Originally posted on livejournal in 2009

Part 1:

"Through here, Admiral," the young petty officer said, examining her superior out of the corners of her curious eyes. Cain was used to those looks, the questioning of her position at such an early age. It didn't bother her. They learn how she'd earned those pips soon enough and called her the Old Man with no irony.

The hatch door to the Commander's quarters stood open, causing her first small frown, as the chatter of the CIC could be clearly heard within. When she stepped over the lip, her frown deepened. The space smelled of leather, musty paper, and wood polish; she hadn't smelled anything real and organic other than human skin in at least six months. The floor was softened by several plush knotted carpets, their vivid patterns leaping from the dimness. Even the light was warm, a soft yellow, not like the icy buzz in her office.

Any other visitor would feel instantly comfortable in this space, but Cain didn't, nor did she appreciate its warmth. She didn't want anyone comfortable in her own office, and was suspicious of any officer that wanted that for others.

Books-lots and lots of books. Cain's eye followed the cairn trail of book stacks around the bulkhead, until she saw them before a bookshelf tucked in a corner. The Commander and the President were unaware. Their heads were together, looking at a book. The President had been laughing, the sound finishing just at this moment in a sighing gasp. She was glancing up at him over her drooping glasses, one hand cradling the open book, the other touching his bicep, making her point. His eyes were downcast, trained on the page, a bashful boy.

The tableau was broken as his gaze was suddenly aware, careful. He stepped out of the President's touch, coming to greet his superior. Roslin stayed behind-Cain watched her over his shoulder. She closed the book slowly, a half-smile staying on her lips. Her expression was now cool, assessing, then she too came forward to greet their guest.

"I'll get us some drinks," Roslin said, going to a hidden drinks cart around the corner. She held up a bottle for Adama to see, raising her eyebrows. He nodded and started murmuring small talk, obviously waiting for her to join them.

Cain admired his large Monclair painting on the wall, even as she noted his old-fashioned desk through the archway to the personal quarters and piles of books stacked on every surface. Decay and disorder annoyed her.

They accepted filled glasses from Roslin and she trailed with her drink towards the meeting table, saying, "Why don't we have a seat?"

His hostess, Cain thought as she followed the Commander, watching as he held the chair out for a waiting Roslin. Her lip curled at the President's murmured thanks, and the glance up of appreciation as Adama moved to the other side of the table. She disliked well-mannered women.

She had planned on using this meeting to weigh the measure of William Adama, an officer she knew little about other than his checkered career record-there'd been high highs and low lows. How would he serve her now?

But it was the presence of and delicate questions from the President that kept diverting her course. Couched in careful prefaces, in a lovely, low tone, "I may not know-" but still as annoying as the nips of a flea.

Cain was much more pleased with Adama's obvious deference. She rose from the table. Time to deliver a message to the simpering schoolteacher who thought she had some power over the Admiral of the Colonial Fleet-Cain could see obstinacy in those pale eyes.

She put forth the challenge: "Something wrong?"

"No," the seated woman said carefully. "I sometimes forget about the rules of military protocol."

As Adama rightly reminding Roslin of their place, Cain watched her. He said, "Admiral Cain is my superior officer," and her focus was completely on him as though Cain were not present. "She will take complete control of the entire fleet." Her head cocked like an inquisitive bird, confused.

Cain said, simply to see this woman's reaction, "Madam President, you look as though I'd just shot your dog."

Roslin's eyes didn't focus on her or him, but someplace far off. "It's that the Commander and I have been through a lot."

But she rose from the table as well, getting the obvious signal that her time with her new military leader was over. After some stilted gratitude towards Cain, Roslin retreated, but not before giving Adama a shifty little look, a secret shorthand language that tickled Cain's nose like a stray feather.

She tested: "The Secretary of Education?"

He came to the bait, defending the little president's position and right to it, not so much with words, "She's come a long way," but with his direct gaze and stubborn tilt to his head. Cain stored that away-not the defense, but his desire to defend her.

Now that they were alone, she could test him further without the interference of that woman. "It gives me no pleasure to have to take command, Bill." Truth: the only pleasure she could obtain these days was a grim satisfaction.

But he stood at attention, eyes carefully trained on her shoulder in the manner of all good underlings, and said, "Don't give it a moment's thought, Admiral."

And she didn't.

Part 2:

As they walked down the corridor, Roslin absent-mindedly tapped Billy's forearm with the hand twined through the crook his arm.

"Yes, Madam President?"

"I'm just thinking, Billy," she said, "Do we have any way to find out anything about that woman?"

"Admiral Cain?"

"Yes," she said, impatient.

"I'd think Commander Adama would be the best source of information."

"He knows the facts," she said as they turned to the shuttle bay. "I want more."

"I'll do what I can," Billy said, perplexed.

She smiled at him. "Yes, why don't you check with your...sources on Galactica and see what you can find out."

He grinned. "Yes, Ma'am."

"I need a nap," she acknowledged and he looked worried. "Don't. I'll be fine. Just a bit overwhelmed, that's all."

Back on Colonial One, she sank gratefully into one of the deep chairs while Billy fussed away to the galley. Cancer was an odd sensation at this point. Not sharp pain, but the slithering through her body like a snake through leaves. Just a rustle, and the cold sweat of fear.

Like Admiral Cain-a cancer in their midst.

She had chosen to believe that the easy fidelity that she'd observed among the Galactica's crew was common for all military, but now she saw the real order in action, dreary rules that beat down a proud man like Adama. Two little snips of gold on Cain's collar made him a dog. She didn't care how many ways the Commander found to explain the situation, she hated this Adama she'd seen since the Pegasus had appeared on DRADIS.

Laura moved slowly into her sleeping area, cursing the now familiar creaking of her bones, brittle from disease and medication. She was unsettled, and thus could not settle.

That one look in Admiral Cain's eyes, just a flash of a moment, disturbed her greatly.

"Yes, Pegasus has always been a rather lucky ship," she'd said as she bowed to her drink, but the move did not entirely hide the smirk.

The arrogance.

The righteousness.

All the things that Laura had expected when she'd met Commander Adama, and had never seen once.

"Welcome back to the Colonial Fleet," Cain had said. The Colonial Fleet was military. They had been The Fleet for the past six months, acknowledging the combining of civilian and military into one unit. So how would her outlook change their course? Could she be convinced to seek Earth?

She could not say anything to Adama yet-because she could not explain her unease to herself. Other than woman's intuition, which she knew would not fly an inch off with ground with her commander.

Billy hovered. "What is it?" she asked him.

"Your tea, Ma'am." He was so subtle with her chamalla dose. She wasn't sure from whom he was hiding it. She thanked him anyway.

She sipped, burning the tip of her tongue. Billy slipped back through the curtain, dousing the lights. Exhaustion always overcame her suddenly, a dark wave, so she sat on the edge of her bed. This damn sleeping chair-her hip had developed a wedge to match the divot between the cushions.

The wave crashed over her head, and she was gone.

The forest was lush, verdant green. The moonlight cut through the leaves and branches, lighting her nightgown from within-she glowed like a firefly as she flitted through the trees.

She was searching for someone—her heart thudded in her chest. Eyes watched her from between the leaves, she heard a mouth chewing, saw a huff of breath. Steam rose through the long branches.

She called out, "Who's there?"

A great dark stag broke out from the underbrush, crashed through branches—she ran, ran after him, her feet not even touching the mossy ground.

The massive creature stopped on a rise, his outline strong in the moonlight. His deep chest rose and fell, great steam puffs pouring from his flaring nostrils, lacing through his massive rack of antlers.

She clung to a tree for strength, but was chilled as shadow passed over, swooping on towards the stag. He leapt from view. She ran again, this time following the huge black bird outlined against the moon.

A scream-she rushed towards it-now she was following the smell of blood. The forest was gone, open to a burnt plain, with a huge studded black rock at the center.

Then the wings shifted, and she saw it was a vulture hunkered over the stag's carcass. The chest was cleanly split open, as though by a sword, and the bird's head dipped in, ripping and consuming his heart, even as it still pumped blood.

She must keep going. At his head, she fell to her knees, grabbing it to cradle. His tongue lolled from retracted lips, his eyes glazed blue in the moonlight.

Laura woke sobbing, cradling her pillow. She gasped for air until she returned to her place, her bed, the familiar black oval of the window above.

Pushing damp hair from her face, she put her glasses on, better to see in the dark. She had no proof that Cain was dangerous, but the Gods had given her a vision that she could only interpret one way. That woman meant to harm William Adama, and Laura, wracked with cancer and inexperience, must find a way to stop her.

Part 3:

Colonel Frisk returned from Galactica to report, swaying on his feet.

"Can I trust this information?" Cain asked, taking a step back from his odor.

"Yes, sir," he said with a drunk's sobriety.

But he seemed to have gained little of any value. Impatient, she waved a hand in his face to stop his ramblings. Striding around her office, she asked, "What's going on with the President and the Commander?"

Frisk beetled his bushy brows. "Going on?"

"What did Tigh have to say about them?"

"The crew-everyone-deeply respects both. The President seems to have really risen to the challenge-even though I can tell Tigh doesn't think much of politicians, and thus her."

Cain twitched with irritation, her own slight wine headache pounding behind her eyes. "No. Are they frakking? Did he say anything about that?"

"What?" Frisk breathed. "Gods, no, he didn't."

Cain dismissed him with, "Go sleep that off, Colonel," and decided to dismiss that little lady playing president at the same time. Whether or not Adama was frakking her, he might as well be.

Laura Roslin was conciliatory and bureaucratic, meaning weak to the Admiral. She had felt warm and smelled of damask roses when she'd hugged Cain in the jubilation on the flight deck.

However, after reviewing the Galactica logs, Cain had decided it was time to move others from Adama's sphere. She put through a call, summoning him to her office.

Adama arrived promptly. She loomed over him, looking down at this compact old man, the sort of men she'd stepped over easily on her way up the career ladder.

He surprised her by projecting steely resolve to attack the Cylons. She had made some assumptions from trailing the wolf pack that had been chasing a panting herd of deer, Galactica and her civilians. But even as she admired this unexpected fire, she had to tamp it down.

Those logs suggested disorder on a mind-boggling scale. They had read like a handful of trashy adventure paperbacks, with sex, violence, family turmoil, drunkenness and political unrest.

Time to put everything, and everyone, in its proper place. Adama's place was to be alone and weak.

The opening came when he thoughtlessly began planning the attack ahead of her. "I'll have Apollo coordinate with your CAG," he said as he studied the re-con photographs.

She plucked away his son, tearing off the commander's wings like pulling apart a fly, "I'm going to integrate the crews. I'm starting by reassigning Captain Adama to the Pegasus air wing," and watched him tense. She waited.

"I have a team that works very well together," he said carefully, his odd blue eyes guarded behind his glasses.

She smiled and didn't tell him that the little pet of his, Kara Thrace, was also in the reassignment orders; let him mull over that one later.

She was amused at how he did not fight against the tightening ropes, but spoke in great understatement. To her condemnation of his entire crew and command, he said, "I do not agree."

Stifling a laugh, she told him, "That's certainly your prerogative." She wasn't worried though; he was a good soldier.

She stated the obvious, "You have your orders."

There was some resistance. She flinched slightly when his large, hard hand came down on the paperwork of her orders, dragging them slowly to him, even as those cold eyes looked her down unflinching. Frankly, Cain would have had him removed from command immediately if he hadn't shown some guts now, but the first important steps were completed.

Laura demanded, "What's happening, Billy?" The young man was on the phone, frantically scribbling notes.

He covered the mouthpiece. "The two battlestars are at attack positions-with each other."

"What?" she cried, rushing to the desk on unsteady legs.

He shook his head. "Dee can't tell me much, she's passed me on. But there's been a murder on Galactica of a Pegasus crewmember. Cain wants to execute two Galactica crewmen, and Adama wants his men back."

"What?" she breathed again. "What happened?"

"She doesn't have time to go into it." He tossed down that phone and made a call on another. "Life Station? This is the President's office. You had a fatality just come in?"

His face went white. Roslin grabbed his arm. "What?" she said for what felt like the hundredth time.

He held his hand over the receiver. "Cain sent an interrogator to question our Cylon. He was raping her when the deck chief and one of the Raptor crewmen stopped him. He died of a head injury, the medic's saying it was an accident, but we have to assume that Cain didn't see it that way."

"Did she order this...rape?" Roslin asked, fury making her voice a faint whisper.

The boy could only shrug in reply, helpless.

She spun on her heel, no longer weak. Storming to a porthole, she grabbed the window's edge, staring out at the darting, dangerous Vipers flitting between the two battlestars. She was in the lead bird, flying straight at the Pegasus.

This wasn't finagling about unanswered phone calls or delivering supplies to civilians. She was out of her realm, now flying at the speed of light through the stars, and somehow it felt righteous.

She'd been so right, right in her bones, and she reveled in the knowledge. Her body was failing, but her heart felt as though it was pumping heavy blood, thick and black, thumping like a war drum.

Part 4:

Cain realized that she'd made an error in judgment during her heated phone exchange with Adama. Colonial One was not neutral ground.

"Please have a seat," Roslin had said as soon as Cain entered her office. Adama was already ensconced in one chair before her desk.

"No thank you, I prefer to stand," Cain said and Adama's lip twitched.

Roslin came over to her, put a hand on her shoulder, pressing. "Please, I want everyone to be comfortable."

Cain opened her mouth to protest when she saw that Adama was glaring at her, making it seem as though she was holding up the proceedings. He was right. Let's get this over with.

The chair was deep and plush. It was difficult to remain alert in its depths. Cain pushed herself forward to perch on the edge. Roslin herself did not sit.

Even as she argued with the two of them, Cain watched. Watched Roslin's long, lean legs, sleek under her short skirt, shift behind her desk as she leaned on it, like a thoroughbred in the starting gates. With her peripheral vision, she watched Adama not watch those lovely legs, his eyes drilling a hole in the floor. They must be frakking-he respected her too much to ogle her like a piece of meat.

Well, Cain didn't respect her and didn't mind looking at her like a piece of meat that might need to be tenderized with a bit of interrogation someday. Adama had had no problem throwing her into the brig; Cain would finish the job.

All the while, the President's slightly nasal voice droned on, lecturing, lecturing.

Cain finally broke in. "Is this was the two of you have been doing these past six months; debating the finer points of Colonial law?" She wanted to insinuate they'd been doing something else, but the tilt of Adama's head, the way he examined his clasped hands as though they were the most interesting things in the universe, reminded her too much of her own father. She actually had to point out, "We're at war!" hearing her own voice reach in sharp, high pitch.

In contrast, the president and commander seemed in a different dimension. Roslin was the scolding teacher with two errant students; Adama was the class tough, playing it cool.

Roslin finally sat, and addressed them as though she were dividing a bag of marbles. "You have Pegasus, he has Galactica. Two heavily armed, very powerful warships. Now, I'm sure that Pegasus would prevail in any fight-"

"Don't count on that," growled Adama and Cain's lip curled. He was trying to impress the girl.

From her little sigh, Roslin didn't seem impressed by either of them. She scolded them to play better together, and dismissed Cain, keeping Adama back.

Teacher's pet, Cain sneered as she stormed away, back to the clean coolness of Pegasus.

On the shuttle ride back to her ship, she berated herself. She would not make the mistake of underestimating Laura Roslin again.

It had taken a bit of digging to discover what was wrong with Roslin; Adama's logs only referred to 'her illness' and how she had 'little time left.' Cain's heart had leapt when she'd seen that last phrase, seeing a problem removed easily, but now she wasn't so sure. The woman was dangerous, dangerous in whatever her relationship was with Adama. She obviously gave him the strength to defy his superior even as she withered; she would not call him down.

Yes, Laura Roslin would have to be dealt with too. Cain had stripped away his son and favorite pilot, thinking that would be enough, but the President had to go next.

Roslin loved these deep chairs. She did some of her best thinking in them. Adama never seemed as comfortable in them, but that could be good too.

If she'd had any doubts, had allowed the cool buzz of daytime lighting to make her question her vision, that woman's barely contained crazed behavior cemented the deal.

The way she'd threatened Adama, in front of his President, with his arrest as though he was some rookie pilot fresh from the Academy made Roslin's blood boil. But now she had perfect clarity.

"I'm afraid this can only end one way," she told Adama, looking over at his stoic profile. She whispered, so not to startle him, "You've gotta kill her." This was her first direct order for a single human death, and she noted dispassionately that it felt a little too easy. But she dismissed her disquiet.

He was shocked anyway, looking over as though expecting someone else to be in her chair. His eyes dropped when it was still her. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

Her body felt weak, tired, but her mind raced ahead, playing out the scenario of this sociopath's course. "I hate to lay this on you, Bill, but she's dangerous. And the only thing you can do is hit her before she hits you."

"I'm not an assassin," he said, overly-noble, and her head hit the back of the chair with exasperation. He wasn't seeing the big picture, the picture that was so clear to her.

She pulled herself from her comforting chair and reminded him, "No, you are not an assassin, you are a Colonial officer." She remembered his words to her when she's asked him how it felt to have Cain there: 'I've been taking orders my whole life; this is no different.' Now was time to take advantage of that malleability.

She kept pressing, "You took an oath to protect this fleet. What do you think she's going to do to the civilian fleet once she's eliminated you?" This was as close as she could come to sharing her vision with him.

She whispered again; she was the voice in his head. "You know I'm right."

He rose and stood before her, a stride too close. She had a ridiculous notion he was going to do something-what, she wasn't sure-but he only opened his mouth to protest and turned away, mute, before muttered, "Has the whole world gone mad?"

She watched his drooped shoulders push through the curtain. Let him be disappointed in her. He had her on a too high of a pedestal anyway. She'd fall from it if she could drive a stake through Cain's heart on landing.

Part 5:

This time, Cain made sure they met on her turf. Naturally, the President was late. Roslin came through the hatch, telling her aide, "Wait here, Billy." Smiling warmly at Cain, she said, "We'll only be about ten minutes, right?"

"No, this won't take long," Cain gritted.

"Yes, why don't you check in on us then," said Laura, and Cain wondered if she actually believed that the Admiral would kill her today. She closed the door on the fresh-faced young man hovering outside.

When she turned back, the President was gone; Cain found her off in the darkest corner, admiring her weapons collection just as Adama had.

"Lovely pieces," enthused Laura.

"Wouldn't think they were your style," said Cain.

Laura gave her a special little smile. "Well, no, you have me there. But one of my first schools was on a Spartacus outpost. I had to learn to appreciate weaponry for the field trips, let me tell you." She clasped her hands together, and Cain wondered if this woman was shitting her.

"Let me cut right to it-"

Laura smiled more broadly. "Yes, please do," she said, joining Cain at her command table. "I assume you wanted to go over my requisition list for the civilian fleet?"

"No." Cain clamped her teeth together, then hissed through them, "You probably aren't aware, having been so far down in the line of succession, but the Rear Admirals receive constant security briefings from the president's administration."

Laura leaned her elbows on the command table. Her fingers toyed with the stack of Adama's logs, seeming to be listening with only half her attention.

Cain would get her attention now. "Most of the materials are not pertinent to my command, but after meeting you, I ran your name through the archive logs."

Laura raised her eyebrows, looking interested. "And what did you find out?"

"I found out you were frakking the President of the Twelve Colonies."

"Goodness," Laura said, pushing back from the table. "What in the world business was that of the military?"

"It could very well be our business for any number of reasons."

"I don't see its importance now, particularly considering that President Adar is dead," pointed out Laura, but Cain did notice a sharpening in the gullible gaze.

"It's important when coupled with the very last briefing I received before the Cylon attacks. Direct from Adar's office, saying that you were to be removed from the cabinet, and would lose your security clearances, effective the day after the Galactica decommissioning ceremony."

Cain waited.

Laura said, her tone flat, "But the next day never came for the Twelve Colonies." Then the little smile was back, this time bittersweet. "The Fates do seem to have a wicked sense of humor, don't They?"

Cain exploded. "You shouldn't be President, by any stretch of the imagination-"

"But I am." Suddenly, Laura Roslin wasn't a little schoolteacher anymore; her hair was flame, her cool grey/green eyes, roiling water. Cain felt the slightest stab of danger. This was a dying woman; she must feel that she had nothing to lose.

Cain needed to remind Roslin what she could lose. "Don't think Adama will back you up, particularly after he hears this. He sees you as some ivory and gold Athena statue; the way he looks at you-"

Roslin raised her eyebrows, making Cain feel a bit foolish. She pushed on. "He's a washed up old man. I stepped on a lot of old men, him included, to get where I am, and I'll step on him again."

Roslin came around the table to stand before her, a full head shorter, but Cain fought the need to move out of her reach.

"Yes, I was forty-third in succession, and nearly completely out of that line. And Adama had a washed up career and was at the edge of forced retirement. But I must say, having survived this long, I'm confident that we're both better leaders than Adar and you would have been in our situation. Perhaps that tells you something about how we chose our leaders in the Twelve Colonies.

"You asked me what we've been doing for six months; how we managed to survive. I'll tell you this; we've been saving the human race through pure wits and rock hard balls."

"How dare you, you little-"

Roslin was just getting started. "We don't get rid of good officers because of our egos. We wouldn't rape a machine." Her upper lip curled back and her voice was low and cruel. "What have you done successfully, Admiral Cain? What sort of leader has this experience made you? Because I know the man that Commander Adama is, and I trust him with our 50,000 lives. You? You, I won't turn my one back on."

She took a step closer so Cain could feel her breath. "I believe that I need to evaluate your performance before I can allow you to retain your command."

Cain spat, "He threw you in the brig," hoping to remind this little fool that she could do it too.

A fine-boned hand, white skin and blue veins, waved in her face. "A mere misunderstanding that got out of hand."

These people are mad, Cain thought. Adama had nearly come to blows with Pegasus over a knuckledragger and a Cylon-frakking Raptor ECO; what would he do when she eliminated Roslin? Yes, it was best to hit him first.

"Helena, isn't it?" asked Roslin as she drifted towards the closed hatch. She mused, "Such a lovely name."

"I'm Admiral Cain to you," roared Cain.

Ignoring her, Roslin said, "Helena, I assume that you asked me here to confront and attempt to blackmail me with your information. But I will share the intelligence I've gathered on you." She adjusted her glasses, masking her eyes. "You are insane."

Cain stormed towards her, but the thin white hand was back up.

"We have engaged the Cylons numerous times since the attacks. They outnumber us a thousand fold. So we destroy one Resurrection ship; more will come. To believe, as you do, that a single battlestar, or now, two, could possibly win any war, is the mark of madness."

"I will not stand down," Cain told her.

The President opened the hatch with a grunt of effort. "I don't care what you want to do. The only way we can win is to out-produce them and find a safe haven on which to raise those prodigy." Roslin smiled greeting to her hovering young aide. "And I can't help but notice the decided lack of women on this ship. You will have difficulty participating in that action."

"I think your ten minutes is up," Cain said coldly.

"Yes, I believe you're right," Roslin said, taking the waiting boy's arm like a frail old woman on her way to temple. "Admiral, we've both gotten emotional today, but I think we now know where we stand." The special little smile was back. "So it was a productive meeting, yes?"

Cain could only nod, too aware of the listening CIC outside to spew the obscenities that boiled inside her mouth. She must retain control; Thrace and Baltar would be here soon to continue the planning for the attack on the resurrection ship. But when the hatch closed, she allowed herself to slap the stack of logs, the sound like a whip crack in her silent office.

Part 7:

Back on Colonial One, Billy barely could get Roslin to her bed before she collapsed. "I must call Doctor Cottle," he fussed.

"I just taxed my reserves, that's all," she said with a whisper, beginning to slowly peel off her blazer. "But it was worth it."

She motioned for her robe. "No doctor. The commander is due here soon."

She'd done all right, considering that snake's rattle had nearly drowned out her thoughts. And she'd almost cracked when she saw Adama's worn logbooks in Cain's office.

One of her favorite times on Galactica would be in Adama's quarters, when she'd be in her pool of light, working on reports at the table while he was further back in his quarters at his desk, in his spot of lamplight, making log entries.

She'd called to him, "Why don't you have a scribe? That takes another hour out of your day."

He hadn't looked up, his pen still scratching at the paper. "I prefer to do it myself. I can reflect on my choices-"

"And never look back? Close the book, so to speak."

"Not at all," he said, smiling, but still not looking up. "But there's a finality to choices written in ink."

Seeing them lying naked on the glass table in Cain's frigid office, she'd wanted to snatch those logs up and carry them back to his warm quarters where they belonged.

"Am I disturbing you, Madam President?"

Adama was there, looming over her bed, his eyes frantic with worry. She motioned him down to her, trying to reassure him even as his pained gaze showed it wasn't working.

She excused her appearance, then said, "What can I do for you?" pretending she was at her desk, he across from her. He leaned forward on the armrest to catch her faint voice, determined to play along.

"You were right about Cain," he said, nodding grimly.

What he told her about Cain just affirmed all her decisions. It was as though she had second sight. Of course Cain had abandoned and murdered her civilian fleet. Naturally she'd killed her disobedient officer. She smiled humorlessly, wondering if Cain had shit her pants just a bit at Roslin's unintentional call to judgment.

Her voice weak with outrage, she told him, "I wish I could say I was surprised, but it's who she is. She's playing for keeps; you need to do the same."

There was no mirth in his exasperation when he asked, "What's gotten into you?" He looked on the verge of tears. "You've become so bloody-minded."

She said plainly, "I know as long as Cain lives, your survival is at risk, I know that." She saw the stag's body again, his blood draining away. The vision visited her repeatedly.

As strong as her words were, her body was weak. She was racked with coughs, and he gently helped her to drink.

Simply, he asked, "What can I get you?"

She propped up her pounding head, focusing on his caring eyes for a moment, lost in them. "A new body. Perhaps one of those young Cylon models from the resurrection ship."

His large hands, hanging over the armrest, were clasped as though praying. Clenching them, he tried to joke with her. "I can't see you as a blonde."

"You'd be surprised," she told him, managing somehow to make her weak voice provocative. Might as well flirt on the edge of death.

She'd expected his reaction to be retreat. Did she need to push him away from her failing body? Spare him some of the pain so openly etched on his face?

His features fought for control, and he found it before offering his upturned hand. She laid hers in his, strong and warm, wondering if her own felt as light as a drying leaf plucked from an autumn-red oak. He made her promise to see him tomorrow-unspoken, he meant, be alive. Of course she would; the job was not done. Now she was the one fighting for control of her quavering chin.

When he was gone, Billy began to turn the lights down. "Billy, I'm not finished."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, his voice pained.

"I want to see Lee Adama as soon as he's available. I need to check on military protocol-"

"Surely that can wait." His round white face floated over her.

Her voice was strong. "No. Wake me when he's here."

Lying back against the pillows, she allowed herself to feel Adama's hand with hers again; even his palm was muscular. Her rasping chuckle made her reach for the water glass.

If only she'd been the sort of woman to carry around electronic photo albums all the time. It would be worth it to have that one picture to show him, freshman year of college, dyed blonde hair to her waist, that little red bikini that got a lot of use at the shore that summer...he'd be able to imagine her as a blonde from then on...there was that one picture of him, on a shadowed wall of his quarters, the brash young pilot, leaning on his Viper next to its nameplate Husker in flack-chipped letters, his jock smock straining against wide shoulders and muscled thighs...

She dozed until Billy was back, saying, "Captain Apollo is here, Madam President."

"Thank you," she murmured, forcing her eyes open. "Please stay and take notes, Billy."

The young officer stood at attention, and she could see the anger in his stance. "That's Lieutenant Apollo, Ma'am."

She struggled up, and Billy pushed her pillows to support her back. "What's happened?" she asked him.

"I've been demoted, Ma'am, per the Admiral's orders."

"Of course," she said, shooting Billy a comprehending look.

"Yes, she's tough, but if I may speak freely, Ma'am, that's not a reason to order her assassination."

Billy stepped as though to leave the room, but Roslin motioned him to sit.

She sipped from her shaking water glass for a moment. At least she didn't need to worry about Lee being moved by her illness. "No, I have ordered her assassination because she's a threat to everyone in this fleet, but most especially, your father." Driving home her point, she said, "She will murder your father."

He looked shocked, then regained his composure. "She simply wants to remove him from command, put all her people in place, but your order goes against everything-"

She interrupted him briskly. "You all want me to die with dignity while everyone gathers at my bedside and cry tears for my virtuous passing, Captain Apollo. But I'll go fighting all the way." She pushed on. "Do you think she hasn't had the same exact conversation I had with the Commander, made the same plan?"

"Ma'am, you don't understand the military-"

"No, I do not. I understand that woman. I see the danger that you and your father are blind to. You see the uniform and the Admiral's insignia, but I see the fangs and bloodstains."

"I understand that she's dangerous, has done terrible things, but her murder would only reduce us to her level-"

"Not murder. Responding to an incoming Raider, as you do all the time," she said. "I'll close out this discussion by saying; I expect you and your father to follow my orders. Frankly, I'm surprised that he tasked you with this assignment-"

"He didn't," Lee said. "He gave it to Starbuck. I'm to back her up."

"Good," said Roslin, leaning into her pillows. "She will not fail me."

He stared at the ground, silent.

She said, "But this is not why I brought you here. I need advice on military protocol."

He pulled himself together. "What is it?"

"Once Cain's gone, will your father command both battlestars?"

Lee looked sick, but said, "No, there'll be a commander of the Pegasus who will report to him."

She hummed, and then said, "But should that commander be from the Pegasus crew, or from Galactica?"

"If she's been killed, a Galactica officer would probably be seen as an invading force. I would suggest one of their officers be promoted to Commander."

"And what is to keep that officer from being insubordinate?"

Lee thought. "I'd recommend that Commander Adama be promoted to Admiral. It's a position for the officer commanding a fleet of warships, which with two, I guess we would be, barely."

She smiled. "I like that idea a great deal. What is the process?"

"Your usual executive order for a promotion, and then a ceremony, where he's presented with the Admiral's insignia."

"A ceremony," she echoed, feeling even more tired. Standing before the hanger deck full of soldiers, making a speech...

The young officer said, "But I don't, considering what the circumstances will be, think that a full honor ceremony would be in the best taste-"

"I see your point," she mused. "But I present the pips?" She sounded like a little girl asking if she got to take the first piece of cake.

"Yes, Ma'am. I think that would be entirely appropriate," he said lamely.

"Where do we get these insignia?" she asked.

He blanched, and said, "I hope you don't think we should take Cain's."

"No, of course not." She stopped herself from saying, they may be damaged or stained.

Billy piped up. "I can talk to the jeweler who does the other military pins and insignia. He'll have to go off a drawing, but I'm sure he can get it done quickly."

"All settled then," Laura said with a smile, looking from one young man to the other. Seeing their worried faces, she said, "Buck up, boys, it's almost over," as exhaustion washed over her and she faded to sleep.

Part 8:

Peace at last; the thunder of battle had faded. Cain sought her solitary office for this moment. She could plan future maneuvers with her mind as smooth and clean as this room.

Not ordering the Galactica's CIC to be taken was for the best. More and more, she could see that she would have to kill all of Adama's crew as well as the President, her Quorum and staff to take true control. She needed a new plan, a new method, and the key probably lay with Kara Thrace.

There had been no sense in cutting off the snake's head with her reliable knife blade; better to use Thrace's desperation to smother the old man with a pillow. With Thrace's help, he could be moved aside, particularly when Roslin was dead-perhaps her death could be hastened.

However, she must not allow her own attraction to the young pilot to cloud how she played her next move. She returned again to the moment of Roslin touching Adama's arm, slight, as though they didn't dare the contact, mocking her with its briefness.

No one had touched her since Gina, and because Gina was metal and circuits, Cain hadn't been touched in years. Why had that thing's skin felt slick with sweat, how could her vagina weep with desire, spread out on this glass table? Her hands touched the cold surface, remembering the long hours of intense couplings.

Cain unbuttoned her tunic slowly, tired as if she'd personally flown the combat mission. Thrace's mouth was lush and wide; held promises...

Gina was there, stepping from the shadows, big black gun level. Gina, scarred and filthy, looking more beautiful than she ever had, finally revealing herself as the warrior she obviously was.

Holding her weapon steady, the Cylon sneered, "Tell me, Admiral. Can you roll over? Beg?"

There was no air in the room. Cain barely got out: "Frak you."

Triumphant, Gina replied, finding the most painful thing to say, "You're not my type."

Cain knew this thing couldn't feel, never did, she knew that. But tears still sprang forth. Last thought; she would die unloved.

Laura was back in the woods, under the full moon. She searched for her stag to no avail.

A tiny bird cooed at her from a branch; a pure black mourning dove. It lifted off, flying in the night-she could barely make it out against the huge yellow moon.

"Wait," she called out, but it did not stop.

She broke out of the trees into a meadow, sparkling with bluebells in the moonlight, but the bird was gone. Tears coursed down her face.

The stag's white bones gleamed in the silver light. She approached, and discovered the black dove within the ribcage, nestled where the heart would have been.

"Shoo, shoo," she cried, horrified at the desecration. It did not move, but began its gentle song again, so like the murmur of a heartbeat when you press your ear to his chest.

Laura sank down beside the skull, her hands grasping at the thick antlers, holding on to what had once been fearsome weapons. They were still so solid and strong-

"Don't cry," came low words from behind her.

"Bill," she whispered, leaning back into the cradle of horns. He was obscured, a silhouette with a nimbus of moonlight, but she knew his voice. "Why are you here?"

"You're ill," he said. "I must cure you."

"You can?" she asked, stunned.

His face was before her, smiling sweetly. His eyes were windows; through them, she could see the waving bluebells stretched out across the meadow. "A prince can always awaken the princess with a kiss," he said.

She pulled away. "I'm not a princess," she said, sad.

His fingers stroked her jawline, drawing her face back to him. "No, you are my queen." His lips were on hers-

Laura woke with a gasp, flushing in the dark. Then she erupted in laughter. The thought of her serious commander believing that he could break cancer's spell with a kiss-

"I've got to cut out that chamalla before bed," she muttered, then realized that Billy was gently tapping outside her sleeping compartment.

"Yes, what is it?" she asked, suddenly afraid.

"It's Admiral Cain," he said, coming out of the shadows. "She's dead."

"All right," Roslin said, struggling upright.

"It's not what you think," he explained. "The Cylon on her ship escaped, killed her."

"I see," she said slowly. Then, definitive: "I'm glad for Commander Adama's sake that it happened that way. He was not relishing his task."

"No, Ma'am," murmured Billy.

She sank back against the pillows. "Thank you, Billy. Let's get some more sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Her commander had come to report, and she made sure she was dressed and upright this time, even though her body felt light enough to float from the chair. She grasped her hands together, the only things keeping her anchored.

"I'm sorry, Madam President," Adama said. "But the Blackbird, the Laura, was lost in the action."

She sighed from a moment of despair, then shrugged helplessly. "There's a sense to it. I'm dying, the Laura is gone."

He looked so stricken that she had to try and gloss over. "But she died in the line of duty, and that's what matters. That, and the pilot survived, I hope?"

"Yes, Lee had to eject, but he was eventually rescued. Had a cardiac arrest, but the Raptor ECO got his heart started before there was brain damage-"

She winced at the triumphant way that Adama could recount his son nearly dying. What did he understand about hanging onto life by a slowly fraying thread after a career of you're dead/you're alive sorts of experiences?

She asked him about Cain's death, not because she really cared, but because she knew he did. He was not an expressive man, but one time that she could squeeze some inner truths out of him was in his reports.

Now they got to the part she'd been waiting for. He gave her the opening by asking how she was doing.

"Like I could sleep for a thousand years, but you do not have that luxury, because you have a new job." She nodded to Billy.

The eyes that watched Billy give her the box were open and vulnerable; his hands clasped his knees as though he was holding himself down too. She plowed forward, sensing that he was pushing back expectations. She had prepared a little deprecating speech about her inadequate knowledge of military protocol, and she delivered it with flourishes.

She held the box out to him; made him take it from her. She watched the slowly dawning comprehension on his face as he stared down at the shiny insignia and squeezed her shoulders together in delight. She'd never seen his body appear so relaxed, as though he'd been maintaining a rigid stance for a very long time.

"Thank you, Madam President." He acknowledged the young man in the room. "Thank you, Billy," he said.

"I never gave up hope," he said, revealing that vulnerability she'd sensed. "I just stopped tryin' to get these a long time ago."

She delivered a little homily: "Just goes to show you, Bill. Never give up hope."

Sincere, he replied, "Same goes for you, Laura."

Suddenly she was the one exposed; she needed to go to bed, right now. She hummed, said faintly, "All right," and started to struggle to her feet.

Captain Apollo had told her that she was to exchange salutes with her new Admiral; she accepted his strong-armed help to get upright, but could not stand independent of his grasp. Well, dammit, her salute was terrible anyway-she never knew what to do with her elbow-let him snap off his salute and that would do.

He didn't salute her.

His warm fingers slid down her jaw, balancing her chin, and he met her eyes, asking permission. She could only smile, aware of what he was about to do. Let him try to cure her with a kiss, she thought, as his lips met hers with virtuous chastity. He smiled back, a proud boy. At least he could hope, and that's all she'd asked of him.

She made her way carefully to her sleeping compartment, leaning heavily on Billy without looking back. But then she realized that, for a moment, the cancer wasn't there.

Bill hadn't cured her with that kiss, but he'd cured something else that had been eating at her. She'd felt so alone for so many years, even more so now with twenty billion souls down to fifty thousand, like sand running out of an hourglass. Yet now she knew; she would die loved.

The end.