Chapter Text
And so, under the guidance of Aphrodite and Eros, the Gods gifted the marks to the Thirteen, so even the most lost soul would not wander alone in the dark. -Sacred Scrolls of Kobol
All of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again. Sometimes, the cyclical nature of time etches its imprint. These marks were a divine sign that two souls had so profoundly impressed upon each other and manifested in corporeal existence.
Laura Roslin stared at herself in the mirror. Her travel clothes and bra were parted, revealing the dark brand of an eight-pointed star upon her left breast. This symbol, stark against the paleness of her skin, was a bleak reminder of her perpetual solitude. Despite the soulmark on her skin, she had spent years alone, disconnected from those around her. Now, she faced death alone, as cancer silently consumed her from beneath the very skin that bore her soul mark.
Even before the destruction of the 12 Colonies of Kobol, the likelihood of discovering the match to one’s supposed ‘soul mark’ was so low it was almost impossible. With a population of over 30 billion in the colonies and just a single match for each, the sheer size of the population made finding one’s supposed soulmate extremely challenging. Over half of the populace was markless or had abandoned the mythos. As a result, the marks had faded into a funny quirk of evolution.
Yet, Laura Roslin had always been fascinated by the existence of Soul Marks. Having once been an elementary school teacher, she loved watching children exclaim in joy as they compared marks, giggling over whether one student’s rectangle or star resembled another. This simple joy, combined with the legends and history around them, always caused a smile on her face.
Her fascination partly stemmed from the unique nature of her own mark, which resembled a compass rose, with four points of the star longer than the other four. This mark stood in dramatic contrast to the majority of the marks Laura had ever seen. Most marks were abstract in nature, composed of flowing lines and splotches In comparison, Laura’s mark had always been extraordinarily simple. There was no denying her mark was a star upon her breast, with its straight lines and sharp points.
Life, however, was inherently lonely, and the love represented by these marks held the promise of a cure for that solitude.
The marks were a divine sign from the gods, signifying that even the bleakest individual had a perfect match – someone meant just for them. Every human had the potential to have a matching half, someone out there who could heal the wound of human nature when joined together in love. Soulmates, as defined by the marks, intrinsically belonged to each other at almost a molecular level.
Ever since a car wreck had claimed the lives of her sisters and her father, which had quickly followed the loss of her mother to cancer, Laura had forged through life all on her own. She had trudged through life’s abyss solo, with no one left who could connect to her on even the most basic level. And although Laura had been granted the luck of being branded by the Gods, she had spent her entire life searching, never discovering its twin. The invisible thread meant to connect her to another soul remained hopelessly tangled.
And now, as Laura stared at her distraught image in the fogged-up mirror of the luxury liner that carried her to the decommissioning ceremony of the Battlestar Galactica, she realized she would die alone.
This realization sent an ache through her, prompting her to press a trembling hand over her heart, as if to quell the growing despair. Other than the pallid hue of her skin, the cancer hadn’t yet affected her appearance, yet, the depths of her anguish were now unmistakably etched across her face. She clutched the sink, fighting to keep herself upright, and her head fell as a strangled cry escaped her lips, breaking the silence of the darkened restroom. The divine grace upon her breast, once a beacon of hope for her soul, was destined to fade and decay into obscurity with her death, overpowered by the insidious cancerous darkness beneath.
There was a sharp chime, and Laura jolted to attention as the sound resonated through the liner. The captain’s slightly garbled voice through the intercom announced their impending arrival; the ship was moments away from docking with the Galactica.
Taking one more fleeting moment of vulnerability, Laura brushed away the glistening traces of tears from her jade eyes with a shaky hand. She splashed some water on her face, washing away the evidence of her tears down the sink. She steadied her breathing and straightened up, moving away from the porcelain sink that had briefly been her support. Meticulously, she fastened her open bra and top, and delved into an inner well of strength. Laura reminded herself of the need to regain her composure, to hold her head high; as the Secretary of Education, her duty awaited, and she could not afford to be hindered by her own despair.
Bill Adama stood before his bathroom mirror, his gaze meeting that of his reflection. His blue eyes looked over the lines of his face, lingering on scars and signs of age he’d earned from an entire life of dignified military service. Today was the decommissioning ceremony, marking the last day of his career in the military fleet before he was forced into retirement. The rich blue of his partly unbuttoned uniform spoke volumes of his authority as the Commander of the Galactica. Still, the image in the mirror, of an old man aging past his prime, just reminded Bill that he would soon be relegated to the sidelines, a long-forgotten war relic that would rust away while his ship became a museum.
A soft sigh escaped Bill as he reached for his shaving kit, seeking the comfort of the familiar self-care ritual. 42 years in the Colonial Fleet weighed on him as he applied shaving cream with deliberate strokes, the brush’s bristles rough against his weathered skin. His mind meandered through four decades of duty – protecting the Colonies, commanding isolated battlestars in deep space, piloting Vipers, and engaging Cylons during the war. As he scraped his straight razor across his cheek, Bill wondered if the time had been worth it. Dedicating his life to the fleet had heavily contributed to his failed marriage and subsequent divorce. It had also destroyed his family and fostered animosity from his sons, an animosity that ultimately ended in Zak’s death and his ostracization from Lee.
And now, after 42 years, the service was spitting back, leaving him with nothing—no love life, no career, and no future. This unceremonious retirement would sever him from his crew, the closest semblance of family he had ever cherished. It would once again leave him alone in the galaxy. Splashing and drying his face, Bill considered how the universe once again had taunted him with connection, giving him his crew and family, only to rip it away in a gaudy retirement ceremony.
As a child, Bill had been ostracized by his peers; firstly due to his Tauron descent while living on Caprica, and secondly, because his soulmate marking, filled with straight lines and harsh points, that others had always deemed pretentious and ostentatious. But the mark itself had always seemed to grant him strength to carry on. The mark had acted almost as a divine guardian on his shoulder, granting him the strength to carry on alone and friendless.
Bill’s ex-wife, Carolanne, had found his mark distasteful, incongruent with her image of a proper husband. To Carolanne, who was markless herself, the marks were pure myth, juvenile stories told to children at bedtime. She had urged Bill to have it removed, telling him it would bring embarrassment, but Bill had refused, unwilling to part with a piece of himself. In the end, she had left him anyway, so removing it hadn’t mattered. Maybe she had been right all along, Bill supposed; maybe the Commander had always been destined to be alone, and the sharp mark that tattooed his shoulder blade was a fairytale.
But his own experience with his parents contradicted that belief. Soulmates through and through, Joseph and Evelyn Adama’s love story, beginning amidst the books of Caprica City’s Law Library, had been profoundly deep and all-encompassing from the day the two had met each other. They had an enviable relationship, which was evident to anyone they encountered, one that Bill had wished he had obtained throughout his life. Unfortunately, his own marriage had been a failure in comparison, a mere mockery of the love his parents had maintained.
The comm unit on the wall buzzed sharply, abruptly pulling Bill from his deep thoughts. He swiftly buttoned his uniform up to its customary crisp appearance, and once satisfied that he looked up to his standards of orderliness, he snatched the corded phone off the wall.
“Adama,” he answered, his voice carrying the unmistakable tone of command.
“Sir,” Petty Officer Dualla’s voice chirped on the line. “The Secretary of Education’s shuttle has just landed. Shall I send word that you’ll be meeting her?”
“I’ll be right there.”
Bill hung up the comm and sighed, his eyes fluttering closed momentarily. The final day of his career had dawned, beginning with an encounter with the very woman responsible for grounding the Galactica, relegating his beloved ship to a frakking museum exhibit.
A deep sigh escaped him as he pondered the irony - a distinguished military career ending in the hands of politicians. Frakking hell... He hated politicians.
The sharp echo of Laura’s kitten heels punctuated the silence of the Galactica’s tiled floors, creating a rhythmic backdrop to her stroll alongside Aaron Doral, the museum’s public relations representative. They both looked out of place. His bright, powder blue suit stood out starkly, almost jarringly, against the slate gray of the battlestar’s corridors and the more subdued uniforms of the passing crewmen. His scrawny frame was dwarfed by the magnitude of the bulkheads around him.
Her own lavender suit, a beloved choice for springtime, now appeared almost too flashy amidst the utilitarian backdrop of the battlestar. Maybe she should have chosen a more traditional suit for the occasion.
As they approached their destination, Doral slowed next to her. Laura wondered how he could even find his way around, having spent only a few weeks prepping the museum. Navigating the ship’s complex twists and turns was a challenge in itself, and paired with the lack of signage beyond numbers along the way, the Galactica was an enormous maze.
He stopped in front of a hatchway and gestured widely for Laura to enter. Officers worked at rows of computers and busy screens in the crowded, circular room. In an effort not to interrupt the rush of activity, Doral said in a hush, “And this is the very hub of Galactica, the Combat Information Center. This is where good officers work diligently to direct the battlestar’s tactical and navigational operations. During combat–”
“CIC.” A brass timbre interrupted Doral’s overly practiced speech, correcting the phrase. Laura watched an imposing figure of a middle-aged man with graying hair emerge from behind a large screen in the middle of the busy base and approach the visitors. The man, while not tall, had broad shoulders and solid build that suggested a lifetime of physical conditioning and readiness for combat. He carried himself with an upright, confident posture and his gaze was steely ice.
“Secretary Roslin,” Doral stated, his voice betraying his irritation at being interrupted. “May I introduce Commander William Adama, the Commanding Officer of the Galactica?”
“It’s a pleasure, Commander,” Laura said as she reached across and grasped his hand in a handshake. His handshake was firm and reassuring, and she locked eyes with his piercing blue gaze. At their touch, a surprising jolt of electricity surged through Laura, unexpected and startling. She pulled back with a surprised gasp, her hand still tingling, and her eyes widened in shock.
“I apologize, Madam Secretary. There has been an increase in static electricity aboard the Galactica recently. Engineering is trying to resolve it,” the Commander apologized and stepped back, releasing her grip.
A soft laugh escaped Laura. “That’s alright, Commander. I hope it won’t be a problem when the museum opens. I imagine children won’t enjoy constantly getting shocked as they try to learn.”
“No, I imagine not,” agreed the Commander, his stature imposing as he gestured towards the corridor hatch. “Should we continue the tour? I am sure the Old Girl has a few exciting spots for you to see before the ceremony that Mr. Doral hasn’t shown you yet.”
Before Laura could respond, Commander Adama swiftly exited through the hatchway, his stride brisk and expectant, signaling for her to keep pace. Laura was surprised that Adama chose to accompany them on the tour; his demeanor hardly suggested he was a person who enjoyed mingling with politicians, nor did he seem particularly invested in the museum’s educational mission.
Laura matched the Commander’s brisk speed, following him through the ship’s winding hallways, up and down ladders to decks that were virtual clones of each other and through causeways with only numbers signifying their meaning, with Doral trotting along behind her like an annoying puppy dog. Occasionally, the Commander would pause to denote the history or purpose behind a location aboard the ship. Notable highlights of the tour were the Observation Deck, where stars glittered more radiantly than Laura had ever seen, each pinprick of light magnified by the glass roof, and the War Room, dominated by its expansive map tables that threw ominous shadows across the room.
Despite its briskness, the tour provided Laura with straightforward and informative insights. She could tell the Commander was irritated that such a brilliant warship was being reduced to a museum.
With its rich history, Laura was convinced that Galactica would be a remarkable asset to the educational system. The ship was a living monument to the Cylon War and had witnessed history come and go for over 50 years. She hoped its gravitas would inspire future generations to delve into studies of history, aeronautics, or even astrophysics. Laura could not imagine a better retirement for a ship such as Galactica.
Her only qualm was the ship’s labyrinthine layout; it was damn confusing and impractical.
“Commander,” Laura initiated, her voice steady yet inquisitive as they navigated back toward the ship’s hub, “have you heard of the Argonaut Program? It’s a relatively new technology of adaptive Radio-Frequency Identification that tracks visitors throughout museums or large structures and relays the information back to nearby screens and interfaces.”
Laura observed Adama’s abrupt pivot towards her, noting the fierce emotion that flickered in his eyes, but she continued on. “It would be useful for navigating. It’s so easy to get lost on Galactica. It tells people things like where the restroom is, and --”
“It’s an integrated computer network, and I will not have it aboard this ship,” He interrupted, authority evident in his voice and his eyes darkening in a sudden fury.
Laura scoffed, crossing her arms defiantly; she found his stance absurdly archaic. Computer networks had been normalized again for almost two full decades. Fearing the ghosts of the past would help no one and just hinder the budding museum. “I heard you’re one of those people. You’re actually afraid of computers.”
“No, there are many computers on this ship; they’re just not networked,” Adama rebutted.
Laura glanced back at Doral, who watched silently and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Such rigidity, she mused, was typical of military men entrenched in their ways. “A computerized network would simply make it faster and easier for the teachers to be able to teach-”
“Let me explain something to you: many good men and women lost their lives aboard this ship because someone wanted a faster computer to make life easier. I’m sorry I’m inconveniencing you or the teachers, but I will not allow a networked computerized system to be placed on this ship while I’m in command. Is that clear?” Laura was taken aback by Adama’s vehement response; she was accustomed to others yielding to her requests.
Laura relented with a sigh. Apparently, they would just have to find another method to help navigate aboard the museum. It would be more costly and less efficient, but at least those in the military, like the Commander, wouldn’t see it as an affront to memories of the past. “Yes, sir.”
Adama nodded shortly at her. “Thank you. ‘Scuse me.” He turned on his heel and marched away, with crewmen quickly leaping out of his path as restrained anger rolled off him in waves.
With a contemplative sigh, Laura’s gaze followed the Commander’s retreating figure. Well, there went any hope for a smooth transition with the Commander, she figured. There was no doubt in her mind that the next few weeks would be difficult, collaborating with Adama. From only their small interactions so far, she feared any change proposed to Galactica would force a conflict.
Shaking her head, her frustration and resignation evident on her face, Laura exhaled deeply, breathing steadily and summoning her patience. So inflexible. Gods, she hated military men.
“Oh, here we go again.”
“Sister, do you think they will get it together faster this time?” A soft voice whispered across the cosmos. A young woman, garbed in ivory with eyes as dark as the abyss, gazed back at her sisters.
A lyrical, feminine voice laughed back. “Well, this cycle, it’s quite literally written on their skin. If they don’t get it together this time, I quit. Find someone new for my job.” Her sister, a curvy strawberry-blonde cloaked in bright red, shook her head, her curls bouncing in frustration.
“In the last cycle, they were ever so close,” said the eldest sister hoarsely, her voice as harsh as the seas crashing upon rocks. Dressed in black, with eyes gray as the moon and hair silvered by time, she declared, “A wise man once said, ‘Love is born into every human being; it calls back the halves of our original nature together; it tries to make one out of two and heal the wound of human nature.’”
A hollow laugh escaped from the cracked lips of the eldest sister.
Brimming with youthful idealism, the woman in ivory concluded, “Perhaps finally, in this cycle, they can heal the wound of human nature before it’s too late.”
"They better. This is their last try."