Sagittarius Is Bleeding: Battlestar Galactica 3

by Peter David

  But why Sagittaron? Or Sagittarius, as the ancient name was phrased. Why did that figure so prominently? And Sharon Valerii?

  Well, Valerii was obvious, of course. She represented the face of the enemy . . . and yet she was also responsible, however indirectly, for Laura’s new lease on life. So naturally she would feel conflicted about Valerii . . . about it . . . and that was what dreams were, after all. A place for the mind to work out conflicts.

  As for Sagittaron . . . well, that was where Tom Zarek hailed from. Laura was of the firm conviction that, short of the Cylons, Tom Zarek continued to represent the single greatest threat to humanity’s continued existence. It was the nature of those such as Zarek to instigate unrest, to foment hostility by attempting to change the status quo—not through diplomacy or thought or consideration—but through violent action. There was enough violence threatening humankind from without; they certainly didn’t need it from within.

  Perhaps that was where the image of blood was coming from as well. Blood was life. Blood was cleansing. She was charged with maintaining the very life blood of humans, to keep it flowing in a cold and uncaring galaxy against an implacable foe that sought to annihilate them.

  Symbolism. That’s what dreams were all about. The more she thought about it, the less daunted by the dreams she was becoming. If she only thought of them as a barrage of frightening images, then it was no wonder she would feel overwhelmed by what was going on inside her skull. But if she broke them down to individual concepts and did all she could to understand what they symbolized, why . . . it wasn’t a problem at all.

  Knowledge was the key to understanding. Knowledge—as Laura Roslin the teacher knew very well—was power. To have knowledge of what her dreams meant gave her the power to be undaunted by them.

  At that moment, her alarm clock went off. Laura was slightly jolted by the noise, and it was just enough to make her realize that she had indeed drifted off to sleep at some point in her musings. But it had been a peaceful, dreamless sleep—the first one in an age, it felt like. That knowledge buoyed her spirits. She felt as if she were on the mend, as if she had taken the first step on a road back to recapturing her equilibrium.

  It couldn’t have come at a better time. Her performance at the press conference had been nothing short of a fiasco. Billy had done some brilliant spinning when reporters had subsequently asked him if Laura hadn’t seemed a bit erratic during the conference, and he smoothly chalked it up to the residue of some heavy-duty medication she’d been taking during her recent illness. He expressed full confidence that the medicines would have worked their way out of her body in short order, and she would be back to her smiling, confident self, ready to put her near-death experience behind her and serve the needs of the people. Everyone had nodded and smiled approvingly, even with relief. As much as reporters enjoyed challenging the status quo, at heart they were as eager for stability and constancy as anyone else. Laura represented that, far more so than the brusque, occasionally distant, and often inscrutable Admiral Adama.

  At least, that was the general perception of him.

  But she had come to know him in a very different way. Had come to respect him, even admire him. Even . . .

  “Best not to go there,” Laura said aloud and was slightly startled at the sound of her own voice. She shook it off and slid her legs out from under the covers.

  Reflexively she glanced toward the window, and then mentally and sadly scolded herself. She had still not gotten used to the lack of sun. In the old days (only few months gone, but funny how they had become “the old days”) she had never required an alarm since she had readily awoken to the first rays of the morning sun. Ever since she’d been a little girl, that was all that she had required. It was a regular part of her routine, something that she had simply taken for granted. That was one of the most humbling things about her current situation, about the situation that faced all of them: Nothing could be taken for granted anymore. If one couldn’t count on the sun to always be there for them, what could one count on?

  “Yourself,” she said aloud to her unspoken question. She smiled at that. She liked the confident sound of it. In every respect, inside and out, she was beginning to feel and sound more and more like her old self.

  Maybe you’re still dreaming this. Maybe you only think you’re awake, but you’re not, and bad things are going to happen . . .

  She shook the doubts off like a dog divesting itself of water.

  She walked into the bathroom and attended to the normal, mundane aspects of morning ablution. As she brushed her teeth, she considered all she had to do today, and was pleased by the degree of clear-headedness that she was displaying. In every way, she was starting to feel like her old self. Her pre-cancer self. The one who not only believed that mankind had a great and glorious destiny, but that she was going to be around to be a part of it. She realized that she had missed that Laura Roslin almost as much as she now missed the sun.

  Removing her nightgown, she stepped into the shower, mindful of the need to keep it as brief as possible. The fleet had already had to cope once with the loss of water that had put them into crisis mode. She wasn’t about to forget that and endlessly squander a precious resource. Get in, get cleaned off, get out.

  She remembered with amusement Billy’s suggestion that they mount a campaign centered around “Save water; shower with a friend.” Involuntarily her thoughts turned once more to Adama . . .

  Don’t. Go. There.

  “Boy,” she muttered, soaping her hair, “you really are a glutton for punish—”

  Something felt wrong.

  She lowered her hands and looked at them.

  She assumed she was looking at thick residue from brown water. Not that long ago some sort of rust build-up had caused the water to acquire a distinctly coppery tint. But a man from maintenance had come in, done some work on the pipes, and declared them to be rust-free. He’d been right; from that moment on, the water had been fine. So initially her instinct was to think that she was faced with a recurrence of that problem.

  Then she realized that it was a distinctly different tint.

  Her hands were red. Dark red. Blood red.

  At first she thought there was something wrong with the shampoo. Then she looked down. Her eyes widened in horror. Blood was pouring down her body, cascading down her torso and legs and swirling down the drain.

  She jumped back, slamming against the far wall of the shower, and looked up, a scream strangling unvoiced in her throat.

  Blood was gushing from the showerhead.

  She slipped and stumbled out of the shower. She hit the floor, landing hard on her elbows and sending jolts of pain running up and down her arms. She barely felt it. She felt as if her mind was being shredded by what was happening.

  She half-stumbled, half-crawled out of the bathroom, and something splattered upon her from overhead. She looked up, terrified at what she was going to see.

  A gigantic red spot had formed upon the ceiling, and blood was dripping from overhead . . . a few drops at first, but then a steady trickle and then a gush, cascading down upon her bed, soaking it through.

  Laura finally screamed in full voice, grabbing at her bathrobe and throwing it on even as she bolted for the door. She slammed into it as her bloodied hand slipped off the knob, failing to open it. Then she found traction, pulled the door opened and stumbled into the hallway, shouting for help.

  Billy was there in an instant, as if materializing from thin air. All endeavors to maintain professional demeanor, to adhere to proper titles such as “Madame President,” evaporated. “Laura!” he yelled, trying to make himself heard over Laura’s inarticulate shouts. “Laura, what’s wrong?!”

  “Blood! Blood! It’s everywhere! It’s—”

  “What are you talking about!?”

  “Look at me!” She held up her hands. “I’m covered in—”

  “There’s nothing!”

  “The blood, it was coming out of the shower, the ceiling,
it’s everywhere—”

  “There’s no blood! I don’t know what you’re talking about! There’s nothing!”

  Billy’s words penetrated her own hysteria, and she fought it down enough to look at her hands herself. They were clean. There was nothing on them except residual dampness from the water.

  “This . . . this can’t be,” she muttered, shaking her head. She ran her fingers through her hair. There was no stickiness as one would imagine from a head covered in blood, and her fingers came away clean. She held up her arms. The loose folds of the sleeves of her robe fell away and she saw that her arms were clean as well. “Can’t be . . . the ceiling . . . the shower . . .”

  “Show me,” Billy said firmly.

  She nodded, feeling disconnected from the moment, even from her own body. She turned and pointed wordlessly at her quarters. Billy stepped past her and stuck his head in. She waited for some reaction from him, but he turned back to her and simply stared at her, his face a question mark.

  Laura walked over, pushed past him, and looked in, looked up at the ceiling.

  Dry. Normal. No sign of anything untoward.

  She pointed with a quavering hand and said, “The bathroom . . .” But before Billy could step past to check it out, she forced her feet to move. She ignored his attempt to hold her back as she walked quickly across the room and looked into the bathroom.

  Nothing.

  Water was still pouring out of the showerhead. It was pure and clean and not the slightest bit sanguine. Feeling as if she were sleepwalking while awake, Laura reached in and shut off the water.

  “It could have been that plumbing thing . . .” Billy started, but his voice trailed off since he knew that he was not only failing to convince Laura, but himself as well. Slowly Laura walked back into her bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. Automatically she rearranged the folds of the robe to cover her legs, and she just sat there and stared off into space.

  Billy stood in front of her and then crouched so that he was at eye level with her. “Laura,” he said, gently but firmly, sounding less like an aide and more like a concerned uncle, “you’ve got to tell me what’s going on. I can’t help you if you—”

  “You can’t help me,” Laura said softly. “I’m going crazy. That’s all there is to it.”

  “You’re not going crazy.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because people who are really going crazy don’t have the presence of mind to question it. They just accept the reality that’s handed them. Or maybe the ‘perceived reality’ would be a better way to put it.”

  She put her face in her hands, trying to compose herself. Billy said nothing; he just crouched there and waited.

  She told him. She told him about the series of bizarre dreams, with the recurring theme of blood. She told him about Sharon and Zarek figuring into them, and the symbolism of Sagittarius seeping blood. She told him how she had not been sleeping, and how when she did sleep she woke up, and how when she was awake she was beginning to lose track of whether she was awake or asleep. She told him how the lines between dream imagery and reality were beginning to blur, perhaps irreparably.

  “Maybe . . .” she began to say, and then stopped.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe . . . I should take a leave of absence. Even resign my duties . . .”

  Billy shook his head. “No. No, I believe in you. You can work your way through this.”

  She said nothing for a long moment. “Madame President . . .” Billy began.

  But she put up a hand and cut him off. Amazingly, despite everything that had just transpired, she forced a wry smile. “This is the beginning of a pep talk, isn’t it.”

  “Well . . .” Billy hesitated. “I don’t know that I would have . . . yeah, okay, yes. It was.”

  “I appreciate that. But I’m starting to think this is a situation that requires more than just a pep talk. I think someone is out to get me.” When she saw his look, she continued, “I know how that sounds.”

  “Well, they always say that it’s not paranoia if someone really is out to get you. If you think that’s what’s happening, then we should speak to Admiral Adama. We should . . .”

  “No.”

  “But . . .”

  “I said no. What’s the first thing on the agenda?”

  He was about to offer more of a protest, but then he saw the firm expression on her face and discarded the idea. “Well . . . actually, I don’t think it’s going to be something that makes you feel any better.”

  “Billy, anything short of Tom Zarek is going to be perfectly fine, I assure you.” Then she saw the look on his face and said, with the resigned sigh of the damned, “It’s Zarek, isn’t it.”

  “You told him to meet with me to make an appointment. He did, I did. I figured doing it in the morning would get it out of the way quickly.”

  “Good thinking, Billy.”

  He stood. “I’ll cancel . . .”

  “No, you won’t. I’ll attend to it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She fixed him with a determined stare. “Billy . . . either this is happening due to outside influence, or my mind is turning against me. I won’t be beaten by someone else, and I certainly won’t be beaten by my own brain. I will be keeping up with my schedule, and that’s all.”

  Billy nodded and said simply, “Thank you, Madame President.” He walked out of the room, and it wasn’t until he was gone that Laura Roslin started to tremble uncontrollably, and did so until for long seconds until the shakes finally passed.

  “Madame President. You’re looking well.”

  Laura, looking utterly self-possessed and not at all like someone who felt as if reality and fantasy were bleeding hopelessly together, pulled up the chair behind her desk and said, “Thank you, Councilman. What’s on your mind?”

  Zarek, sitting across the desk from her, smiled in amusement. “Getting right to the point, Madame President?”

  She returned the smile, but there was no warmth in it, nor did she pretend there was. “I have a schedule to keep.”

  “And perhaps you want to minimize the amount of time you have to look at me?”

  “You said it, Councilman, not I.”

  “Well,” he said, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms. “I guess that’s the difference between us. I say what I think.”

  “But you didn’t do that, did you, Councilman. You said what I think. Or at least what you believe I was thinking. I don’t need people to speak on my behalf, and I certainly don’t appreciate it when people try to read my mind.”

  Putting his hands up in a gesture of surrender, Zarek never lost his lopsided grin. Laura had no doubt that he was getting some sort of perverse enjoyment out of this. “Point taken, Madame President. I’ll get to it, then. Have you heard of the Midguardians?”

  “Of course,” she said promptly.

  He was visibly surprised. “You have?”

  “I wouldn’t be much of a president if I didn’t have at least some passing knowledge of every major group represented in the fleet. I’d actually been under the impression that the practitioners of their ancient religion had died out.”

  “As it turns out, no. But not for lack of trying on the part of others. I’ve been reading up on them, and the persecution of these people is one of the darker times in our history.”

  “May I ask,” she said, curious in spite of herself, “why you’ve taken a sudden interest in the Midguardians?”

  “Because they’ve approached me about the prospect of being officially recognized.”

  “As what?”

  “As a colony, with equal rights and privileges to any of the others.”

  Laura laughed in that way someone does when they can’t quite believe the person they’re talking to is serious. When she saw that Zarek’s expression wasn’t changing; she realized that he did, indeed, mean what he was saying. “Why in the world would we want to do that? They’re a religion, not a colony.”
/>
  “They are a race. A people with their own heritage and history. They are deserving of recognition as such.”

  “Councilman,” said Laura, still having trouble believing that they were having this conversation at all, “I’m not entirely certain why you’re even approaching me on this. I can’t simply wave my hand and change the basic structure of government. I’m the president, not the king.”

  “I know that,” said Zarek, not showing the least sign of flagging in his determination. “But every member of the Quorum has one thing in common: They respect you.”

  “Every member?”

  The unspoken challenge was there, and Zarek rose to it. “Every member. Including me. And my coming to you is my way of acknowledging that they will listen to you before they listen to me. If you recommend this—”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “it’s the right thing to do.”

  Laura wasn’t entirely certain how to react to that. But, as always, whatever inner questions she had weren’t reflected in her demeanor. Instead she peered over the tops of her glasses as if studying a new form of bacteria. “That’s it? That’s your whole argument? Because it’s the right thing to do?”

  “I’d like to think that would be enough.”

  “And do you think employing violence to get your way is also the right thing to do?”

  “You don’t see me employing violence here, do you?” he pointed out. “I didn’t come in here threatening you. No one’s putting a gun to your head. I’ve no blackmail. No way to force you into anything.”

  What about what you’re doing to my head? What about the terrorist tactics you’re pulling that have made it so I can’t sleep, and that are starting to seep into my every waking moment? Are you doing it in order to tear me down? Undermine my leadership? Make me easy to manipulate, get me to agree to something out of exhaustion that I wouldn’t ordinarily have even considered?

  She briefly contemplated hurling such questions at him, but she dismissed the notion. There was no advantage to confronting him in that manner. First of all, she still wasn’t completely certain there was an entity behind what was happening to her. Second, even if she was certain, she didn’t know for sure it was Zarek. Third, even if she was certain, there was no way to prove it. It wasn’t as if a cool customer like Zarek was going to break down and admit to anything just from a few probing questions being offered by her. Fourth—and the greatest consideration of all—she didn’t want to chance admitting any weakness to someone as untrustworthy and scheming as Tom Zarek. If he wasn’t behind it, he’d think she was losing her mind, and if he was behind it, he’d take satisfaction in knowing that he was getting to her.