Amnesia

****This will contain spoilers for “Battlestar Galatica”, so don’t read if you aren’t up to date on the show. ****

In the comment thread of my “I Hate Ron Moore” post, Vince asks me why I currently hate the man responsible for one of the best shows on television. I’ve had a bit of time to reflect on why last night was so disappointing, so with a deep breath to control my rage, here we go.

I’ve been on board BSG since the very beginning. I’ve seen friends and enemies alike air-locked, or killed in senseless battles and accidents. I’ve been Admiral Adama’s personal assistant and have watched him grow in both stature and wisdom only to see every strand of strength whittled away in the brief moments of deeply personal betrayal. I’ve stood next to Caprica Six as she’s talked and fucked a deranged and selfish Gaius Baltar. I’ve shared in the disbelief and wholly disturbing personal secrets of Col. Tigh, Anders, Tori and Chief. I too was shut away with D’Anna and let fear rule my decisions when I was “unboxed”. I’ve felt the intense passion that guides Leoben and the frustration and curiosity that make Kara Thrace. I’ve also counselled and questioned every decision Laura Roslin has made since the initial destruction of the 12 colonies.

I am a part of each person, each crew, each cylon and have been from the very beginning.

With all that said, you can imagine my joy, relief and disbelief when Felix Gaeda exclaimed that the constellations were a match. You can imagine the tears of those overwhelming emotions flowing like a cleansing river when Admiral Adama confirmed we had found our new home. I danced in jubilation with Lee in the CIC. I hugged my comrades in the hangar bay, and I wept with those who have lost so much and for the first time in years have had something for which to hope.

Yet the moment I bent down and held the soil in my hands with Adama, and heard the familiar tick of an active Geiger counter, was the moment my hope turned into rage and despair. Couple this with the fact that I am now frozen in time for an unknown period until the forces that be decide I can continue the rest of our journey, and well, it makes for a pretty pissed-off Kate.

I understand the need for dystopia when creating a show or writing a novel. Yet, if you are like me, you have invested yourself in watching, debating and discussing this show. With those countless hours, entitlement arises that you are owed a payoff for your efforts. You should be allowed to experience the most precious of human emotions; hope. 

Apparently, Ronald Moore believes otherwise. I feel ultimately betrayed in that despite the relevant social and economic issues the writers have sprinkled throughout the seasons, they found it necessary to remind us that we are hell bent on destruction no matter how much we try and redeem ourselves.

We are destructive. We’ve known this from the very beginning. We know this as we read our daily news and surf our internet.  I don’t see why it was necessary to offer another glimpse into what looked like nuclear holocaust when it was exactly what we were running from years ago.

So yeah Ron, would you kindly go fuck yourself. I wanted to hold onto my happy ending as long as possible and just as you took families and homes away from my friends and foes alike, you took the only driving force capable of bringing us back from the brink.

Right now, my hope is gone as I sit upon my Earth and look out upon a wasteland I so desperately wanted to call home.

Part of me is relieved the series isn’t over just yet, but part of me dreads where this will lead all of us in the year to come.

The only drawback to buying this small house back in December is that about a mile and a half away from my lovely 4 bedroom abode rests a small cemetery. I don’t consider myself a very superstitious person, yet every time my little CR-V drives by the rusted, black iron fence, chills crawl against my skin. As a kid, I was told that you had to hold your breath when you passed by the tombstones, so that the ghosts buried beneath the earth couldn’t steal it away.

It was the police sirens that woke me this morning at 3 a.m. Thinking it was another vehicular accident on a nearby intersection, I closed my eyes and tried to drift back to sleep. I relaxed and cozied back up to my pillow with heavy and tired eyes.

That’s when I heard it.

Three sounds hit my ears in rapid succession; a low and eerie moaning, a scream from what sounded like a female and the first of many gun shots.

I’ve been awake ever since.

Please tell me that this is a dream.

Tell me that I’m lost in some subconscious imagery taken directly from too many hours of playing scary video games.

It’s now 6 a.m.

Although muffled through the thick concrete walls of the basement, I have heard intermittent screams throughout the last three hours, usually followed by the popping sound of a discharging weapon. Guys, for the first time in my life, I am deathly afraid. I don’t know how long we will be stranded here. I’ve had to make numerous trips upstairs to gather food and other supplies, and from what I can tell from each hurried pass by a window, we are surrounded.

I will do my best to update this blog as the slow moments pass, but I can’t guess as to how much time we’ll be stuck here, or how long the electricity will last. I’ve moved my father and girls downstairs and barricaded the doors with every piece of available furniture, but the only thing that worries me is the entrance to the garage. Given the weak point of the sliding glass upstairs near the deck and this particular vulnerability beneath, I hope I’ve chosen correctly. I’ve backed the Honda against the door, but I don’t know how well it will hold if overwhelmed.

I don’t know how many of them are out there.

I never thought it would end like this. I thought it would be some sort of biological or nuclear strike. Perhaps another terrorist attack that spiraled our country into a final death spiral.  These  are the kind of stories you hear in church that are supposed to guilt you into throwing a few extra dollars in the collection basket.

The dead aren’t supposed to rise from the grave.

If you can send help, please do. I don’t want to die here. I will protect my family until my last breath, but I don’t know if we’ll be able to do this alone. From the sounds of it, the neighbors have already been attacked. From the moaning that is growing louder with each moment, I am certain we are next. I was able to snap this picture of what we’re facing here, but as I listen, it sounds like this isn’t an isolated incident.

Help us, please.

Yeah, I got sucked into doing another group story. (Actually I volunteered.)

I posted my chapter yesterday. (Tom actually posted the story for me, because apparently I’m too incompetent on formats other than Wordpress to accomplish anything.)

I worked very long and hard on the piece. (I pumped it out in 8 hours, after I got the writing bug.)

I hate doing research. It’s such a pain in the ass to find things that aren’t wiki-related. Couple that with research on women in the 1940’s during WW2, and I was starving for information. (Actually, I found some very intriguing articles about the war movement. There are some very neat, authentic videos on Youtube by the US War Department in relation to women doing their part. )

I am too lazy for real punctuation in this post. (Yeah, what she said.)

Enjoy the story. (Or I will cry buckets of salty tears that will overflow and drown small helpless kittens.)

Think of the kittens. (I meant it about the crying.)

Let me know what you think! (Unless it’s bad.)

“It was a knee jerk reaction, really.”

It’s the only excuse I can offer myself as I opened the doomed e-mail from the publisher this morning. Honestly, I never thought two polite sentences that weren’t related to my love life, could send crystals of ice down my spine and at the same time make my stomach boil with the intensity of an erupting volcano.

I finished my first science fiction short story without really going through it with a fine tooth comb and submitted it to a reputable magazine. It was almost as if writing that last word in the story gave me explicit permission to hang myself professionally. Two weeks after pushing ’send’, I had the fortunate experience of belonging to an established writer’s group, and it was only after learning from the constructive peer criticism, that I longed for a time machine to retract my story from the hands of powered professionals.

As I sat there formatting my freshman effort with glee and getting excited at all of the really clever parts that I had written, I realized that I still very much suck as a writer.

I should. This is my first complete piece in the highly competitive genre. Hell, my critical writing teacher in high school would have probably thrown it back in my face and exclaimed that it still needed to be finished.

In the past, I never understood the heartache of friends who have been rejected. While I’d offer my condolences or encouragement on their next submission, I struggled to understand why they would take it so hard in an industry that has a reputation for being extremely selective and picky. Hell, both George R.R. Martin and Patrick Rothfuss were rejected many times. The only reason their novels are sitting on book shelves now, is because they ripped apart whole stories to submit the shorter works and offers to publish finally came through. Some (read John Scalzi here) get lucky by their own admission, and publishers find them. But John will be the first to admit that being sought out and queried happens very rarely.

Now I finally know what it feels like to have someone say “no - we’re not interested”, after all the damn blood and sweat you poured into your work. All right, in my case it was just a little blood and sweat, a pinprick and a light walk, really. It was not nearly the amount that I’m sure others have sacrificed upon the altars of Saint Keyboard or the Typewriter Goddess.

This morning if you asked me if I were feeling low enough to give up, I would probably tell you that I was contemplating creative grammatical suicide. I can’t deny the little voice in the back of my head telling me that I don’t belong in the same leagues as Heinlein, Drake, Scalzi, Watts, or the countless others out there that I’ve read over the years.

Yet, as soon as I publish this very cathartic article on my site, I will probably trudge on, trying to hone my fledgling craft.  So fear not! This weekend, I will be getting out my red pen and magnifying glass and asking some serious questions about my story integrity.

Once I’ve completed that task, I might password protect the entry for your perusal. If you run away screaming, I’ll know that I still have some work to do.

At least I’ll have the subtle satisfaction of hitting the ‘publish’ button in my wordpress client this morning, which makes everything a little better.

Not really.

To coincide with the “Loss of Innocence” weekly podcasts, I am going to promote the new audiobook Pete and I are doing with the full and complete PDF of “The O’Leary Letters”.

Click here for the download.

Click here!

I’ve added the music so it’s all in one place, plus a few that you haven’t heard before! Anything with the bold “NEW!” next to it, is worth a listen as is everything else.

Enjoy and as always, comments are extremely appreciated!

Gillian,
 
Sometimes I wish you were here to smack me upside the head when I make crazy decisions. Lord knows I’ve needed it on occasion. I don’t know if it was the pleading in his eyes, or if I missed him too much, but I’ve taken Michael back. His apology was genuine and there was that moment of realization where I thought I might be played for a fool, but I think I’m going to embrace this while I still can. It’s weird, out here in the lonliness of space, I didn’t know how much I missed the warmth of someone near me until I had it once again.
 
You never realize how much it takes to forgive someone until you’re thrust into a difficult situation. Perhaps it’s easier for some to let things go when the offender is someone who you’ve met by chance, but when it’s someone close to your heart, there are layers of resentment that you must peel back in order to see if you’re ready for such a decision.
 
With Michael, I had to remember everything about him that I loved. His smile, his intelligence, and our ability to work well together as a team. I guess despite all the bullshit that makes a relationship difficult, you have to ask yourself if this would be a person with whom you’d spend your last moments. Would you trust them to be there for you?
 
I don’t know if you can ever forgive me for what happened to Ian, Gillian. I don’t know if I’ve even had the chance to tell you what really happened that night. Yet as I sit here writing about one of the hardest things to do for a person who’s wronged you, I can’t help but find myself sitting in that car with your husband.
 
I remember him taking the keys as he pulled me from the pub. Yelling at me that I was destined to end up dead if I kept running away from my problems. It was raining so hard, Gillian, and yet he stopped me and lectured me about responsibility to you, to Mom and Dad and most importantly, me. At first, I can remember sloppily accusing him of coming at your request, but he countered that his presence was of his own accord.  I can remember turning my head towards the clouds with my eyes closed and feeling the water hit my warm cheeks. Suddenly feeling sober enough to comprehend his words, I looked at him as he stood there, running a hand through his wet and dissheveled hair, his eyes sparkling with anger. At that moment, I realized how lucky you were to have found him.
 
“You can’t keep running away, Shannon. There will be enough time for you to find out what matters in your life, instead of wasting it away every night pissed and in the company of some random bloke! Stop sabotaging yourself, for the love of Christ.You’re slowly killing everyone who loves you.”
 
He took off his jacket, Gillian. Wrapped it around my shaking body as I nodded and felt my own tears start to fall. Leading me back to the car, we drove in silence most of the way home, until I felt myself offering an apology.
 
“Say that to your sister, Shannon. I didn’t come for that. I’m just tired of trying to calm your sister when she finds herself inconsolible over your selfishness.” I looked at him as he stared forward and felt my heart sink. Putting a hand on his shoulder, he looked at me for a single moment and I could tell how deeply hurt he had been by my actions and could only guess at the amount of strife that everyone else had experienced.
 
It was only a split second afterwards before I saw the flash of a large animal cross the road and felt the brakes screech against the wet tires. In what felt like slow motion, the car spun out of control and the grove of trees was the last thing I remember seeing before waking up in the hospital.
 
I am so sorry, Gillian. I can understand how angry you would be not only that Ian was killed trying to talk some sense into me, but that I repaid his efforts with ultimately running away to the SMC. I guess I haven’t had the courage to talk about the things that happened, because like everything else, I seem to be an expert in pushing things down.
 
Ian was an amazing man and it shattered every piece of me to know that I was responsible for his death. I am not asking for forgiveness from you, Gillian, just an understanding that his words did matter and I find myself heading into every obstacle with the courage and discipline that I once supressed with vices.
 
If you take away anything from this letter, I hope it is the realization that I love you very much and that I will never forgive myself for taking Ian away, even if you peel away those layers and find it in your heart to do so.
 
Shannon
 

Dear Gillian,
 
It’s amazing what a little anger can do for a girl in the middle of a little pity party. I’ve graduated, receiving orders to serve aboard a naval vessel that will be on a deep patrol to Saturn. I’ve adjusted well to the new environment, but the boredom of a long trip is interrupted only by duty and practice, practice, practice. You can’t possibly imagine how good it felt when I was told I have one of the best performing squads in my new platoon. Who would have thought that just a few months after graduation from NCO school that I’d be quietly praised by my superiors?
 
Frankly, I always thought I’d be a bad officer. It’s frustrating and worrisome to have people look to you for every single decision. I’ve never been the best at staying cool under pressure. I always let my anger or my passion tell me what to do and where to go.  It was early on in NCO instruction when that fear of failure in tense situations would keep cropping up its ugly head. And yet, there is an amazing difference between hypothetical questions while sitting behind a desk, and the craziness of a simulation. I’ve figured out that I can focus–I can lead, Gillian. I can make tough decisions without thinking about them too much. I can take men and women fresh from high school and turn them into something that Earth can be proud of. Instead of running away from trouble, I want to take these people with me into the fire. That’s not the Shannon you knew, is it?
 
I am spending more time alone since leaving training, but I am coming to cherish the quiet. In  previous letters I  have whined and complained about my solitary state, but I’m finally finding the self reliance that I’ve lacked for as long as I can remember. As much as I’d hate to admit it, perhaps ending things with Collins was for the best. I never gave myself a chance to succeed by relying on him to the extent I did. It’s nice to look into the mirror and be happy with my own reflection for the first time in a great while without having someone constantly looking over my shoulder.
 
There was a deep sense of accomplishment when I was handed my orders, especially by the one DI who had made my life a living hell. His murmured, “Good luck, soldier,” was devoid of a smile, but his approval was obvious in the firm grip of his handshake.
 
I won’t lie, it does still hurt when I see Michael. We’ve been deployed to the same ship and it’s hard to not to remember what happened between us. I have no doubt that we will cross paths in battle and on the ship alike, but the white hot anger and confusion has turned to a cool indifference. I do miss him, sometimes. I guess you’d know exactly how that would feel, wouldn’t you, Gillian?
 
Enjoy the enclosed commencement picture. This is my only copy and I ask that you frame it for Dad. I’m hoping that it will lessen his worry that his little girl has been sent through the meat grinder.
 
Shannon

“You knew this was going to happen, Alex.” Captain Jason Argo rested his black spotless, booted feet upon the stainless steel table that held a glowing monitor. He brought a steaming hot cup of coffee to his lips, eyed it warily and continued to sip, violently spitting it out when the molten liquid touched his tongue.

“You’ve been watching this from the beginning, Jason. I have no idea if my sister is alive. The sensor I implanted subdermally in Blink keeps giving such odd data.” Alex let out a deep breath and adjusted the worn leather jacket that kept him warm. In the abandoned train stations of Chenolla VI’s moon, extra clothing layers were essential. He fidgeted, wrapping his gloved fingers around the pilot’s wings that decorated his collar. Even through the cotton fabric, he could feel frigid metal.

“She’s a tough kid, Alex. You know we had limited options, here. It was either the uncertainty with this, or leave her to the same fate that befell your parents. You and I both know she would have been a barren and mindless slave, before suffering to death under Trageth rule.” The young captain blew into the mug again, and watched the steam curl into different patterns.

“You have no idea what this is like for me. I don’t understand why we just can’t go in and get her!” Alex’s tantrum echoed through the large and empty room. Caught of guard, Jason immediately set down his mug and stood. At full height of 6′2, he was eye level with his subordinate.

“You will shut your mouth right now Lieutenant! Is that clear?” Upon hearing his rank in the resistance, Alex immediately silenced himself and stood at attention.

“You know damn well that we can’t go in after her. The Space Force has the planet under immediate quarantine, allowing for the Trageth to sweep it clean. Chenolla VI is a lost cause. We can’t do anything to compromise our location. You’re just going to have to trust in everyone involved in Sophie’s well being, including me. This isn’t the first extraction we’ve done.” The Captain kept his blue eyes focused on his LT, impressing the importance of his rapid words. “You’re one of my best pilots. Don’t make me address you with rank again, is that clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Alex stiffened and saluted.

“Now, talk to me like your actual friend.” He reached for the coffee that was now icing along the top and sighed. “There are no good guys in this situation, Alex. Even the resistance has done shameful things to protect our own. Your sister is an important person in all of this, and when the Trageth realize what she can do, we are all in very big trouble.”

“So what now?” Alex asked as he rocked back and forth on his heels watching the static of the monitor.

“We wait.”

Gillian,

I have had a lot of time to think since my last letter to you. NCO training is coming to a close and I am happy to say, that while I’m not at the head of the class, I will graduate with the respect of my teachers. That’s more than others in my class will able to say. 

It’s rather amazing how anger has become my biggest motivation in the past few weeks. I have gone from hiding in the back of the room, to finally gaining the courage I need to excel at my studies. My drill instructor now passes me by as I stretch from the early morning 5 mile runs, and heads over to less fortunate souls. I guess I’ve finally turned the corner and I can’t help but smirk when Sgt. Abrams starts whispering weakness at the poor sap behind me, instead of filling my ear with the sweetness of failure. 

There are times I catch myself in front of my bathroom mirror though, just staring at the tired reflection before me. While I would consider myself stronger, I do have my moments. It’s those times where I am reminded of the night I joined the SMC.

I don’t know if Dad told you, but it would have been hard not to find the straight razor and bottle of pills on my comforter the night I left. I downed a whole bottle of whiskey as well, trying to forget about what I had done to all of you. Holding the cold metal in my hands, I was about to swallow all of mom’s valium and make the first cut when in the reflection of my old bedroom mirror, the HD sang about the joining the corps. Everyone knew about the mortality rates, and if anything it was an easier way out than slitting my wrists or overdosing on sleeping pills.

Perhaps I was just too chicken shit to follow through the old fashioned way. You know me, I always wanted to go out with a bang. So I tossed some things in a bag, wrote a note to everyone to forget me and called a cab.  All I could think about as we drove away, was dad’s SMC rant about sending boys and girls into the meat grinder and believing it was where I belonged.

Oddly enough, the recruiting center was open late into the evening. I found out later after sleeping off my hangover in a strange but comfortable bed, that the SMC did most of their ‘volunteer’ business in the early hours of morning. Even as I signed on the dotted line, another drunk barged in the doors yelling something about saving the world. I cringed only wondering if I had looked as pathetic.

I was handed my orders and told to board a train to Dublin. As I sat at the station with nothing but a small bag of useless keepsakes, Dad found me. I had apparently pushed replay on the SMC announcement on the TV, and when he woke the next morning to find me gone, he rushed to the recruitment office to find me enlisted and leaving.

I couldn’t even look at him, Gillian. He didn’t yell. He didn’t plead with me to stay. He just stood there as the train approached. At the time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was glad to see me go, but as I remember it now, I saw him start to cry. Had I been so naïve to think he didn’t care? He was burying me at that train station, and I didn’t even have the guts to say goodbye.

I don’t know that I will ever have the opportunity to tell him in person that I am sorry. As the war continues and we push further out into the solar system  to fight the Rak’lan, the chance of me ever returning to Ireland is slim.

Please tell him, and Mum, that I love them.

Shannon