no human could ever go, and it's what he wanted besides: to go in without bombs or gunfire. But his weariness must be weighing heavier in his expression than he thought, because the Eight, instead of elaborating further, only whispers a quiet encouragement. "We can do this. Really."
She's the one who covers his hand this time, as he picks up the pen. His mind skips sideways to Boomer. He meets her eyes; he keeps writing.
Gaeta doesn't see her again for a week (or maybe he does, and doesn't realize it). On the eighth day, half-dozing, a series of three quick raps make the entire framework of his tent shiver. By the time he's scrambled out of bed and clicked on the lantern, she's standing just inside with his list drawn taut between her shaking hands.
"I couldn't get all of them," she says in a rush. Gaeta takes the list from her, motioning for her to sit, but she stays on her feet as he settles into his desk chair. Bowing her head, she motions to a name near the center of the list. "This one, Jeremiah? He died in detention. He got sick."
Gaeta fists his hand in front of his mouth. The Eight points to another name. "And she, uh...she killed herself." Suddenly desperate, her voice starting to waver, "But these two, I got them out, but nobody -- nobody knows what happened to the child -- "
Her next words try to fight their way out, and lose against a sob as she covers her mouth. Gaeta finally manages to snap his attention away from the list.
"I tried so hard," she chokes.
"Hey, hey, hey," interrupts Gaeta, gently, and reaches to grasp her hand. "You did great. You did great, you saved so many of them." He gives her fingers a squeeze. "Okay?"
Her other palm shifts up, covering her whole face as she tries to regain her composure. By degrees, she does. Eyes still bright, she kneels next to Gaeta and encloses their clasped and faintly trembling hands.
"I'm sorry," she says. "You can think of more names and we can write more lists."
"Of course we can," he murmurs, soothing. "Of course we can. We will. Okay?" He musters up a small smile, wan but overwhelmingly grateful. "Thank you."
She mirrors the smile, no less faint -- and then, to Gaeta's surprise, she leans in and presses her mouth to his.
He stays put for one second, two, caught by uncertainty. Then, as he feels her lips part to deepen the kiss, he backs away just enough to break it, blinking at her in puzzlement.
She, too, is frowning. She looks almost hurt. "Felix?"
Quickly, he shakes his head in another reassurance. "I'm sorry," he whispers. And then: "It's not because you're a Cylon."
Understanding dawns on her face -- maybe from his words, maybe from accessing Boomer's memories -- and softens the frown, turning it up into a tiny, fond smile. She touches her hand to his cheek, nods, lets it fall away.
The Eight stays another hour, just long enough for him to draw up a second list, before she disappears into the night.
Some of them, he spots on the street. Others he sees near the Pyramid court, wrestling their way through a pick-up game or huddled against the cold on the sidelines.
But some he doesn't see at all, and those, he asks the Eight about when she comes back with news of the second list.
Her brow furrows. "Shannon Magrath and Wayne Rose had to go to the infirmary for a few days. You didn't see them?" The creases smooth. "I'm sure you'll see them tomorrow."
He doesn't. Instead, he glimpses Colonel Tigh leaning on his wife's arm the next day, one of his eyes covered by a matted white bandage. It's a confirmation, though; a progress, a hope.
None of those are so difficult to believe in either.