Sagittarius Is Bleeding: Battlestar Galactica 3

by Peter David

  Luther Paine could only manage a whimper in response as he and Cortez were helped away toward the lower-deck infirmary. The way that Cortez kept firing furious looks at Paine, Zarek was only willing to give fifty-fifty odds that Cortez would heed his instructions. At that moment, he didn’t care all that much; his attention was focused instead on the formidable individual who had staved off disaster.

  “We had an appointment,” said the giant, his soft voice a stark contrast to his appearance.

  “Of course, yes. Come in . . . or rather, come back in.” And he gestured toward his office. The giant stepped through the door, ducking slightly to avoid striking his head on the overhang. Zarek followed him in and blinked in surprise upon seeing an attractive young woman leaning against the desk. She smiled a dazzling smile that made Zarek feel twenty years younger. She was tall and slender, although her hips were nicely rounded. Her face was oval, her eyes twinkled with amusement, and her long flowing hair was the exact same shade as the giant’s. This told Zarek two things: First, that she was very likely the giant’s daughter, and second, that Zarek would be well advised to keep reminding himself that this girl’s father could break him in half if he looked at her wrong. So he quickly gave a perfunctory nod and turned his attention back to the new arrival. “You’re . . . Wolf Gunderson . . . ?”

  “Gunnerson,” he corrected, and extended his hand to shake Zarek’s. Zarek looked at the formidable paw with not unreasonable concern. Noticing Zarek’s hesitation, Gunnerson didn’t seem offended. If anything, there was amusement on his face. Noticing this, Zarek overcame his trepidation and shook Gunnerson’s hand. He could tell the giant was taking care not to squeeze too hard . . . or at all. “And this,” he gestured toward the girl, “is my daughter, Freya.”

  “A pleasure, Mr. Zarek,” she said, her voice musical. “I’ve read a great deal about you.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes. In history books.”

  Zarek forced a smile. She had spoken in a perfectly straightforward manner, and naturally had not intended to make Zarek feel as if he was some sort of modern-day relic. He took no offense at it, but suddenly he was feeling arthritic pain in every joint. Imagined, no doubt, but still, it reminded him that when he was her age, she was an egg residing in her mother’s uterus, awaiting the call to action.

  “I thank you for taking the time to see me,” her father said.

  “Well, obviously I’m the one who should be thanking you,” said Zarek. He gestured toward a chair. “Please, won’t you sit down . . .”

  Gunnerson looked dubiously at the chair Zarek was offering and said, “I think I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you. Freya?” And he gestured toward it. She nodded and took the seat, crossing her legs. Her long blue skirt was slit up the side, and some of the cloth fell away to reveal one of the most stunning female legs Zarek had gazed upon in a while. He assumed the companion leg was equally compelling. He cleared his throat loudly, walked aound the desk and took a seat. “Your timing certainly couldn’t have been better.”

  “My followers and I have always been fortunate in that regard.”

  “Your followers,” echoed Zarek. “Yes, when you asked for this meeting, you mentioned a group that you were representing . . . ?”

  “That’s correct. The Midguardians. Perhaps you’ve heard of us . . . ?”

  Zarek shook his head, looking regretful. “I’m afraid not, no. But there’s quite a few independent political action groups, and it’s so hard to keep track . . .”

  “Oh, we’re not a political action group,” said Freya. “We’re a colony.”

  That brought Zarek up short. He shook his head in polite confusion. “I . . . don’t understand. There are twelve known colonies . . . and the lost thirteenth. You’re saying you’re the lost thirteenth . . . ?”

  Gunnerson shook his head. “I am saying we are a separate colony entirely. We have embraced sections of the Sacred Scrolls that were rejected by the religious establishment. We believe these sections to be far closer to the truths of the universe than anything that the church of the Lords of Kobol would have us believe.”

  “You don’t believe in the Lords of Kobol?” This was now sounding familiar to Zarek. He was starting to think that he had heard of these people: religious fanatics whose beliefs positioned them far outside mainstream society.

  “No,” Wolf Gunnerson said firmly. He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re shocked.”

  “What? Oh, no. No.” And Zarek forced a laugh. “No, it takes a good deal to shock me. Simply having a different belief system isn’t going to do that. Hell, I’m more or less used to being out on my own when it comes to beliefs.”

  “Indeed you are,” Freya spoke up approvingly. “You’re not afraid to use violence for the purpose of social change. You’re not a man who shrinks from doing what is necessary to accomplish his ends.”

  Obviously the history books were generous to him. “I do what needs to be done,” he said, trying to sound modest and only partly succeeding.

  “As do the Midguardians,” said Wolf. “As do I.” He leaned forward, resting his huge hands on Zarek’s desk and looking for all the world as if he could easily smash the furniture apart. “That is why I have come to you in seeking out representation.”

  “How,” asked Zarek, “do you mean? What sort of representation?”

  “Our people resided on Sagittaron, the same as you,” said Gunnerson. “Ours was an ancient order, but it was only in the last twenty years . . . during the time of your incarceration . . . that we began to make our presence known.”

  “Why only recently?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” When Zarek shook his head, Gunnerson gestured toward him. “Your shining example, of course. Your refusal to accept the repression of Sagittarons. We had been guarding our beliefs, our history and heritage, afraid to come into the light. But you,” and he pointed at Zarek, “made us realize that we were little more than cowards. That we had to take a stand if we were to call ourselves true sons and daughters of Woten.”

  “Of Woten?”

  “The head of our Pantheon,” Freya said helpfully, “just as Zeus is of yours. I’m named for his wife.”

  “I myself lean more toward the teachings of his son, Thorr. I am told”—Wolf smiled—“that I bear a resemblance to him.”

  “If you say so,” said Zarek. “But I’m still not entirely certain what it is you expect from me . . . although naturally I’m flattered that you consider me such an inspiration. Although, then again, considering where my beliefs landed me, maybe I’m not the best person to follow.”

  “It’s very simple, Mr. Zarek,” Gunnerson said. “When millions of people resided on the world of Sagittaron, we were a hopeless minority. Barely five hundred of us. Asking for representation in the Council, asking for our beliefs in the book of Edda—”

  “The . . . book of Edda?”

  Gunnerson nodded. “The book that was stricken from the Sacred Scrolls. The one that has the entire history of our gods, from their birth to their deaths.”

  “Your gods are all dead?”

  “Not yet. But we know how they will end.”

  “As part of a prophecy? But certainly your gods are powerful enough that they’re not held sway to prophecy. Their fates aren’t determined . . .”

  “Of course they are. As are ours, and yours.”

  “You don’t believe that man controls his own destiny?”

  Gunnerson looked at him skeptically. “Mr. Zarek . . . we’re on the run from killer robots who harry our every step, with no world to call our own, and not even fifty thousand of us left alive. Does it sound as if we’re in control of our destiny at the moment?”

  “A valid observation,” admitted Zarek.

  “The point is,” Gunnerson continued, “it was difficult enough—hopeless, even—to have our beliefs, the rights of our individual ethnicity, to be taken seriously when there were millions of Sagittarons in existence. Now, however, there are . . . what? Barely ove
r five thousand?”

  “Five thousand, two hundred and fifty one, last I checked.”

  “And virtually all of our number remain intact,” said Freya. “There were five hundred of us before, and the five hundred remain.”

  Zarek was dumbfounded at that. “All the practitioners of your . . . your faith . . . made it onto a ship?”

  “Yes. Our fleet ship, the Bifrost, had been prepared for just this eventuality. Because the Edda warned us, and it warned of exactly what did occur. It’s all part of our writings, just as accurate—if not more so—than any predictions Pythia may have presented. Imagine if the religious establishment, and the government, had been willing to give us our due. Far more might well have survived. My point is that five hundred is a much higher percentage of twenty five hundred than it is of millions. As such, our presence as part of the Sagittaron colony—to which our ship is registered—is much more significant than it was. Based on the percentage of our population, we deserve a seat on the Quorum of Twelve, and a say in what happens to us. We want our voice to be heard.”

  “And what is that voice intending to say, if I might ask?” inquired Zarek.

  “That we alone know the truth of what is supposed to happen to humanity. We will be happy to share this knowledge with all others, so they will no longer be surprised by what happens to them. That way they will no longer be wandering in the dark, as we did for so long. We will share the benefit of the wisdom given us by our ancients, who were inspired—not by any mere mortal such as Pythia—but insights provided by the Lord Woten himself. After all, our people were saved. If our teachings are embraced, who knows? The remainder of humanity might be as well.”

  “And if the Quorum doesn’t see fit to give you a place in it?”

  “Well, then,” Wolf Gunnerson said with a shrug, “it is best for all not to consider such things.”

  Tom Zarek definitely did not like the sound of that.

  CHAPTER

  5

  Number Six had Baltar’s back up against the wall. Literally.

  The vice president of the Colonies and the foremost living expert on Cylons had come to the conclusion that he had the most complicated love life in . . . well, in the history of love lives.

  Ever since the obliteration of much of humanity on Caprica . . . ever since he had come to Galactica as a refugee . . . he’d had Cylons on the brain. More accurately, one Cylon: a mental representation of the gorgeous blonde who had bewitched him and caused him to betray—however inadvertently—the whole of humanity. Day after day she stood before him, or draped herself around him, or yanked him around like a lap dog, looking every bit as real as she had back in Caprica. She had rejoiced in her control of him, and in the fact that she was so near and yet so far.

  Then had come the day when her hold on him had slipped ever so slightly. It was the day that he had been brought over to the newly arrived Pegasus and discovered his dream girl in the flesh. Her name was Gina and she was a prisoner aboard that other Battlestar. Nearly comatose, desiring nothing but to die, Baltar had brought her back from that dark precipice while the blonde Cylon called Number Six glowered from the back of his mind. She had become her own worst enemy. Her power over Baltar was that she represented that which he could never truly have again, and thus he would follow her about like a lovesick puppy in perpetual frustration. A physical incarnation of her, if she and Baltar came together, would take that power away.

  At least that was how Baltar had seen it. And he had made the mistake of saying it to Six’s face.

  He had been working in his lab when she had shown up with her typical litany of smirking, superior comments, like a prison warden who knew that her subject could never escape. But Baltar’s thoughts were filled with Gina, who had escaped her imprisonment and had joined a group of rebels lobbying for making peace with the Cylons (not that any of the rebels knew her true nature). So when Number Six disturbed his concentration while he was running an experiment, he was disinclined to allow her mock advances to pass without rebuttal.

  “Is it my imagination,” Baltar had asked her, sitting on a lab stool and turning to face her, “or do you seem a tad more desperate than you used to? It seems to me that you’re . . . oh, what’s the best way to put it . . . that you’re trying too hard. Yes, that’s it. As if you’re worried that your influence over me may be waning.” Her face was frozen, which was even more encouraging to him, and he stepped toward her with a contemptuous grin on his face. “And who knows? Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps, with the reality of Gina in the picture, the mere image of you can only stand by and smolder.” He spoke the last words with an almost fiendish delight. He had adored this mental link to his past life with obsessive fervor, but he had also been aware that she had used him, abused him, both in his previous life and now. It was the purest example of a love/hate relationship there was, and at this moment the hate aspect was in ascendance.

  Number Six stared at him for a long moment. Inwardly he felt his nerve shriveling before her, but he fought to keep a look of smug triumph. Suddenly she stepped forward, shoved him back against the wall and kissed him passionately. She seemed to be radiating heat. He tried to push her away, but she brought her knee up into his crotch—not quickly and painfully, but instead slow, kneading it gently. He gasped into her mouth, and her tongue darted quickly in and out. He felt his pulse racing. It felt as if there were too much blood in his body, and he had to think that if he dropped dead from a heart attack right then, they’d never be able to figure out what the hell had happened.

  “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you,” she said, taking a quick break from kissing him to whisper in his ear. Her soft breaths caressing his ears sent chills down his spine.

  “No . . . no, I swear . . .”

  “She can’t give you what I can . . .”

  Her knee started to move up and down, and Baltar automatically began responding, his body moving along with it. He was finding it hard to breathe, hard to think of anything beyond what she was doing to him. His mind was spinning away, completely out of control . . .

  “Doctor Baltar?”

  Baltar froze in place. Number Six was gone. Standing in the open doorway was a Colonial marine, Corporal Venner. He was staring at Baltar, not sure what he was seeing. “I, um . . . I was knocking, and you weren’t answering . . . are you okay? You were moaning or something . . . I wasn’t sure if you were having some kinda attack . . .”

  “Fine. Fine, I’m . . . fine,” Baltar said, and quickly started moving his back up and down again. “Just . . . coping with an extremely nagging itch. Ahhhhhh.” He let out his breath slowly as if an irritation were being dealt with. “Yesssss, that’s . . . that’s doing the job.” Once he felt he’d carried on the pathetic charade long enough, he stepped away from the wall and clapped his hands together briskly. “Right. Feeling much better. How”—he cleared his throat—“how can I be of service?”

  “Well, Doctor . . .” Venner paused. “Or should I be calling you Mr. Vice President?”

  “I answer to either. I suppose here, in my lab, ‘Doctor’ is perfectly serviceable. Certainly I’m more accustomed to it.”

  “All right, then, Doctor.” And he pulled someone forward from behind him. It was a young boy, and Baltar recognized him instantly.

  “Boxey . . . isn’t it?” asked Baltar.

  “Hey, Doc,” Boxey replied.

  The marine looked from the boy to the scientist. “You know each other?”

  Something about the situation made Baltar think that minimizing his connection to the boy was preferable. “We were rescued from Caprica at the same time,” Baltar answered him. “Shared a vessel. Is there a problem . . . ?”

  “Yeah, there’s a problem.” He clamped a firm hand on Boxey’s shoulder, as if the boy posed a flight risk. “We need you to jump him to the front of the line for that Cylon test of yours.”

  “What?” Baltar’s eyebrows almost bumped up against the top of his head. “Breeding them a little youn
g, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Could be.”

  “Corporal,” said Baltar, “this is preposterous. That boy is no more a Cylon than I am.”

  He heard a sharp, female laugh. His head snapped around. There was no sign of Number Six, but he was certain he’d heard her voice.

  “Doctor . . . ?” Venner sounded curious, even a bit suspicious.

  “Just a little nervous tic,” Baltar said quickly. “Happens sometimes when Cylons are being discussed. Oops . . . there it goes again.” And he snapped his head once more in response to nothing at all. “So . . . may I ask just what in the world makes you think that a thirteen-year-old boy is a Cylon agent?”

  “He snuck into the holding cell where the known Cylon agent is being held. He was caught conferring with her.”

  “The known Cylon agent? Sharon Valerii, you mean?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Baltar tilted his head questioningly. “Isn’t she guarded?”

  “He slipped past the guards while they were distracted during the recent Cylon raid.”

  Baltar made a harrumph sound deep in his throat. “A single boy eluded the notice of armed guards, and you think the boy should be tested? If you ask me, you might want to have the guards assessed if they allowed that to happen.”

  Venner’s scowl darkened. “Doctor, if you’re not willing to—”

  “Yes, yes, of course I’m willing. I think it’s a waste of everyone’s time, but I’ll attend to it. Wait outside, please.”

  “I’m not supposed to leave him unattended.”

  “He’s not unattended, he’s with me. There’s only one door out of here and you’ll be standing in front of it. Unless you think he can elude you as well.”