It’s yahrens since I kept a journal. I don’t even know what became of those previous words of mine. I guess I must have deleted them somewhere along the way. Cast them off, put them behind me ... and now; now I wish I’d kept them. They might have helped me to understand.
It’s a long time since I thought about that other Tigh, the young, carefree warrior who took nothing seriously. We were much like Starbuck and Apollo, myself and Adama. I, too, was a parentless child who somehow found my way to the Academy; I, too, formed a friendship with a serious, dedicated boy close to my own age. They say opposites attract, and that history repeats itself - pat little phrases that can’t even begin to explain anything.
I pray to the Lords of Kobol that what happened to me never happens to Starbuck. Let him retain his boyish joy in life, his innocence ... yes, Starbuck, innocent: listen, I know. Although he exasperates, although his ways sometimes seem alien to the warrior’s way of life, I understand him. At least, as well as I understand myself.
Adama used to despair of me; skipping classes, gambling, carrying on with girls. I wonder if Apollo feels as frustrated some days - I guess he must; and yet, Adama followed me into as many scrapes as Apollo follows Starbuck into, let his better judgement be overridden time and again. Maybe we’re both just excuses, excuses for the perfect pupil to act outrageously, to get it out of the system ...
It was a rainy day, I remember. The trees were bent beneath the wind, and we were caught in it, out by the spaceport where we shouldn’t have been. Oh, it was some prank or other, I forget the details - the important thing is we were there and the smugglers found us.
There are some things that go beyond laughter, that even retrospectively are too horrific to turn into a joke. I was worthless to those men; it’s a mystery why they didn’t kill me on the spot, and there were times, afterwards, when I would remember and wish that they had. Adama was another matter: his family were influential, wealthy, one of Caprica’s most revered - he was worth something to them, alive. So they took us both.
We were only days short of graduation, and I knew Adama had been seeing a lot of Ila, the daughter of the Chairman of the Council. I’d joked with him about it, but for once he hadn’t laughed, and I’d begun to realise somewhere deep down that he was serious, that our partnership was coming to an end, someone else was becoming important to him. I think that I was jealous - no, I know that I was: I’d had no-one before I’d found him, and once he was gone I’d be alone again. Somehow the thought of there being nobody there to share things with diminished them. Maybe if this hadn’t happened I would have come to hate him. Instead I came to hate myself.
There was a nightmare time of being held captive, transported roughly with blindfolds, gags and bindings that made escape impossible. I’d never liked the dark; some childhood trauma that I’ve never been able to trace back to its roots. I would have screamed for light if my mouth had been free; instead the scream turned inward, gnawed at me, twisted me until I would have promised anyone anything, just for a little light.
A coward? There is something every man fears, no matter how unbreachably brave he may seem. Perhaps it’s a phobia - crawlons, or snakes; or heights, or small places, or being wrong, or being laughed at - with me, it was darkness. I wasn’t afraid of anything I could see; but the terrors that lurked just beyond the boundaries of my candle ...
I could feel Adama beside me, when the conveyance jolted us, and yet there was no way to communicate. I was torn between gladness that he was by my side and guilt, because if it weren’t for me he would be safely back at the Academy. I was pretty sure that his family would never bow to blackmail, that he would kill himself rather than have them lower their standards to save him; and my life hung in the balance with him, clinging parasitically to his greater glory. There was no-one to petition for MY safe return.
They kept us in a cellar very obviously normally used for livestock. It was dirty, small - and, yes, it was dark. Something would scuttle on the far side and you couldn’t see it, but that didn’t stop your mind from conjecturing as to its form, its intentions, its malevolence.
Adama tried to fight them when they untied us to put us there; it was futile, I could have told him that, and all he got for his troubles was a beating. I thought for a micron that the one he’d bitten would kill him, but their perverted reason prevailed: alive, he was worth something; dead, all he meant was a punishment sentence if they were caught.
"No jokes, Tigh?"
Gods, even bleeding as he was, helpless as he was, he could ask me that! I shouted at him. "This isn’t funny, Adama!"
"I know that ... but we mustn’t give up. There’ll be some way to escape ..."
"Like you just tried? That was stupid! Look at you ..."
Bleeding. I forgot my anger, the futility of it all, and went to him. There was a gash on the side of his head, along the hairline, that stretched almost down to his right ear; I remembered that the one who’d hit him hardest had worn a ring, a vicious, spiked affair. Beneath the running blood his eyes were closed and the bruising was already beginning to show, even in the poor lighting.
"We have to stop the bleeding," I said. There wasn’t much I could do. We had no water, no cloth save for our soaked uniforms, and it was cold in that cellar. Warrior uniforms aren’t designed to be torn, and I wasted some time and effort in the attempt. Adama stopped me eventually.
"Give it up, Tigh. It’ll stop by itself."
"Maybe, but ..."
"Forget it. Try to find a way out of here. That’s more important."
But there wasn’t a way. The only entrance was a big double trap, through which the only light we had was filtering, at the top of the steel ramp I assumed they normally herded the animals down. And that was fading ... when night fell there would be none. Neither Adama nor I smoked, so we hadn’t even a fumarello lighter on us to alleviate the problem. I began to shiver, from more than the cold, and the dam walls seemed to close in on me. They’d put something heavy on the trap; I tried, believe me I tried, but I couldn’t budge it. Eventually I went back to Adama, defeated, and already it was darker.
The cut showed no sign of congealing, and although we tried to talk to keep our spirits up there were longer and longer silences, and I knew that Adama had begun to lapse in and out of consciousness. For all I knew they were long gone; they could have changed their minds and left us to die.
It was a long night, and a dark one. I couldn’t even tell if my eyes were still open without reaching up to feel. There were sounds, too - unidentifiable creakings, and that scuttling noise - that I shall never forget. To this day I still dream about it. I could face the entire Cylon race with more calmness, more acceptance, than I could face that thing ... Time seemed to pass very slowly with no way to measure it. Sometimes I found myself thinking that it had stopped altogether, that the sun would never rise again.
Towards that prayer of a dawn, Adama became delirious. I could feel him shivering beside me, the unnatural warmth beginning to seep from his frame, and I knew that he could no longer help me. I was effectively on my own, his life dependant on me. And I was afraid that I would fail him.
I didn’t know what it felt like to fail. I’d never failed - at gambling, with women, in tests in instructional classes, and at the Academy - I might not be the star pupil, but I never failed. I never cheated, either, although I could have done so if I’d wanted to. I knew how - but it had never been necessary. Adama outshone me in training, but never by much, and I could outfly him, which was important to me. The first day I stepped into the simulator I fell in love - with that vastness, that star-spangled wasteland, that place where there was always light.
I could have danced for joy when the first feeble rays of the sun penetrated our prison. Except now I could see Adama, and I knew there wasn’t time to be frivolous. I had to do something, something to get us out of that place, or he was going to die.
They brought us first meal - a few dry crusts of bread and some water in scummy cups that was both the most unpalatable and the most wonderful feast I had ever seen. And I begged - not for myself, but for him, for Adama. If they wanted him to be alive to exchange, to be worth something, then they had to do something; they had to get a doctor, give us decent medical supplies, SOMETHING.
And they laughed at me. I remember them, coarse, unkempt travesties of humanity, dregs from the deepest swamps of the land, corrupt beyond anything I had ever known. They didn’t care, didn’t want to know - all he had to do was to stay alive for a few more centars and they would get what they wanted. I couldn’t believe that our proud, civilised race could have birthed such as they, uncaring, disgusting, sneering ...
They had laser rifles, and I knew I couldn’t rush them, I would have been dead before I got to my feet, yet the murderous intent in my eyes must have conveyed itself to them, because one of them said I needed a lesson in humility and took off his belt ...
After they’d gone, I remained where I’d fallen. They’d taken my uniform tunic, the better to enjoy the sight of me crawling at their feet, the blood trickling down my back. I was aware that I should move, that the filthy floor covering was insinuating itself into my wounds, yet I couldn’t. I had failed again; Adama would die, and I was going to die with him. It was just a matter of time, and my mind flinched away from the thought of how much I could be made to suffer before that final extinguishing.
I don’t know where Adama found the strength; I will never know - but somehow he pulled himself out of his fever long enough to move across to me, to pull me up into his arms and hold me there. If I’d known how, I would have cried, but I’d never cried and wasn’t about to start. The itching sensation in my eyes made me pull back from him, draw strength from him somewhere.
"I’ll be all right."
"Tigh, we’re going to live. Believe me, somehow we’re going to get out of this."
I’ll never know how he does it. I guess it’s his own inner beliefs, but I think he could convince a man black was white if he wanted it enough. Look at the way he inspires the fleet, the entire surviving population of the Twelve Colonies, to follow his lead.
"Yes, we’ll get out of here," I said, and deep inside myself I felt the stirrings of real anger. "And when we do, I’m going to teach those scum the meaning of revenge! I’m going to beat them until the life runs out of them ..."
"Tigh. They are ignorant and callous, but they are still human beings. We have no right to take their lives."
"Nor they ours, but they’re doing their damndest!
"I feel sorry for them," Adama said.
I caught the angry retort that came to me before it escaped; it wouldn’t help any, and I didn’t want Adama to talk me out of my anger. I needed it to bolster me, I needed to cling to it or I was going to give in to the pain and the fear. I nursed that flame all through the day, waiting for the micron when they would come again. This time I would be ready, and laser rifles or no laser rifles somehow I was going to find a way to overcome them.
But they didn’t come again that day. The blood dried on my back and caked on Adama’s face; his tunic was brittle with it. I huddled close to him to try to keep warm, but the season was at its worst and the cold was biting. I began to feel that I’d die of exposure before the hunger or the smugglers could put an end to me. Adama’s fever was worse; he lay unconscious for longer and longer periods, and then began to mutter deliriously. Again and again he mentioned Ila, and my bitter jealousy fed my anger until I thought I’d choke on it, because there was nothing at which to direct it.
And gods, the darkness was closing in on me again. I didn’t think I could live through another night of it, not and remain sane; but somehow I did, and even slept a little, from sheer exhaustion I guess, because suddenly I opened my eyes and it was light again, and Adama was horribly quiet beside me.
For a micron I was afraid to look, afraid that he’d died and I would be left with his accusatory corpse; but he was still breathing, although shallowly, and in the dim light he looked snowy white. There were beads of sweat glistening on his cheeks, and the bruising was vivid and spreading. Even if we were rescued right at that instant I knew he’d bear the scar for the rest of his days.
They came a little later, and I was ready for them. The anger was burning in me like a furnace, and as I caught hold of the first and dragged his laser rifle from him it seemed to expand to fill my whole universe, and I lost all control to its demands.
When everything came clear again, there were three corpses in the cellar. I didn’t have to be a doctor to tell - they were torn and twisted and bloody, and I turned away, retching helplessly. The world seemed to be all funny angles and the ground wouldn’t stay still. I knew we had to get away from that place, as far away as we could, in case there were more of them, yes, but more importantly so that I wouldn’t have to look at what I’d done to them.
Adama was, mercifully, unconscious again. Somehow I found the strength to lift him up and half-drag him outside into the weak sunlight. There was a building above the cellar, but I didn’t pay it much attention because parked to one side was a hovermobile, a real, honest to god hovermobile, even with the ignition codekey in place.
They caught up with us eventually; the ’mobile was nearly out of fuel anyway. Oh, not the smugglers, no - after what I’d done to them they would never move again. No, them. The authorities. Who dragged me from the machine and took Adama away and kept asking, asking, asking ...
I missed the graduation ceremony. Adama was there to receive his honour as top cadet, pale and grim and with a twisted, red scar along the side of his forehead that drew the eye. I couldn’t face it. They kept telling me over and over that it wasn’t my fault, and yet ... Adama had pitied them, and he was right to do so. Ignorant, unfeeling criminals; but they had been human and I’d had no right to kill them, no right at all.
I guess I’ve never really come to terms with it. The investigation exonerated me, and in time I tried to forget it, but it was always there at the back of my mind. I had killed ...
I felt I’d lost something, and I punished myself. I stopped enjoying being a pilot, and eventually went into support services. After a while I stopped feeling as if everyone was pointing accusing fingers; at least, until today.
Those men, hoarding precious commodities aboard the RISING STAR - they were like those others. When they were caught, I found myself asking Adama why, why they’d been allowed to live when gentle, deserving folk had died, and then I remembered.
Putting all this down hasn’t helped me to forget; perhaps it’s helped me to remember, and I’m not sure that’s altogether bad. I no longer blame myself; we are all primitives in our souls, and sometimes that fear escapes from us and we do things we can’t help. Yet we are civilised enough to know when it happens, to recognise the root cause, and that should give us hope.
No, I don’t want this to happen to Starbuck. It was my test, the thing that moulded my life up to this point. There will be some test for him, some micron when he has to face himself. I hope when it happens he will find that he can look his primitive fear in the eye and defeat it. For a long time I thought I’d failed; now I’m not so sure ... because if the primitive in me had won, I would not have felt guilt, or sorrow.
Maybe I can finally cry for those poor wretches I killed. I think I may have finally learned how to cry.
Return to Alpha
Launch Bay