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Fic - BSG - A Solstice Carol (3)
It's still Friday in my home time zone!
This Chapter: The second spirit arrives, with a cigar and a sharp tongue. She brings more than humor with her as Tigh's re-education continues.
Stave III: The Second of the Three Spirits
When Tigh woke again, he was clutching his pillow to his chest and breathing into the mattress. Looking around quickly, he saw no ghostly intruders, but he did catch sight of the clock, which was once again at 0133 hours. Time, then, for the next visitor.
He looked towards the (closed) porthole. Nothing but black night.
He hesitated only briefly before leaning over to look underneath the bed. Nothing but dust.
The clock was ticking past 0140 when he finally noticed that the hatch to his sitting room was ringed with bright light. Tigh made a mental note to inspect it later as he rose and tip-toed towards the door. He didn’t bother with his gun this time, knowing in his heart that the second spirit must be the source. As he touched the latch, a voice called out, “Are you coming in, or not? I don’t have all night.”
Steeling his courage, Tigh wrenched the door open and stepped into his sitting room – or it should have been, but the arrangement was so changed that he hardly recognized it but for his own furniture and wall hangings.
The room was filled with ghostly figures gathered around card tables, talking, laughing, drinking, and betting all manner of absurd things. They were all dressed in what he recognized as off-duty military uniforms, and they didn’t notice Tigh at all. On closer look, the figures, cards, tables and all were composed entirely of smoke, whose line Tigh followed backwards until he found the source.
“Frak. Not you.”
Seated in his favorite armchair with her feet kicked up on the ottoman was a woman who was not composed of smoke, though she, too, wore the military tanks and pants. Her dark blonde hair was cropped short, and on her face was a grin Tigh had once grown to know and hate. She flicked the long cigar she was smoking.
“What’s the matter, Colonel? Not happy to see me?” She waggled her eyebrows.
“Starbuck,” he growled. The nickname she’d bestowed on him years ago made his shoulders tighten involuntarily.
“Just because I gave you a black eye the last time we met is no reason to be unfriendly,” she added, smirking in joy for the pain she was causing him.
“What the hell are you doing here? What are all these –” he waved his hand at the ghostly crowd “ – people doing here?”
“I am the Spirit of Solstice Present, and these people are atmosphere,” she replied. “But if you don’t want them around…” She leaned forward in her seat and blew at the smoky figures. Though it was not possible that one breath should dispel all that had accumulated, the figures dissolved into mist and then into nothing. Starbuck leaned back in her chair and stuck the cigar between her front teeth. “Surprised to see me?”
“Surprised doesn’t even begin to cover it,” said Tigh. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Starbuck shrugged. “If that’s how you want to play it.” She swung her feet down and stood up, shrugging on a hooded sweatshirt. “Touch my sleeve.”
“What?”
She rolled her eyes. “I won’t bite, I promise.”
Not having any more appealing choice or retort at the ready, Tigh did as she told him.
There was no stroll through the hull this time; the room instantly fell away and left them standing on the city streets. They were in an area of town that Tigh had only seen pictures of in newspapers – a district that, every winter, turned into a month-long festival for Brumalia. All of the shops and businesses were decorated for the holiday, and everything stayed open late. It was a tourist attraction, mostly, designed to revitalize an otherwise impoverished neighborhood. Large department stores were not permitted to open branches within the few square blocks designated. It was early evening, and the streets were filled with people laughing, talking, and singing.
In short, it was a nightmare.
Starbuck didn’t take notice of Tigh’s discomfort as she strolled down the block. Tigh had no choice but to follow. She stopped at each corner and tapped her cigar ash. “Should we buy you an ashtray?” Tigh asked with a sneer.
She glared back at him. “It’s a blessing on their homes and businesses.”
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Shouldn’t you be using ambrosia for that?”
“I can think of better ways to enjoy a bottle of booze, can’t you?” She smirked, and in spite of himself, Tigh broke into a smile of his own.
Having reached an understanding, they continued through the holiday district. Tigh noticed that Starbuck did not tap her cigar on the most expensive-looking shops, and he asked her why she should bestow her blessing on the poorest alone.
“They need it more,” she replied simply. “The others have my blessing by the good work they do for others.”
They left the carousing behind and entered a residential area. The festival of Brumalia was clearly still in full swing – the squares were filled with families dancing and singing, and as they left one behind, Tigh didn’t realize he was still humming the song until he caught Starbuck’s raised eyebrows, at which he coughed and clasped his hands securely behind his back.
The neighborhood was lined with apartment buildings with only narrow alleys between them. Lines were strung between buildings, presumably to hang laundry, though a scarce few articles were pinned now. The street was narrow, its sidewalks were cracked, and every third streetlamp needed a new bulb. Yet, as Tigh looked at the lit windows, every one spoke joy.
Starbuck abruptly turned up the stairs of one building, beckoning Tigh to follow her inside. They climbed three flights of stairs. Tigh had to sidestep and skip one every now and then to avoid the mysterious dark patches on the thin, burnt orange carpeting. They stopped at last in front of number twelve and passed inside as easily as they had come through the front door.
There was no doubt that the apartment was cozy; indeed, it was the most well-lived place in which Tigh had ever been. Every available spot had a furnishing that showed years of love and good use, from the couch and chairs to the flat table in the center of the room. Every appliance in the kitchen, which was open to the room, was working on some pot or dish, and the whole apartment was full of smells that had Tigh’s mouth watering from the moment he stepped inside. The radio was humming with holiday music. It took Tigh a full few minutes to realize how few the furnishings really were. Crammed into the small space as they were, the effect was such to make the rooms look full to bursting. Starbuck nudged Tigh with her elbow, and on gaining his attention, nodded to the embroidery mounted on the wall:
The Agathon Family
Amor vincit omnia
What completed the picture were the family themselves. The food didn’t cook itself, nor did the decorations hang on their own – a bevy of people of all sizes bustled to and fro, laughing and chasing one another as they went about their preparations. Tigh recognized the clan’s leader with a start: Sharon Agathon, whom he’d met on a few occasions when she dropped by her husband’s place of employment to leave a note or package. Sharon’s dark hair was pulled back and her sleeves rolled up as she hurried around, instructing some of her children and curtailing the others.
“Gina,” she said to the eldest, “remember to keep stirring the gravy.”
“Yes, Mom,” her daughter replied with a long-suffering smile.
Two younger children were playing keep-away with the mistletoe as an older boy tried to snatch it from them. “Mo-om!” he whined.
“D’Anna, Doral, give Simon the mistletoe. You know it’s his job to hang it,” Sharon chastised them, not needing to spare a look. “Your father will be home soon and we want everything to be ready for him and –”
The door behind Tigh flew open. “I’m home!” came a voice that was not his employee’s.
“Shelley!” cried the younger two, dropping their prize and running to the door to hug their eldest sister. They brought her into the apartment, and Sharon broke into a wide smile.
“How can I help?” Shelley asked.
“Just set the table, you’ve been working all day. I can’t believe they didn’t let you have today off.” She shook her head as she pulled a bottle of wine from the refrigerator.
“There was so much to do. It’s our busy season, after all. They practically had to send me away. And you had time off, so I figured there were enough hands at home as it was.” Shelley hung up her coat and hat. “Where’s Dad?”
“He should be home any minute. They were just down at the temple.”
“I see Daddy!” cried Doral, pointing out the window.
Soon enough, the door opened again, and in came Karl Agathon, bearing his youngest boy. “Hello, everyone!” he said. “Sorry we’re late; little Leoben wanted to stay longer.”
Tigh’s eyes were drawn to the small boy as his father set him on the floor and made sure a cane made to fit his size was secure in his hand. Little Leoben was thin and pale, and Tigh could see that making his way into the apartment was a strain for him. His excitable siblings soon gathered him up and brought him to see the decorations.
Sharon stole over to her husband, who was shrugging out of his coat. “Did Leoben behave today, Helo?”
He nodded and kissed her forehead. “Perfect, like all of your family,” he teased her before continuing softly. “He got a little tired on the way home, so we had to go more slowly. It was all right, though. He liked seeing the lights.
“He’s such a strange little kid,” he continued. “Always saying things that make him sound older than I am. He’s smarter than I am, that’s for sure. But then he’ll press his nose up against a window and I’ll remember that he’s just a child, after all.”
His voice had trailed off near the end as he watched his children set the table for their meal. Sharon gave her husband a hug. “Dinner’s just about ready. Come on.”
In little time at all, the feast was ready, and the family rushed to take their places at the table as the older girls, who resembled each other so closely that their heights and clothes alone differentiated them, brought in the food. Everyone exclaimed over each dish as it arrived, like they’d never seen such dishes in their lives. It wasn’t much in the way of a feast, but they could not have been more impressed had it been a grand banquet. In no time at all, they had torn through the dinner and dessert. The children helped to clear the table, and they all settled together on the couch and chairs with warm mugs of cider.
“Blessed Brumalia to you all,” said the father, everyone echoed it, and for the first time, Tigh believed the words were heartfelt. He watched his employee lift his youngest onto his lap and rub his back gently to soothe his cough.
“Spirit,” he said to Starbuck, “tell me – will little Leoben live?”
“I see an empty chair at the table, and tiny cane without an owner, carefully preserved,” she replied, her face distant. “If these shadows remain unaltered, the child will die.”
“No,” whispered Tigh. “No, don’t say that. Let him be spared – tell me he will be!”
Starbuck’s eyes pierced him. “If he’s going to die, he’d better do it now and decrease the surplus population,” she said with a curled lip.
Tigh shrank back from his own words, but the spirit was undeterred. “Whose right is it to judge who will live and who will die?” she continued. “Yours, Tigh? Others of your wealth and position? Do they deserve more out of life because of the material goods they’ve obtained through birth or chance? Is this child worth less to the world because of who his parents are?”
Tigh was at a loss for a reply. He was saved from further pain under her glare by Agathon’s voice.
“To Mr. Tigh, the founder of the feast,” he said, raising his glass.
“Oh, the founder of the feast, is he?” remarked Sharon. “I’d love to give that founder a piece of my mind. He can feast on that.”
“Sharon,” said Karl, “come on. It’s Brumalia.”
“I’ve never made my feelings about him a secret before, Helo, and I won’t do it now just because it’s a holiday,” his wife continued, setting her mug down and crossing her arms. “You’re stagnating at that place, and we all know it’s because of him. You could do so much better, in treatment if nothing else.”
“Not now, all right?” her husband responded. “Please. Mr. Tigh pays me for my work and he was generous enough to let me have today off when I know he’ll be working the whole day through. For Brumalia, Sharon.”
Softening under his resolution, Sharon took up her mug again. “For Brumalia, and for you, I’ll drink to his health.” The children, who had been glancing between their parents during this exchange, followed suit in the toast. After an uncomfortable pause, the conversation began again on other topics. The family was nothing remarkable – no different in manner of living or income than the rest of their building, perhaps. What they lacked in material goods and success, they more than made up in the glue of love that held them together.
“Let’s go,” Starbuck murmured, nudging Tigh to the door. He did his best to watch the family for as long as he could, but soon they were through the door and on a street in a different part of the city. In contrast to the cheap housing development they’d just come from, this neighborhood was a cleaner, more stylishly modern area. There were balconies at the windows, and doormen in the well-lit lobbies. From the street signs, Tigh recognized it as a neighborhood populated by up-and-coming young artists and professionals.
Starbuck seemed to fit in here as well as she had in the poorer area. She had the knack of blending into whatever company surrounded her, whereas Tigh felt equally out of sorts anywhere but among those of his own profession. He followed her, but his mind was still back with the Agathon family, so he didn’t recognize Lee Adama’s building until they were inside it and headed towards the elevator. As they rode, Starbuck leaned casually on the railing, took a drag from her half-smoked cigar, and blew a smoke ring at his face.
“Having fun yet?” she said.
He didn’t answer, but the scowl that had come so easily before eluded him now, and the spirit laughed in response.
There was more laughter inside his nephew by habit’s apartment, coming from young Adama himself. He sat in a fashionable but comfortable living room, surrounded by a host of guests who were smiling just as broadly, but none laughing so hard as he.
“I swear, that’s what he said,” Lee managed between laughs. “Boiled in his own pudding! And I think he really believed it, too.”
His wife beside him laughed along. “Is that the instant pudding or the homemade kind?” she giggled. She was a petite brunette, with a young face like her husband’s. Tigh tried to remember what she did to support her husband’s academic pursuits. As she reached over to clasp his hand, her wide, bright smile jogged his memory – she was a dentist. They had offered to let him patronize her office at a discounted rate, but Tigh’s pride forced him to refuse.
“He’s a funny old man,” Lee continued. “I’d never say it to his face, of course, but I don’t think he’s really all that bad, at heart. He’s just not a, uh, social person.”
“Just a rich one,” Cally remarked, dimpled cheeks rosy with mirth. “But you keep deluding yourself, and I’ll keep mocking him.”
“He doesn’t hurt anyone but himself with his attitude,” Lee protested. “Refusing our invitation was his loss only, not ours.”
Everyone agreed and drank to that. The group seemed ready to move on, but Lee had one last word to give. “If only for my father’s memory, I’ll keep trying with Tigh. I almost think he likes it that I call him Uncle, and if nothing else, I think time and persistence will eventually wear him down.”
Cally patted his head patronizingly, and everyone laughed again. “Enough of Mr. Tigh,” she declared, crossing to the small piano. “Lee got me a new book of music, and I’m dying to try it out.” She struck up a familiar holiday tune, and the whole group joined in, save one man who made his way to Lee.
“I thought you and your father didn’t get on,” the friend remarked in a low, accented voice. His glasses and jacket marked him as another academic. Tigh suspected many of the assembled group were Lee’s colleagues from the university, which was located nearby.
Lee sighed. “I didn’t, when he was alive. There was…I blamed him for more than I should’ve, and he was so devoted to his work above anything else that we could never see eye to eye. After he died, I realized how much we’d both really lost.”
“Sorry to bring it up, then,” his friend answered.
He shrugged. “It’s all right, I did it myself.” He grinned mischievously. “Don’t look now, Gaius, but Seelix is watching you.”
The man – Gaius – straightened abruptly. “Is she, now? Then if you’ll excuse me, Professor, I believe I’ve an experiment to tend to.” With a confident smile and toss of his head, Gaius moved back to the group, and at the song’s ending, proposed a game of blind man’s bluff.
Lee watched them for a moment with a distant gaze before joining in, and Tigh, in turn, watched Lee. He was a fine figure of a man – not tall, but solidly built, with a clean, chiseled face. He favored his mother in features, but Tigh could see something of the father in the set of his jaw and in his eyes.
After watching Gaius, who was clearly and unashamedly cheating, chase poor Seelix around the room, they broke out a table and cards for Triad. Starbuck, who had been leaning against Lee’s former chair with the least smug and sarcastic expression Tigh had ever seen on her, found her smile again and moved to watch the game. She took great pleasure in examining every player’s cards and making predictions as to who would win each hand. She laughed along as their bets grew more absurd with each round, and when Tigh gave her a suspicious look as each of her predictions came true, she only winked.
The card players eventually broke up into smaller groups. Tigh took no end of pleasure, and not a small part of it wistful, in watching and listening to them. When Lee began to gather them together again for some sort of trivia game – sure to be a good competition in this crowd – Tigh looked to Starbuck, who was hovering behind them. “We can stay for this, right?” he pleaded.
But she shook her head solemnly. “Sorry. Time’s up.” She touched his arm, and the scene disappeared, being replaced with an unfamiliar hangar deck. It had been many years since Tigh had been in one himself, back when they were just starting in business and often had to fly their own transport ships. It was then that he had met with many so-called “real” pilots, those in the military who, like Starbuck, took great pleasure in their rivalry with the civilians. Starbuck stepped towards one of the dormant Vipers, which was covered with a tarp to keep off dust. She ran her hand over the tarp anyway as if to feel the ship’s lines. Her cigar was down to little more than a stub.
“You’re going to need another one of those,” he commented, nodding at it.
“My time grows short,” she replied.
Tigh was suddenly curious. “Whatever happened to you? I mean, in the real world?”
She chuckled lightly. “What makes you think I’m not still there?”
Tigh would have queried further but for noticing some movement beneath the tarp. “Starbuck – Spirit – is there something alive underneath that?”
And before his very eyes, out from underneath the tarp crawled two misshapen figures. They were young men, or so he thought at first, though not more than youths, and childlike in their crouches. The hovered near to the spirit’s legs. They were gaunt and limping, with bloodied bandages wrapped around the remnants of uniforms. They were fully horrifying, but Tigh could not turn away. “Who…what…”
“Don’t you recognize them, Tigh? They’re the products of humanity. More than these machines and buildings,” she said, gesturing around the room, “it’s these two who are your true legacy. This one is Ignorance, and that one is Want. Beware of them, Tigh, especially the first, for on his bandages and wounds, I see only doom.”
“Can’t they go anywhere for help?” asked Tigh.
“Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?” she mocked him, sneering.
From somewhere in the hangar, there came a loud alarm. Starbuck dropped her stub of a cigar and twisted it under her boot. Bright light filled the room, and when Tigh could look again, she wasn’t there.
But someone else was walking towards him.
“Ellen?”
This Chapter: The second spirit arrives, with a cigar and a sharp tongue. She brings more than humor with her as Tigh's re-education continues.
Stave III: The Second of the Three Spirits
When Tigh woke again, he was clutching his pillow to his chest and breathing into the mattress. Looking around quickly, he saw no ghostly intruders, but he did catch sight of the clock, which was once again at 0133 hours. Time, then, for the next visitor.
He looked towards the (closed) porthole. Nothing but black night.
He hesitated only briefly before leaning over to look underneath the bed. Nothing but dust.
The clock was ticking past 0140 when he finally noticed that the hatch to his sitting room was ringed with bright light. Tigh made a mental note to inspect it later as he rose and tip-toed towards the door. He didn’t bother with his gun this time, knowing in his heart that the second spirit must be the source. As he touched the latch, a voice called out, “Are you coming in, or not? I don’t have all night.”
Steeling his courage, Tigh wrenched the door open and stepped into his sitting room – or it should have been, but the arrangement was so changed that he hardly recognized it but for his own furniture and wall hangings.
The room was filled with ghostly figures gathered around card tables, talking, laughing, drinking, and betting all manner of absurd things. They were all dressed in what he recognized as off-duty military uniforms, and they didn’t notice Tigh at all. On closer look, the figures, cards, tables and all were composed entirely of smoke, whose line Tigh followed backwards until he found the source.
“Frak. Not you.”
Seated in his favorite armchair with her feet kicked up on the ottoman was a woman who was not composed of smoke, though she, too, wore the military tanks and pants. Her dark blonde hair was cropped short, and on her face was a grin Tigh had once grown to know and hate. She flicked the long cigar she was smoking.
“What’s the matter, Colonel? Not happy to see me?” She waggled her eyebrows.
“Starbuck,” he growled. The nickname she’d bestowed on him years ago made his shoulders tighten involuntarily.
“Just because I gave you a black eye the last time we met is no reason to be unfriendly,” she added, smirking in joy for the pain she was causing him.
“What the hell are you doing here? What are all these –” he waved his hand at the ghostly crowd “ – people doing here?”
“I am the Spirit of Solstice Present, and these people are atmosphere,” she replied. “But if you don’t want them around…” She leaned forward in her seat and blew at the smoky figures. Though it was not possible that one breath should dispel all that had accumulated, the figures dissolved into mist and then into nothing. Starbuck leaned back in her chair and stuck the cigar between her front teeth. “Surprised to see me?”
“Surprised doesn’t even begin to cover it,” said Tigh. “Let’s just get this over with.”
Starbuck shrugged. “If that’s how you want to play it.” She swung her feet down and stood up, shrugging on a hooded sweatshirt. “Touch my sleeve.”
“What?”
She rolled her eyes. “I won’t bite, I promise.”
Not having any more appealing choice or retort at the ready, Tigh did as she told him.
There was no stroll through the hull this time; the room instantly fell away and left them standing on the city streets. They were in an area of town that Tigh had only seen pictures of in newspapers – a district that, every winter, turned into a month-long festival for Brumalia. All of the shops and businesses were decorated for the holiday, and everything stayed open late. It was a tourist attraction, mostly, designed to revitalize an otherwise impoverished neighborhood. Large department stores were not permitted to open branches within the few square blocks designated. It was early evening, and the streets were filled with people laughing, talking, and singing.
In short, it was a nightmare.
Starbuck didn’t take notice of Tigh’s discomfort as she strolled down the block. Tigh had no choice but to follow. She stopped at each corner and tapped her cigar ash. “Should we buy you an ashtray?” Tigh asked with a sneer.
She glared back at him. “It’s a blessing on their homes and businesses.”
His brow wrinkled in confusion. “Shouldn’t you be using ambrosia for that?”
“I can think of better ways to enjoy a bottle of booze, can’t you?” She smirked, and in spite of himself, Tigh broke into a smile of his own.
Having reached an understanding, they continued through the holiday district. Tigh noticed that Starbuck did not tap her cigar on the most expensive-looking shops, and he asked her why she should bestow her blessing on the poorest alone.
“They need it more,” she replied simply. “The others have my blessing by the good work they do for others.”
They left the carousing behind and entered a residential area. The festival of Brumalia was clearly still in full swing – the squares were filled with families dancing and singing, and as they left one behind, Tigh didn’t realize he was still humming the song until he caught Starbuck’s raised eyebrows, at which he coughed and clasped his hands securely behind his back.
The neighborhood was lined with apartment buildings with only narrow alleys between them. Lines were strung between buildings, presumably to hang laundry, though a scarce few articles were pinned now. The street was narrow, its sidewalks were cracked, and every third streetlamp needed a new bulb. Yet, as Tigh looked at the lit windows, every one spoke joy.
Starbuck abruptly turned up the stairs of one building, beckoning Tigh to follow her inside. They climbed three flights of stairs. Tigh had to sidestep and skip one every now and then to avoid the mysterious dark patches on the thin, burnt orange carpeting. They stopped at last in front of number twelve and passed inside as easily as they had come through the front door.
There was no doubt that the apartment was cozy; indeed, it was the most well-lived place in which Tigh had ever been. Every available spot had a furnishing that showed years of love and good use, from the couch and chairs to the flat table in the center of the room. Every appliance in the kitchen, which was open to the room, was working on some pot or dish, and the whole apartment was full of smells that had Tigh’s mouth watering from the moment he stepped inside. The radio was humming with holiday music. It took Tigh a full few minutes to realize how few the furnishings really were. Crammed into the small space as they were, the effect was such to make the rooms look full to bursting. Starbuck nudged Tigh with her elbow, and on gaining his attention, nodded to the embroidery mounted on the wall:
Amor vincit omnia
What completed the picture were the family themselves. The food didn’t cook itself, nor did the decorations hang on their own – a bevy of people of all sizes bustled to and fro, laughing and chasing one another as they went about their preparations. Tigh recognized the clan’s leader with a start: Sharon Agathon, whom he’d met on a few occasions when she dropped by her husband’s place of employment to leave a note or package. Sharon’s dark hair was pulled back and her sleeves rolled up as she hurried around, instructing some of her children and curtailing the others.
“Gina,” she said to the eldest, “remember to keep stirring the gravy.”
“Yes, Mom,” her daughter replied with a long-suffering smile.
Two younger children were playing keep-away with the mistletoe as an older boy tried to snatch it from them. “Mo-om!” he whined.
“D’Anna, Doral, give Simon the mistletoe. You know it’s his job to hang it,” Sharon chastised them, not needing to spare a look. “Your father will be home soon and we want everything to be ready for him and –”
The door behind Tigh flew open. “I’m home!” came a voice that was not his employee’s.
“Shelley!” cried the younger two, dropping their prize and running to the door to hug their eldest sister. They brought her into the apartment, and Sharon broke into a wide smile.
“How can I help?” Shelley asked.
“Just set the table, you’ve been working all day. I can’t believe they didn’t let you have today off.” She shook her head as she pulled a bottle of wine from the refrigerator.
“There was so much to do. It’s our busy season, after all. They practically had to send me away. And you had time off, so I figured there were enough hands at home as it was.” Shelley hung up her coat and hat. “Where’s Dad?”
“He should be home any minute. They were just down at the temple.”
“I see Daddy!” cried Doral, pointing out the window.
Soon enough, the door opened again, and in came Karl Agathon, bearing his youngest boy. “Hello, everyone!” he said. “Sorry we’re late; little Leoben wanted to stay longer.”
Tigh’s eyes were drawn to the small boy as his father set him on the floor and made sure a cane made to fit his size was secure in his hand. Little Leoben was thin and pale, and Tigh could see that making his way into the apartment was a strain for him. His excitable siblings soon gathered him up and brought him to see the decorations.
Sharon stole over to her husband, who was shrugging out of his coat. “Did Leoben behave today, Helo?”
He nodded and kissed her forehead. “Perfect, like all of your family,” he teased her before continuing softly. “He got a little tired on the way home, so we had to go more slowly. It was all right, though. He liked seeing the lights.
“He’s such a strange little kid,” he continued. “Always saying things that make him sound older than I am. He’s smarter than I am, that’s for sure. But then he’ll press his nose up against a window and I’ll remember that he’s just a child, after all.”
His voice had trailed off near the end as he watched his children set the table for their meal. Sharon gave her husband a hug. “Dinner’s just about ready. Come on.”
In little time at all, the feast was ready, and the family rushed to take their places at the table as the older girls, who resembled each other so closely that their heights and clothes alone differentiated them, brought in the food. Everyone exclaimed over each dish as it arrived, like they’d never seen such dishes in their lives. It wasn’t much in the way of a feast, but they could not have been more impressed had it been a grand banquet. In no time at all, they had torn through the dinner and dessert. The children helped to clear the table, and they all settled together on the couch and chairs with warm mugs of cider.
“Blessed Brumalia to you all,” said the father, everyone echoed it, and for the first time, Tigh believed the words were heartfelt. He watched his employee lift his youngest onto his lap and rub his back gently to soothe his cough.
“Spirit,” he said to Starbuck, “tell me – will little Leoben live?”
“I see an empty chair at the table, and tiny cane without an owner, carefully preserved,” she replied, her face distant. “If these shadows remain unaltered, the child will die.”
“No,” whispered Tigh. “No, don’t say that. Let him be spared – tell me he will be!”
Starbuck’s eyes pierced him. “If he’s going to die, he’d better do it now and decrease the surplus population,” she said with a curled lip.
Tigh shrank back from his own words, but the spirit was undeterred. “Whose right is it to judge who will live and who will die?” she continued. “Yours, Tigh? Others of your wealth and position? Do they deserve more out of life because of the material goods they’ve obtained through birth or chance? Is this child worth less to the world because of who his parents are?”
Tigh was at a loss for a reply. He was saved from further pain under her glare by Agathon’s voice.
“To Mr. Tigh, the founder of the feast,” he said, raising his glass.
“Oh, the founder of the feast, is he?” remarked Sharon. “I’d love to give that founder a piece of my mind. He can feast on that.”
“Sharon,” said Karl, “come on. It’s Brumalia.”
“I’ve never made my feelings about him a secret before, Helo, and I won’t do it now just because it’s a holiday,” his wife continued, setting her mug down and crossing her arms. “You’re stagnating at that place, and we all know it’s because of him. You could do so much better, in treatment if nothing else.”
“Not now, all right?” her husband responded. “Please. Mr. Tigh pays me for my work and he was generous enough to let me have today off when I know he’ll be working the whole day through. For Brumalia, Sharon.”
Softening under his resolution, Sharon took up her mug again. “For Brumalia, and for you, I’ll drink to his health.” The children, who had been glancing between their parents during this exchange, followed suit in the toast. After an uncomfortable pause, the conversation began again on other topics. The family was nothing remarkable – no different in manner of living or income than the rest of their building, perhaps. What they lacked in material goods and success, they more than made up in the glue of love that held them together.
“Let’s go,” Starbuck murmured, nudging Tigh to the door. He did his best to watch the family for as long as he could, but soon they were through the door and on a street in a different part of the city. In contrast to the cheap housing development they’d just come from, this neighborhood was a cleaner, more stylishly modern area. There were balconies at the windows, and doormen in the well-lit lobbies. From the street signs, Tigh recognized it as a neighborhood populated by up-and-coming young artists and professionals.
Starbuck seemed to fit in here as well as she had in the poorer area. She had the knack of blending into whatever company surrounded her, whereas Tigh felt equally out of sorts anywhere but among those of his own profession. He followed her, but his mind was still back with the Agathon family, so he didn’t recognize Lee Adama’s building until they were inside it and headed towards the elevator. As they rode, Starbuck leaned casually on the railing, took a drag from her half-smoked cigar, and blew a smoke ring at his face.
“Having fun yet?” she said.
He didn’t answer, but the scowl that had come so easily before eluded him now, and the spirit laughed in response.
There was more laughter inside his nephew by habit’s apartment, coming from young Adama himself. He sat in a fashionable but comfortable living room, surrounded by a host of guests who were smiling just as broadly, but none laughing so hard as he.
“I swear, that’s what he said,” Lee managed between laughs. “Boiled in his own pudding! And I think he really believed it, too.”
His wife beside him laughed along. “Is that the instant pudding or the homemade kind?” she giggled. She was a petite brunette, with a young face like her husband’s. Tigh tried to remember what she did to support her husband’s academic pursuits. As she reached over to clasp his hand, her wide, bright smile jogged his memory – she was a dentist. They had offered to let him patronize her office at a discounted rate, but Tigh’s pride forced him to refuse.
“He’s a funny old man,” Lee continued. “I’d never say it to his face, of course, but I don’t think he’s really all that bad, at heart. He’s just not a, uh, social person.”
“Just a rich one,” Cally remarked, dimpled cheeks rosy with mirth. “But you keep deluding yourself, and I’ll keep mocking him.”
“He doesn’t hurt anyone but himself with his attitude,” Lee protested. “Refusing our invitation was his loss only, not ours.”
Everyone agreed and drank to that. The group seemed ready to move on, but Lee had one last word to give. “If only for my father’s memory, I’ll keep trying with Tigh. I almost think he likes it that I call him Uncle, and if nothing else, I think time and persistence will eventually wear him down.”
Cally patted his head patronizingly, and everyone laughed again. “Enough of Mr. Tigh,” she declared, crossing to the small piano. “Lee got me a new book of music, and I’m dying to try it out.” She struck up a familiar holiday tune, and the whole group joined in, save one man who made his way to Lee.
“I thought you and your father didn’t get on,” the friend remarked in a low, accented voice. His glasses and jacket marked him as another academic. Tigh suspected many of the assembled group were Lee’s colleagues from the university, which was located nearby.
Lee sighed. “I didn’t, when he was alive. There was…I blamed him for more than I should’ve, and he was so devoted to his work above anything else that we could never see eye to eye. After he died, I realized how much we’d both really lost.”
“Sorry to bring it up, then,” his friend answered.
He shrugged. “It’s all right, I did it myself.” He grinned mischievously. “Don’t look now, Gaius, but Seelix is watching you.”
The man – Gaius – straightened abruptly. “Is she, now? Then if you’ll excuse me, Professor, I believe I’ve an experiment to tend to.” With a confident smile and toss of his head, Gaius moved back to the group, and at the song’s ending, proposed a game of blind man’s bluff.
Lee watched them for a moment with a distant gaze before joining in, and Tigh, in turn, watched Lee. He was a fine figure of a man – not tall, but solidly built, with a clean, chiseled face. He favored his mother in features, but Tigh could see something of the father in the set of his jaw and in his eyes.
After watching Gaius, who was clearly and unashamedly cheating, chase poor Seelix around the room, they broke out a table and cards for Triad. Starbuck, who had been leaning against Lee’s former chair with the least smug and sarcastic expression Tigh had ever seen on her, found her smile again and moved to watch the game. She took great pleasure in examining every player’s cards and making predictions as to who would win each hand. She laughed along as their bets grew more absurd with each round, and when Tigh gave her a suspicious look as each of her predictions came true, she only winked.
The card players eventually broke up into smaller groups. Tigh took no end of pleasure, and not a small part of it wistful, in watching and listening to them. When Lee began to gather them together again for some sort of trivia game – sure to be a good competition in this crowd – Tigh looked to Starbuck, who was hovering behind them. “We can stay for this, right?” he pleaded.
But she shook her head solemnly. “Sorry. Time’s up.” She touched his arm, and the scene disappeared, being replaced with an unfamiliar hangar deck. It had been many years since Tigh had been in one himself, back when they were just starting in business and often had to fly their own transport ships. It was then that he had met with many so-called “real” pilots, those in the military who, like Starbuck, took great pleasure in their rivalry with the civilians. Starbuck stepped towards one of the dormant Vipers, which was covered with a tarp to keep off dust. She ran her hand over the tarp anyway as if to feel the ship’s lines. Her cigar was down to little more than a stub.
“You’re going to need another one of those,” he commented, nodding at it.
“My time grows short,” she replied.
Tigh was suddenly curious. “Whatever happened to you? I mean, in the real world?”
She chuckled lightly. “What makes you think I’m not still there?”
Tigh would have queried further but for noticing some movement beneath the tarp. “Starbuck – Spirit – is there something alive underneath that?”
And before his very eyes, out from underneath the tarp crawled two misshapen figures. They were young men, or so he thought at first, though not more than youths, and childlike in their crouches. The hovered near to the spirit’s legs. They were gaunt and limping, with bloodied bandages wrapped around the remnants of uniforms. They were fully horrifying, but Tigh could not turn away. “Who…what…”
“Don’t you recognize them, Tigh? They’re the products of humanity. More than these machines and buildings,” she said, gesturing around the room, “it’s these two who are your true legacy. This one is Ignorance, and that one is Want. Beware of them, Tigh, especially the first, for on his bandages and wounds, I see only doom.”
“Can’t they go anywhere for help?” asked Tigh.
“Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?” she mocked him, sneering.
From somewhere in the hangar, there came a loud alarm. Starbuck dropped her stub of a cigar and twisted it under her boot. Bright light filled the room, and when Tigh could look again, she wasn’t there.
But someone else was walking towards him.
“Ellen?”