Tech Manuals, Commands, and Tactics

As the days progress, Racetrack comes back to him with more numbers. They look good; she's spoken to a solid crop of people, every one of them just as angry as the crowd Gaeta entertained in the mess. He adds them to his tally, then quietly seeks out each person to fill them in on some of what he discussed with his own group.

But that still leaves thirty-seven thousand civilian voices unheard. Trying to extrapolate so much from so little remains far too dangerous.

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The meeting with Adama goes as well as he should've expected. At first, it looks like the admiral will just brush him off: come back in two hours, Mr. Gaeta, says Adama, turning away to fetch another drink before Gaeta can respond. Left with little else to do, he hobbles back to sickbay for his post-shift checkup.

That, too, goes as well as he should have expected: an hour and forty-five minutes of waiting, a fifteen-minute exam that does amount to a brush-off, Ishay rushed and apologizing as she hands him another jar of ointment for his stump. The ointment doesn't do anything; the problem's with the endcap of his prosthesis, he's told them that dozens of times. But hey, with Caprica expecting a baby and Tigh by her side for the ultrasound -- gotta keep the toasters happy and well cared for in a timely manner, right? That's what matters most nowadays.

Once everyone's seated back in the Admiral's quarters, the meeting's objective becomes clear. Tyrol's ideas involving the application of Cylon tech to their ships won't be debated, or discussed; all that'll be talked over is how to coat this poison pill so the Fleet will swallow it without a qualm. Gaeta tries to interject, asking for more information -- because of course there has to be a catch to all of this -- but the only time they take notice of him is when Tigh snaps at Gaeta to address Admiral Adama as "sir." He leaves no less frustrated than when he entered.

His resolve, on the other hand, is rapidly sharpening to a point.




The next day, in direct defiance of Ishay's earlier order to get some rest, Gaeta's in the rec room, nursing the biggest cup of coffee he can find and not making eye contact with the scattering of other crew members. He checked to make sure Louis wasn't there before he even stepped across the threshold; keep your head down, he told him, and he means for Louis to listen.

At some point in the dull haze of the next morning, Doc Cottle calls him into sickbay. "I know this might be a cold comfort now, son," he says, sounding as weary as everyone else in the Fleet, "but we found you a prosthesis."

Gaeta blinks, not comprehending for a second. "You did?"

The false leg is ungraceful and clunky, looking nothing like a real leg at all: just a metal pole with a hook-like foot at the bottom, easy to fit into the right boot Gaeta hasn't yet had the heart to throw away. If only it fit onto his stump that well. Whoever previously owned the leg was either much taller, or had lost much more of their limb; the endcap is so large it covers his knee entirely. He can't bend it, can barely get the prosthesis to stay on without padding his stump with three layers of socks -- but it does mean he can stand on two legs for the first time in months, albeit with substantial help from his crutches.

Cottle's right, though. It is a pretty frakking cold comfort.

"Walk it down to your rack and back a couple times," says Cottle. "The more you practice with it, the easier it'll get."

Wonder if that applies to anything else around here, thinks Gaeta, too tired to even muster up real rancor.

---

( warning for depictions of suicide )

Even something as simple as walking to Milliways' sickbay ought to count as his day's physical therapy. Gaeta knows it won't, and can't, but...gods. He is just so sick of hurting all the time, and in no mood to forcibly make himself hurt worse.

When he reaches the infirmary, he pauses just outside the door to catch his breath.

-- ta? Lieutenant Gaeta, stay with us

Movement. Pressure on his face. Something cold brushing his nose and mouth.

Pain, constant as heartbeats, ground as deep into his bones as this is not a drill and the Fleet's jumped away.

get a cut job tray in here

don't let Cottle take my leg

( Read more... )

[From here.]


Gaeta grins, still a little embarrassed, and goes back to poring over the basket.

"Did she say why?"

[After this.]

Nearly everyone who's off duty is in the courtroom; everyone on duty has probably been glued to the wireless all afternoon. Galactica's halls are close to empty.

Gaeta feels half weightless, feet moving too fast and boots barely meeting the ground. He looks straight ahead as he strides down the hall, ignoring a few curious looks from the smattering of people he passes. It doesn't matter. It's done.

It's all over.

Oh, gods, it's over.

"Lieutenant Felix Gaeta?" says the unfamiliar woman escorted into the CIC. He turns around immediately, back lifted and shoulders squared; she keeps close to the Marine guard, a thin white envelope in hand.

"Ma'am," he acknowledges.

"If you'll come with me, please."

Thin furrows cross his forehead, but after flicking a quick glance to the Admiral -- he nods his permission, barely perceptible -- Gaeta lifts himself from his seat smoothly and without hesitation, walking down the short flight of stairs to fall in step beside her. The three of them exit and shut the door behind them with a thump.

Three minutes pass. The bridge resumes its work as if nothing transpired at all.

When Gaeta re-enters, he's alone, pale, and stony-faced as he crosses the floor to return to his post.