Standard disclaimer- I own nothing, make no money from this, and hope no one gets too mad that I played with their toys.

IV.

“Legate? Should I call you Madam First Lady or something?”

The slight pause and the change in Pam’s tone told Kara that her sarcasm had been noted. “It’s really not that…I mean, it’s not like he’s a Quorum rep or anything. It’s local government, just keeping things going on a daily basis on the ship- taking concerns to the Captain, organizing activities, settling minor disputes. I don’t really have much to do with his job now, anyway. I’m busy with my own work. I’m an artist.”

A flash of memory- of paint and poetry and concentric circles popped into Kara’s brain. “An artist? How busy can an artist  be in the Fleet?” Kara’s life was full of drills and battles and stress-relieving debauchery. She couldn’t imagine life in the Fleet with time or resources for art.

Pam said, “I draw places. I’ve never been good at portraits, but if you describe a building to me I can draw it really well. You’d be surprised how many people want a picture of home- the house they grew up in, the house they raised their kids in, the building they worked at. Even their shacks on New Caprica. I wish I could draw people- for months after the attacks I tried. People tried to describe their husbands, their children, their parents…and I couldn’t do it for them. I didn’t have the talent, and their mental pictures were already fading…I couldn’t even draw my own parents.” Pam’s voice had gotten quieter and more guarded as she spoke. It was if someone had drawn a shade down over a light where the sunshine had been pouring in. It made the inky darkness of the room feel colder.

Kara shivered and pretended that the chill was external. “That’s awful.”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, but it’s OK. I can draw buildings, and that helps people. I always wanted to be an artist but I never had…the courage or the honesty to really do it. And maybe I still don’t, but I’m able to do something worthwhile that I love to do. It’s better than being a receptionist, that’s for sure.”

The vague sense of irritation, the feeling of betrayal and anger flooded over Kara again. The faint pounding in her head, the result of her injuries, became as forceful as a drumbeat. Still too weak to sit up, she shifted her body so she was facing the voice in the dark.

“That’s great for you, isn’t it? I mean, what the hell? You were a receptionist and he was a salesman, and you were running around in your dead-end jobs doing some will-they-or-won’t-they bullshit courting dance. And now your rivals are gone, and you’re a happily married artist with a Legate for a husband. The frakking end of the world came, and you became upwardly mobile? Everyone else is running around in a state of chronic post-traumatic stress, and you start drawing pictures to help people.

“The gods must think you’re damned special, Pam- they gave you everything you ever wanted and all it took was the extinction of the human race.”

Galactica shuddered, and with a pop the lights came back on. Both women cringed against the bright lights. Aside from the faint electric buzz that they would quickly cease to notice, there was no additional noise. After staring for a moment at the door, Pam turned back to Kara. She didn’t look angry or shocked or hurt. Her features were soft and pitying.

“Do you believe in the gods, Kara? Really believe? I do. I know I’m not any more worthy than any of the people who died- in the original attacks, or in the battles since then, or down on New Caprica. I’m no better than them. I’m no better than you.

“But I do think we’re special. You, and me, Jim, everyone in the Fleet- we are special. The gods spared us when they let most of the Colonies die. This is hell, Captain, and we’re the ones who were chosen to survive so we could live here. Day after day of terror and monotony and hopeless wandering. Why? What do you think? I’ve thought about it a lot. At first I thought we were being punished. The people who died on Picon and Caprica and the other colonies- they’re not suffering. Not like the Fleet. But then as good things happened for me and Jim, it didn’t feel like a punishment so much any more.

“And then I thought maybe we were chosen because we were the strong ones. Strong enough to endure this. But then…then there was New Caprica and I realized that even with Jim beside me I’m not that strong. Who is strong enough for this? I don’t think that anymore.”

Kara looked away and tried not to remember New Caprica. Pam’s eyes were again showing that absolute certainty and clarity. She spoke quietly, but with passion. Suddenly, with a metallic scraping, the door to the infirmary swung open. In a swirl of chaos and noise, Doc Cottle and the other medical staff carried in wounded soldiers. A nurse spared a cursory glance at the two women, nodded, and continued to work on the more urgently wounded.

Her attention drawn by the motion and sound, Kara was startled to hear Pam’s voice close to her ear. “This life…It’s not a punishment, it’s not a reward, it’s not a test. I think it is simpler than that. It’s just…a gift.” Kara turned to Pam, who was smiling a gorgeous, glowing smile. Her hand was again caressing the swell of her stomach.

“The gods chose us to live, Kara, because we’re the ones who needed a second chance.”