by Peter David
Laura Roslin stared at him, and had to make a specific effort to close her mouth again rather than leaving it dangling open in astonishment. “Yes, well,” she said cheerily, “if there are any questions, now would be an excellent time to put them forward.”
All hands shot up, and she picked one almost at random. The reporter stood up and said, “Who?”
“I’m sorry . . . I don’t understand,” said Laura. “Could you elaborate on that question slightly?”
The reporter nodded, and said, “What?”
“I said,” Laura told him, feeling her patience beginning to unravel, “I would prefer it if you could elaborate . . . ?”
Another reporter jumped to his feet. “When?” he said.
Then there was another reporter, standing up and saying, “Where?” followed by another who asked with even greater intensity, “Why?”
“This . . . this is absurd, that you . . .”
“How?”
None of the regular reporters had spoken. It was a female voice that Laura felt as if she should recognize, but she didn’t. Her gaze swept the throng in the room, but didn’t pick anyone out.
Then someone stepped forward and Laura stifled a scream in her throat.
It was Sharon Valerii.
The crowd of reporters spread wordlessly to either side, allowing Sharon to approach Laura unimpeded. It seemed as if she were moving in slow motion, each step slow and deliberate, her body following suit. She was dressed in the garb of a colonial pilot, but her belly was swollen with her child.
Sharon held a gun lazily in one hand, and now she swept her arm up so that it was pointed directly at Laura Roslin. She spoke, and it was as if the words coming from her mouth were just slightly out of synch with the movement of her lips. Yet Laura heard her, and the words were familiar, even if she didn’t understand them.
“Sagittarius is bleeding,” said Sharon.
Laura tried to run, but a strong hand grabbed her by the arm, anchoring her to the spot. It was Adama. Laura swung a fist and hit him in the side of the head, but Adama didn’t seem to notice. He winced slightly, but that was all, and didn’t ease up on his grip. Instead, he said, in that measured, contemplative, normally very comforting tone, “It’s better this way.”
“You’re insane!” she screamed, and she tried to pull loose from him. It didn’t help. He was too strong, and now Adama was holding Roslin so that she was across his body like a human shield.
“Wrong. I’m the only sane one here,” he told her between gritted teeth.
Sharon had her gun leveled at Laura. And now Laura was hearing something: a heartbeat. A human heartbeat, and it seemed to fill the air, fill everything. She had no clue where it was coming from, but the sound of it was rapidly becoming deafening.
“Sagittarius is bleeding,” Sharon said again, and standing just behind her, looking not at all concerned, was Tom Zarek. Before Laura could ask her what the hell that was supposed to mean, Sharon’s finger closed on the trigger, and Laura . . .
. . . jerked awake.
She was in her office, seated upright in her chair, having decided to try and catch a fast sleep before the press conference. She was tired . . . no. She was exhausted. She spent her days worried about the next Cylon attack and her nights having bizarre dreams like this that kept waking her up. “It’s not fair,” she moaned, rubbing her eyes with the balls of her hands. “When am I supposed to . . . ?” She left the question unfinished, stifling a yawn, and then Billy came knocking at her door. “Yes?”
“Madame President,” he said in that formal tone he occasionally adopted, probably without even thinking about it. “It’s time for the press conference.”
She glanced right and left, not entirely sure how to respond. Was this another dream? The same dream? Was she wide awake? She gripped the skin of her right hand and squeezed as hard as she could. “Ow!” she cried out.
Billy was staring at her in bewilderment. “Why did you do that?”
“Just . . . checking something,” she said. She stood and smoothed her skirt, trying to pull herself together.
“Are you all—?”
“I’m fine, Billy, I’m fine. Gods, you don’t have to mother hen me, all right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said quickly.
She hesitated and then, feeling a bit sheepish, said, “Sorry about the ‘mother hen’ comment.”
“No . . . no, you’re right. Sometimes I make too much of a fuss over you.”
She smiled at that. Patting him on the shoulder, she said, “It’s all right. I don’t have a mom and I don’t have kids. It’s nice to know that someone is worried about me.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Madame President. There’s more people worried about you than you can possibly believe.” He paused, frowned at that and then said, “That actually sounded much better in my head than it came out.”
“I’d almost think it would have to,” said Laura, but there was laughter on her lips. “All right, so . . . let’s press on, shall we?” Receiving a sympathetic nod from Billy, she pushed open the door and entered the press room. Instantly everyone who was sitting came to their feet in order to show the proper respect.
“Thank you, please, take your seats,” she said, gesturing for them to do so. She turned and it was all she could do to not let her surprise sound in her voice.
Admiral Adama was standing there, looking at her in a mildly quizzical manner, just as he had been in her dream. There was a brief surge of panic in her heart: What if she was losing the ability to discern if she was asleep or awake? What if the line between reality and fantasy was blurring to such a degree that . . . ?
“Madame President?” Adama’s voice was soft, concerned, and she instantly remembered that he was there because she had asked him to be there, for gods’ sake. After all, the mishap involving the Jump was on everyone’s mind, and there was no one more authoritative to field questions about such a matter than Adama.
She drew herself up and her voice had its customary, no-nonsense tone. She had to pull herself together. She knew she felt vulnerable since the breast cancer had nearly taken her life and she had escaped through a miraculous medical intervention. After all, she had prepared herself for death, gone through all the common stages of being faced with her imminent demise and had finally accepted it. Naturally she was grateful that her dismal fate had been averted. It wasn’t as if she’d wanted to die, just because she was prepared for it. But she was still feeling somewhat disoriented over the entire thing. The fact that she wasn’t getting any sleep—or, more correctly—that her sleep was constantly being interrupted and disrupted by various dreams, was not making matters any easier for her to deal with.
But that was what she had to do. She had to deal with it.
“Thank you for coming, Admiral,” she said briskly. He nodded in response, his suspicions mollified by her apparently clear-headed attitude. “I assume that everyone’s mind is on the same thing. If you’d care to address it?” and she gestured toward the podium. Adama nodded and moved toward it as she stepped back to make room for him.
“The recent mishap,” said Adama with the easy confidence of one who was intimidated by nothing, “involving our escape from the Cylons resulted from a computer malfunction compelling us to engage in a blind Jump. We are currently in the process of investigating precisely what caused the mishap so that we can ensure there is no repeat.”
Immediately hands shot up. “Madame President,” called out one reporter, “doesn’t it lessen your confidence in the Galactica, knowing that such accidents can occur?”
“Accidents can always occur,” replied Roslin easily. “That’s why they’re called accidents. Obviously such FTL maneuvers are inherently hazardous, but I think we can all agree that being at the mercy of Cylon raiders is far more hazardous. I believe it is a testament to the professionalism of the officers and staff of Galactica that they were able to pull off such a difficult endeavor and enable us to live to tell the tale. Tha
t is the aspect of this incident upon which I personally would prefer to focus.”
“There are rumors that the Cylons knew where we were going to be Jumping to, and that was the reason for the blind Jump,” said another reporter. “Have the Cylons managed to penetrate the Galactica’s computer system again?”
Laura saw Adama’s jaw twitch slightly. It was a small unconscious tell she’d picked up on that he gave whenever a reporter asked a question that hit too close to home. She was exceptional at reading body language, a talent courtesy of her “wastrel” youth when she’d spent way too many late nights playing cards. Adama had already confided in her what had really happened, and they’d both agreed there was no point in letting the general public know what had transpired.
Yet obviously there was a leak somewhere. It was understandable: Humans remained humans, and they loved to talk even when they shouldn’t. Stray words had a habit of being overheard by nearby ears that weren’t supposed to be there, and somehow such comments always managed to find their way to reporters. Adama, naturally, wanted to keep everything under wraps. That was the military way: total control. It was always entertaining to see Adama come face to face with situations that he couldn’t dominate with a few orders or tossing someone in the brig, and the free flow of information was definitely one of those situations.
“My understanding,” Adama said tightly, “was that, as reporters, you were interested in reporting facts, not rumors. The military holds itself to a high standard of conduct . . . one that you might want to consider emulating.”
Great. Lecture the press. That always works well, thought Laura. “The Admiral has assured me that there is no evidence—none—that there is any Cylon influence on, or infestation of, the Galactica’s computer system. Correct, Admiral?”
“Yes,” he said tersely.
“Moving on, then,” she said . . . and then the next words she was to speak froze in her throat.
Tom Zarek was standing toward the back of the room, watching her with a level, unreadable gaze. That alone was startling enough. What in gods’ name was Zarek doing there?
But that paled in comparison to the fact that Sharon Valerii was standing next to him.
Laura stood there, paralyzed. She . . . it . . . was right there! What the hell had Zarek done, what sort of scam had he pulled, that he’d gotten her sprung from confinement! She was the most dangerous creature on two legs in the Colonial fleet. She was staring at Laura Roslin with as much pure hatred as Laura had ever seen in another creature.
I’m dreaming, this has to be a dream, but I’m awake, I know I’m awake, I think I’m awake, gods, what if I don’t know anymore . . .
Laura pointed a finger at the Cylon, which she noted—as if she were looking at someone else’s arm—was trembling violently. “What are you doing here? Who let you in?”
Zarek looked behind himself, deftly feigning confusion. The reporters seemed equally bewildered.
“They stuck a needle in my baby for you,” snarled Valerii. “They exploited her blood in order to save you, who wanted to kill her. You didn’t deserve to be saved. You don’t deserve to live.”
She started toward Laura, moving as if she were in slow motion, and she was pulling her weapon from its holster.
Laura started to back up, and a firm hand lit on her shoulder. “Madame President . . . ?” said Adama, concern etched on his face.
She looked from Adama back to Sharon, who was advancing with her weapon out and aimed straight at her.
She’s not here. That’s all there is to it, she’s not here. Adama wouldn’t just stand here and not react to it . . . unless, what if he’s a Cylon, too, and Zarek, what if they’re all Cylons? What if there’s only Cylons left, no humans at all, I’m the last one, and they’re about to finish their genocide with my death . . .
Laura Roslin stared down the barrel of the gun that was aimed at her, and in a heartbeat two options ripped through her mind. The first was that she would scream in panic, drop behind the podium, try to get away, in an effort to save her life. If Sharon Valerii was really there—if they were all really Cylons—then it wouldn’t matter. She was going to die no matter what. But if Valerii wasn’t there, if this was all an illusion, then the people of the Colonies would see broadcasts of their president scrambling away from nothing like a woman possessed. What sort of inspiration would that provide? How could they possibly draw any hope for their future from that?
The second option was that she stand there, staring at her death about to be spat at her from the barrel of a gun. Either she would die bravely, or not at all.
In that instant, she realized that, all things considered, there was only one option after all.
She stared into the eyes of Sharon Valerii with complete defiance and said nothing.
Valerii fired off three rounds at point-blank range. Laura flinched involuntarily, closed her eyes while anticipating the impact. None came. She opened her eyes and, although Zarek was still there, there was no sign of Sharon Valerii.
Everyone was still staring at her. There was dead silence in the room. Adama was looking at her with concern, while Zarek regarded her as if she’d grown a second head.
Laura cleared her throat and, her nerves shot, her mind fraught with uncertainty, didn’t let any of that come through in her voice. “Councilman Zarek . . . there are . . . procedures to be followed. You should have made an appointment with my aide rather than just . . . show up out of nowhere.”
Zarek was caught off guard, unable to understand the seeming see-saw nature of her reaction. One moment she’d seemed alarmed; the next she was . . . what? Carping over procedure not being followed? He realized everyone was now looking at him rather than her. “I was . . . hoping that you could clear some time in your schedule,” he said, the picture of courtesy. “And furthermore, Madame President, I have to think that you wouldn’t have such a violent reaction to any other Quorum member who sought some of your valuable time. I’m honored that you’d single me out for such treatment.”
Laura was still feeling more rattled than she cared to let on, and was concerned that, the longer this went on, the more difficulty she’d have covering that fact. “Speak with my aide. He will attend to your request. Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid I have to cut this conference short. There are other matters that require my attention.”
She turned quickly and exited the room, leaving behind her a chorus of “But Madame President!” “President Roslin!”
Beating a retreat to her private study, Laura leaned forward on her desk, resting on her hands with palms flat. There was a fast knock at the door and Adama entered without preamble. “It’s customary,” Laura said wryly, “to wait until the person inside the room actually says ‘come in’ before entering.”
Adama stared at her as if she hadn’t spoken. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“No, Admiral, I don’t. And as it so happens, since I’m president, I don’t have to.”
“But you admit there is something going on.”
“I admit nothing.”
He took a step toward her and there was none of the military officiousness in him that she had used to think constituted his entire persona. “Laura . . . I’m not an admiral asking a president now. I’m asking as a friend. Someone who’s concerned about you. Something is wrong. Is it something relating to your cancer? Or its treatment?”
I don’t know, I don’t know what’s going on, I can’t trust my own senses anymore . . .
She wanted to say all that and more, but she did not. “As much as you might want to pretend otherwise, Bill . . . you are an admiral. And I am the president. And those simple truths can’t be set aside merely because we declare them to be so.”
“Have you been to Doctor Cottle . . . ?”
“That would be my business, Admiral. Yours is Galactica. I believe you’re running an investigation, are you not?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then you’d best get back to it. We bot
h have expectations being made of us. Oh,” she added as an afterthought, “were I you . . . I’d pay particular attention to Vice President Baltar.”
Adama didn’t look at all surprised, merely interested. “Do you have reason to believe he was involved somehow?”
She wasn’t certain what to tell him. Yes, she had reason to believe it . . . but it wasn’t something she could convincingly convey, not to Adama, and not even entirely to herself.
My life was flashing before my eyes, just as they always say it does, on the cusp of death . . . and I was there on Caprica, and I saw Baltar . . . I saw him . . . and he was with this woman. They were nuzzling each other, and I haven’t thought about it since that day because gods know I had other things to worry about. I saw it, I thought, “She’s gorgeous, the lucky bastard,” and then it dropped out of my mind like a stone. That’ll happen when the Cylons try to annihilate your entire race and you wind up on the run. But I’ve seen that woman since. She’s a Cylon operative. I saw Baltar locked in a passionate embrace with a Cylon operative. Except I don’t know that that’s what I saw. The mind is a tricky thing, and memory even more elusive. It’s possible that in what I thought were the last hours of my life, everything became muddled together. That the beautiful woman whom I saw with Baltar was someone else entirely, and that I had just “inserted” the face of the known Cylon operative onto the woman.
But why would I do that?
Impossible to know. Who can possibly understand the depths of the human mind? I never quite trusted Doctor Baltar, for reasons I couldn’t quite put my finger on. So wouldn’t it make perfect sense for me to associate him with another figure of distrust, a Cylon? Wouldn’t that be the simplest answer?
And yet . . .
“I . . . have no concrete reason, Admiral. Just a hunch. Just . . . instincts.”
Adama considered that, then nodded. “In our time together, Madame President . . . I’ve learned to trust your instincts. On occasion they’re more reliable than my own.” He paused, then added with just a trace of dry humor, “On rare occasion.”