by Peter David
“All right then.”
He nodded. Then he spoke once more, and she couldn’t be sure, but it almost sounded as if there was a hint of hurt feelings in his tone. Only a hint, since Adama was far too stoic to allow whatever he was feeling to rise to the surface. The only time she could recall seeing pure, unadulterated emotions bubble over from Adama was when he finally caught up with Roslin and company on Kobol and had unabashedly hugged his wayward offspring in as pure a display of affection as she had ever seen a father provide a son.
“I had thought,” he said gravely, “that we had been through enough . . . that you could find it within yourself to be honest with me.”
She kept her face a neutral mask, wanting to tell him what was going on, but reluctant to because . . . she had no idea why.
Yes. Yes, she did.
Because she didn’t want to seem weak. Bad enough that she had been prey to the frailties of her body. Now, if her mind was going . . . that was even worse.
Until she had a clearer idea of what was going on, she simply couldn’t bring herself to tell Adama what was happening. How could she? She didn’t fully understand it herself.
“Thank you for your time, Admiral,” was all she said.
Adama studied her for a moment with a gaze that she felt could bore into the back of her head. Then he simply replied, “Thank you, Madame President,” gave the slightest of formal bows, and walked out of the room.
Laura Roslin, with a heavy sigh, slid back in her chair, rolled her eyes toward the ceiling, and prayed to whatever gods would listen to her that she was not, in fact, going completely out of her mind. It was at that point that she realized that, even if she was, she might well not be fully aware of it, and that was hardly a comforting insight.
CHAPTER
7
Whenever William Adama stopped by his lab, Gaius Baltar always felt a deep chill at the base of his spine. He became particularly concerned over the uncontrolled appearances of Number Six during such times. He might be able to cover up his occasional slips or comments to her when he was in the presence of others. But Adama had that penetrating way about him that peeled away Baltar’s defenses like the layers of an onion. He had to keep reminding himself that he was a genius. One of the most brilliant minds in all of humanity, pre- or post-destruction. Adama was a glorified grunt, nothing more. In the end, despite the fact that sometimes Baltar felt as if his upper lip was sweating profusely in Adama’s presence, there was ultimately no way that Adama could really see through him.
“So are you seeing a Cylon, Doctor?” asked Adama calmly.
Baltar almost knocked over an array of test tubes nearby him as he twisted around violently to face Adama. The ship’s commander had arrived a minute or so ago and made polite conversation with Baltar over meaningless political issues. The sudden change in topic—and the question he’d posed—had caught Baltar off guard. In spite of himself, he had reflexively looked around to see if Number Six was standing there. He had no idea what he would do if suddenly, magically, Adama could see her as well. Or, worse, knew not only of Baltar’s connection to her, but all that he had done—unwillingly and willingly—for the Cylon cause.
Baltar forced himself to maintain his composure, which was not an easy task considering the baleful look that Adama was giving him. “I . . . don’t quite understand your meaning, Admiral.”
Adama slowly walked the perimeter of the lab, but he never took his gaze from Baltar. “My people inform me that you’re running tests on a young man—Andrew Boxman, also known as Boxey—to determine whether or not he’s a Cylon.”
“He knows, Gaius.”
Her timing, as always, could not have been worse. Number Six was following in Adama’s footsteps. Baltar couldn’t be sure, but she actually appeared concerned. That alone was enough to alarm him, because most of the time Number Six delighted in whatever problems were being thrown Baltar’s way. She was conscience and tormentor rolled into one, enjoying watching him writhe in the throes of his guilty conscience and his perpetual fear of being found out. Now, though, in Adama’s presence, she didn’t seem to be taking any joy in it at all. Which meant . . . what? That Adama was close to finding something out?
“You need to throw him off the track,” she insisted. “Tell him that the boy tested positive. Tell him he’s a Cylon. You don’t want him sniffing too close to you, do you.”
“That’s true enough,” Baltar said, addressing both Number Six and Adama with the same comment.
“Are the test results finalized?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, they are.”
“Good. You see, Doctor,” and Adama ceased his pacing, “we have to remain ever vigilant to any threats in our midst. Any threats. And any such threats must be thoroughly investigated, if you understand what I’m saying.”
“Perfectly,” Baltar replied, but inwardly he was trying not to panic.
Number Six’s observations weren’t helping in the least. “What do you want him to do, Gaius? Sing it for you? He suspects you. He doesn’t know what he suspects you of, but it’s something. The best thing you can do right now is throw suspicion elsewhere, and the boy is the most useful target. You’d be an absolute fool not to take advantage of the opportunity that’s been handed you on a silver platter.”
“He’s . . . just a boy,” Baltar managed to say between gritted teeth.
“Yes. He is,” Adama agreed. “A boy who, by all accounts, is quite popular with my pilots. They’ve taken him under their wing, so to speak. He comes and goes freely here. So if he’s a Cylon agent, then that means he’s playing my people for fools, and that is not something I take lightly.” He paused and then added, “Nor do I appreciate being played for a fool. So . . . let’s have it, Doctor. Is he? Or isn’t he?”
Baltar felt paralyzed by uncertainty. With every fiber of his being, he wanted to lie to Adama’s face. Do as Number Six suggested. Throw Adama off the scent. Except the man looked as if he could sniff out deceit with one nostril tied behind his back. If Baltar were simply trying to cover his own ass, that would be one thing. He’d lie as quickly and smoothly as he could and risk everything in order to assure his own survival. But this . . . the deliberate incrimination of an innocent boy, just for the purpose of providing some distractions for Adama and his crew of busybodies . . . despite Number Six’s urgings, it was too much. Besides, there was always the concern that Adama would see right through the lie, and that would leave Baltar in an even deeper world of trouble . . .
“Don’t you pass it up, Gaius,” Number Six urged him. She was hanging on his shoulder. “Don’t pass up the opportunity. They’re always looking for scapegoats, and this is the perfect—”
“You misunderstood me, Admiral,” Baltar almost shouted. He realized belatedly that he was, in fact, raising his voice, to speak above the urgings of Number Six whom Adama couldn’t hear. Seeing Adama’s expression in reaction to his volume, he instantly ratcheted it back down as he continued, “When I said he’s just a boy, I meant . . . he’s just a boy. He is not, as near as I can determine, anything more sinister than that. Although I admit that young boys can be, indeed . . . rather sinister creatures.” He forced a laugh that felt as weak as it sounded.
“You’re being an idiot!” Number Six practically shouted at him.
“I know,” Baltar told her, then turned quickly to face Adama and continued, “I know you were hoping to find another of the Cylon models so you could put another face to the enemy. I feel as if, by getting a negative result, I’ve made your job harder.”
Adama barely shrugged. “Then it’s harder. The difficulty of a job doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.”
“I feel exactly the same way.”
“Do you.” He arched a single eyebrow. “Would you like to know how you’ve always struck me, Doctor?”
“I’d be fascinated to know that, Admiral,” said Baltar with a thin smile that reflected no trace of amusement.
“As someone who always seems daunted
by any job that he’s faced with, and would rather simply fly below the radar at any given moment, rather than stepping up to what’s expected of him.”
“Really.” Baltar’s smile remained fixed, although his tone was cold. “An interesting assessment of a man who saved the life of the president when no one else could.”
“Yes. Yes, you did, for which you have the thanks of a grateful citizenry . . . not the least among which is myself. And yet . . .” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“And yet?” prompted Baltar.
“What remarkable timing that was. In one stroke, you not only avoided having to take over as president . . . but you saved the life of a Cylon half-breed.”
Baltar’s instinct was to run in the other direction. To sprint out the door and put as much distance between himself and Adama as possible. Instead he walked straight toward Adama until he was standing less than a foot away, practically nose-to-nose with the admiral. “And if the president had passed away . . . and dear Doctor Cottle subsequently discovered somehow that the fetus’s blood had the restorative power to save her . . . you’d be standing right here accusing me of holding back knowledge that could have preserved the life of Laura Roslin. You’d be questioning my allegiances, my knowledge as a Cylon expert, and quite possibly whether my parents were married at the time of my birth. Isn’t that true?”
Adama studied him and then said, “Possibly.”
“Possibly,” echoed Baltar. “So what with this being a case of damned if I do, damned if I don’t . . . then I might as well ‘do,’ save Roslin’s life, and endure your scrutiny, your suspicions and your veiled insults. But don’t worry about it, Admiral. I’ve been insulted by the best.” His gazed flickered toward Number Six, who was standing off to the side. She was no longer fuming. Although her disappointment was palpable, she seemed mildly amused by Baltar’s standing up to Adama.
But Adama didn’t seem the least bit daunted in his apparent conviction that there was something Baltar wasn’t telling him. Baltar couldn’t help but wonder what the hell Roslin had said to him . . . and it had to have come from Roslin. He was certain of that, although he wasn’t quite sure why.
“Thank you,” Adama said levelly, “for your efforts in clearing the boy . . . and for saving Laura Roslin. In appreciation of that, I will give you advance warning: I’m watching you.”
“I don’t blame you,” Baltar replied. “I hear there’s so little on broadcast these days that’s remotely interesting. Find your entertainment where you can, Admiral, by all means.”
Adama said nothing at that, but instead turned and walked out of the lab. The moment he was gone, Baltar let out a long sigh and shriveled like a balloon.
“I’m impressed, Gaius,” said Number Six. “I’ve never seen such a simultaneous display of sheer nerve and sheer stupidity.”
“Glad I could accommodate you.”
“Don’t be.”
He closed his eyes, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and opened his eyes again. Number Six was gone. Baltar couldn’t recall the last time he’d been quite that glad not to see her someplace.
Boxey had had no idea what to think when Corporal Venner had shown up at the secure area where he was being held. He was slightly more buoyed, however, when he saw that Kara Thrace was with him. Boxey was relieved to see the friendly face, although he wasn’t certain exactly what to expect from it.
She winked at him. “You’re sprung, kid.”
He let out a huge sigh and sagged back in the chair he’d been seated on. “That’s a relief,” he admitted.
Venner, eyes narrowed in suspicion, was quick to pounce. “Why? Were you worried that the results were going to prove you’re a Cylon?”
“Well . . . sure,” said Boxey.
This prompted a startled reaction from both Venner and Kara. “You were?” she asked.
“Isn’t that the whole thing with Cylons who look like people? That sometimes they don’t know? Sharon didn’t know, right? I mean, that’s what you guys told me.”
Kara looked at Venner and shrugged. “He’s right. We were all talking about that. How Sharon—the one who shot the admiral—that she said she didn’t know. That she didn’t know it before and she didn’t know she was going to shoot the Old Man, and even after, she didn’t remember it.”
“Oh, of course,” Venner said sarcastically. “And naturally you’re gonna believe everything that a Cylon says.”
“Because humans are so much more trustworthy,” shot back Kara. “Gods, when I think of the number of guys who told me they loved me just to get a piece of . . .” She stopped and glanced back at Boxey, and then cleared her throat and forced a smile. “You, uh . . . you didn’t hear that.”
“Hear what?” asked Boxey, who really hadn’t heard it because Kara had been saying it so fast.
“Good lad,” Kara replied in approval, leaving Boxey no more clear on what was being discussed than before, but at least Starbuck was happy with him.
Boxey’s spirits were rising for the first time in what seemed like ages. “So what’re we up to, huh? Another poker game? Just hanging out in the—?”
“Boxey,” Kara interrupted him, and she looked a bit pained when she spoke. “You’re, uh . . . well, you’re going back to the Peacemaker, actually.”
“But I thought that—”
“No buts, kid,” Venner said.
Kara rounded on him with obvious annoyance. “Do you think that maybe, just maybe, you could give us some frakking space, huh? In fact, I have a better idea. I’ll take it from here. You can go on about your duties.”
“I have my orders . . .”
“Awww,” said Kara, “and what a pity I don’t outrank you . . . oh! Wait! I do! Now scram!”
Venner drew himself up and said darkly, “I’ll be forced to report this to Colonel Tigh.”
“Yeah, you do that, because the threat of being reported to Colonel Tigh is really gonna leave me trembling.”
Scowling once more, Venner walked away, although he kept glancing over his shoulder as if he thought that Boxey was going to produce a gun from within his mouth and open fire.
Kara strolled over to a bench, sat, and patted the empty space next to her. Boxey sat where she indicated. “Look,” she said, “you just need to keep your distance for a little while until things cool down.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!”
“You snuck into the brig and spoke at length with an enemy of the Colonies,” she reminded him. “If we were going by the book, then you’d be guilty of consorting with the enemy and that carries with it a year’s sentence. You’d have plenty of time to chat with Sharon Valerii if you were in a cell next to her, wouldn’t’cha.”
He suddenly became very interested in the tops of his shoes. “I guess,” he muttered.
“You guess.” She chuckled despite the seriousness of the situation. “Bottom line, Boxey, you have no idea how damned lucky you are. You really could wind up doing serious jail time. You are clueless as to how seriously things get taken around here. This is a military vessel, for gods’ sake. It’s not a playground.”
“I wasn’t playing . . .”
“You sure as hell were,” Kara told him firmly in a no-nonsense voice. “You sure treated it like a game. Showing off just so everybody could know how clever you were.”
“What, and you never do that?”
“All the time.”
“Then what’s the difference?”
“The difference is, I blow Cylons out of space better than any other motherfrakker in the fleet, that’s what,” Kara said, making no attempt to hide her sense of smug accomplishment. “And that includes the CAG. So when trouble hits, they don’t want my ass in a cell; they want it in a Viper where it belongs. And even with that going for me,” she added, shaking her head, “I have no doubt that if Tigh could find a way to put me away for good, he wouldn’t hesitate. And he’s the one pushing to get you off Galactica. Venner and the other marines did a full write-up on you, and
Tigh’s whole thing is security. He sees you as a risk that has no business being on a military vessel, no matter how much we may like you.”
“So . . .” Boxey felt a girlish urge to cry, and managed through sheer force of will to keep the tears from welling in his eyes. “So I can’t come here and hang out with you guys anymore?”
“‘Anymore’ is a long time. Just until things cool down, at least. Give it some time, and then I’ll work the circuit: I’ll talk to the CAG, and he’ll talk to the Old Man, and the Old Man will lean on Tigh, and we’ll have you back here. But there’s one thing you’ve got to understand,” and her voice dropped to a severe tone that fully commanded his attention. “You’ve got to keep your lip zipped about the Cylon we have locked up here. Do you get that? You can’t just go running around, telling the other kids about what goes on here.”
“I haven’t,” Boxey protested. “You told me not to, weeks ago. I knew it was important then . . .”
“Yeah, but now it’s even more important. The admiral, Tigh . . . they’re worried that if word gets out to the fleet, all hell is going to break loose. That people won’t understand that she’s . . . that it’s . . .” She corrected herself, scowling. “A military asset. There’s a lot of jumpy people out there who never, ever expected to find themselves in the middle of a space-going war zone, and they don’t know how to take it. They’d kill the Cylon as soon as look at it, and gods only know what they would do in order to make that happen. We’d rather not find out. You get what I’m saying, Boxey? This isn’t just me talking. This is coming straight from the admiral, and if I’m not convinced that you understand it, then things could get nasty. So I’ve got to know that you do understand.”
“I understand.”
“Say it again.” And her gaze was like a laser penetrating his mind.
“I. Understand,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster.
She studied him for a time, and he felt as if the admiral were looking at him through her eyes. Then she finally relaxed slightly and said, “Good. Plus, hey . . . remember . . . once we find Earth, we’ll all be together on the same planet anyway.” She ruffled his hair. “That’ll be our happily ever after. Won’t that be great?”