by Peter David
“No. You’re not doing anything like that,” she allowed. “But, given our history, I find it difficult to believe you’d think that I would simply take your recommendation on faith—”
“I’m not asking you to do any such thing,” he said immediately. He jumped on this so quickly, in fact, that Laura mentally kicked herself, certain that she had just walked into something. “All I’m asking is that you meet with one of their representatives. One Wolf Gunnerson. He’s a very impressive, and very charismatic, individual.”
“Why didn’t he simply come to me directly?”
“Because he believes in following a chain of command. He doesn’t feel it’s his place to go straight to the president. That his representative should do that instead. And since he and his people are from Sagittaron . . .”
“That representative would be you.”
“Exactly.”
Laura’s gut reaction was to say no. Except . . . based on what, really? She was the president of the Colonies. She represented all the people. If one of them felt they had a genuine grievance, fairness and conscience demanded that she make herself available to hear it. How could she reasonably refuse to meet with this Gunnerson person based entirely on her antipathy toward Zarek?
“Very well.”
As if she hadn’t spoken, Zarek said, “I think if you give any consideration to fairness, Madame President, I . . .”
For all that Zarek annoyed the hell out of her—for all that she found it aggravating to be in the same room with him—she had to admit to herself that she would always treasure the look on his face when his brain finally processed what she had just said. His voice trailed off for a moment and then he said, “ ‘Very well’?”
“My aide will set up a time to meet.”
Zarek’s face changed, and she realized that the patronizing, barely tolerant smile had been inadvertently replaced by a genuine one. It surprised her to see that he actually had a rather pleasant face when he wasn’t looking at her like a fox sizing up a prospective meal. “Well, that’s . . . thank you, Madame President. That was very unexpected.”
“Unexpected?” she said pleasantly. “Why so?”
“Candidly . . . I expected much more of an argument.”
She shrugged as if it were no big deal . . . which, stripped of her animosity and distrust for Tom Zarek, it really wasn’t . . . and said, “One of my citizens wants to speak with me. I’m the president of all the people, Councilman Zarek . . . even the people with whom I disagree. Even my enemies.”
Zarek’s smile once again remained in place, but the warmth evaporated from it. “I certainly hope you’re not referring to me, Madame President. I’m only the enemy of those who would repress others. I’d hate to think you’d count yourself among such individuals.”
“I was merely speaking in generalities, Councilman,” she purred. “Whether you feel what I said applied to you . . . well, that’s certainly your decision to make, not mine.”
“Understood,” Zarek said coolly as he stood. Laura did likewise. He extended his hand and she shook it firmly. “A pleasure as always.”
As she watched him leave, her eyes narrowed, and she considered the fact that meeting with Zarek was “always” something, all right . . . but “a pleasure” wasn’t what she would have termed it.
CHAPTER
10
William Adama had thought he had heard it all. But when Colonel Tigh told him who had shown up out of nowhere, requesting to meet with the admiral as soon as possible, it still took him a few moments to cut through the sheer incredulity that seized him.
“She’s claiming to be her what?” he asked for what might have been the third time. All eyes in CIC had turned to watch with interest, and it was obvious that they were sharing Adama’s disbelief.
From Tigh’s expression, it was clear that he was not relishing being the bearer of this particular news. “She says,” Tigh repeated, looking as if he was ready to strangle whoever the “she” was that was the subject of his communiqué, “that she’s her lawyer.”
Adama wanted to laugh. But he’d never laughed in front of his crew and didn’t feel inclined to set precedent. “Her lawyer,” he echoed.
“Yes.”
“Motherfrakker,” came a murmured comment from Dualla.
Adama fired a glance at her and she quickly fell silent. He stepped closer in toward Tigh and said in a low, angry voice, “How did she even find out the Cylon is on board?”
“She said ‘sources.’ You ask me, it’s that kid, Boxey.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” said Adama, who privately thought Tigh was probably right. “What’s this woman’s name?”
“Gunnerson. Freya Gunnerson. From the Bifrost. I ran a fast check on her and she is a genuine attorney.” Tigh shook his head. “If the frakking Cylons had to destroy the bulk of humanity, you’d think at least they could have done us the favor of making sure to take out all the lawyers.”
Adama considered the comment to be in poor taste at best, but he let it pass. “Does she have any known affiliation to any terrorist groups or any Cylon sympathizers?”
“Maybe, but nothing that a preliminary background check turned up. She’s a Midguardian, though.”
“Yes, everyone on the Bifrost is.” Adama knew the ship was one of the few privately owned vessels in the fleet. “They may be heathens, but they’re not especially enamored of the Cylons in any way that I know of. So where in the world is this coming from? Why would she be showing up here and claiming she’s Valerii’s attorney?”
“Free publicity. She’s trying to make a name for herself. Get famous fast.”
“Sharon Valerii is a member of the race that’s trying to obliterate us,” Adama pointed out. “Allying with her is a fast track to infamy, not fame.”
“For some people, that’s enough.” When Adama didn’t respond, Tigh said, “I’ll send her packing . . .”
“Bring her to meeting room A.”
Tigh’s eyes widened. His surprise was mirrored in the faces of the CIC crew. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Tigh turned to a nearby functionary and said, “Please have the woman who’s in the holding area escorted to meeting room A.” The moment the functionary was out the door, he turned back to Adama and said, “I’m coming with you, then.” He saw the look in Adama’s face, the understated surprise that Tigh would dare to issue flat fiats to him. But Tigh didn’t back down. “She’s a Cylon sympathizer. Perhaps a Cylon herself. For all we know, she wants a one-on-one with you so she can . . .” He didn’t want to complete the sentence, still sensitive—even now—to the bullets that had ripped open Adama’s chest and nearly killed him.
“I was taking it for granted she’s been screened for weapons,” Adama said mildly.
“Of course. But who ever knows what we’re dealing with? What if she has some sort of bomb that she’s got built into herself, and she can blow herself up? If she’s a toaster, anything is possible.”
“If she’s a toaster and she blows herself up, do you really think the best strategy is to put the ship’s commander and second in command in the same room with her?”
Tigh started to reply, and realized that he didn’t have a ready answer to that.
“I’ll be back shortly,” Adama assured him, and headed to the meeting room.
Before he left, though, Tigh called after him, “Admiral. Be careful. They can be incredibly evil bastards.”
“Cylons?”
“Lawyers.”
Adama hadn’t been certain what to look forward to when meeting Freya Gunnerson, briefcase in her hand and determination in her face. Horns, perhaps, or a large single red eye strobing from one side of her head to the other. He certainly hadn’t anticipated the tall, impressive-looking woman who was waiting for him. She didn’t seem especially devious. Of course, she wouldn’t have been especially devious if she’d looked that way, now, would she. She had been sitting, but she rose and extended her hand. “
Admiral. This is an honor,” she said. Her voice was musical, and she genuinely did sound as if she was honored to meet him. None of which served to put Adama off his guard, but it certainly ran contrary to his expectations. “I’m Freya Gunnerson.”
He shook her hand firmly. “William Adama.”
“Yes, I know. The military genius who’s kept us alive in the face of adversity.”
“I’ve had some help. Please sit.”
She did so, placing a briefcase on the table. She snapped the latches open and saw Adama’s cautious expression. “Your people have already thoroughly inspected this, I assure you.”
There had been no question in Adama’s mind that was true. The caution had been automatic after a lifetime of military experience. Nevertheless, he tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. She opened the briefcase and removed a notepad and a file folder, which she placed on the table and proceeded to flip through. “I assume,” she said, “that your XO told you why I’m here.”
“I prefer to hear it with my own ears.”
“I am here,” she said patiently, “to represent the interests of Sharon Valerii.”
“In what sense?”
“In the sense that I would like to know what crime she’s committed.”
Adama stared at her gravely. “What crime?”
“Yes, Admiral. What crime has she committed that warrants her being held indefinitely?”
“Attempted murder.”
“I assume you’re referring to yourself as the attempted victim.” Adama’s nod was barely perceptible, but she went on as if he had readily bobbed his head. “My understanding—and correct me if I have the facts wrong—is that the person you are holding indefinitely was, in fact, on Caprica at the time of the assault.”
“It is not a person.”
“Really.” She seemed genuinely interested in his opinion. “And on what do you base that assessment?”
“She is a Cylon. Are you disputing that?”
“Not at all. I’m simply asking on what basis you declare that she’s not a person.”
Adama could scarcely believe he was having the conversation. “The Cylons,” he said very slowly, as if addressing someone who was having trouble understanding him, “are machines. We created them.”
“Humans routinely create other humans. Does that make them machines?” Before he could answer, she leaned forward and continued, “I am simply a person of conscience, Admiral. I see someone’s rights being trampled upon, and I feel the need to step in and see that those rights are restored.”
“I’m not interested in fencing with you, Counselor,” Adama said in an icy tone. “Sharon Valarii is one of an identical series of creations, transferring all her knowledge from one to the next to the next. She was constructed for that purpose. Cylons are not humans. Sharon Valerii is not a person. Sharon Valerii is not human. Sharon Valerii has no more rights than the chair you’re sitting in.”
“Really.” The edges of her mouth turned up. “And how many pregnant chairs have you encountered?”
“That’s a ridiculous comparison.”
“Actually,” said Freya, “it’s a perfectly valid comparison. In case you never got around to taking basic biology in school, Admiral, one of the determinations of whether two beings are part of the same genus is their ability to reproduce. I will grant you that Sharon Valerii may be a different species from humans . . . but certainly she’s part of the same genus. Otherwise how else can she be pregnant by your lieutenant . . .” She glanced at one of the sheets of paper, “Agathon, I believe?”
“Yes,” he growled.
“My contention is that she is at the very least of the same genus, and quite possibly of the same species. Or at least near enough to be indistinguishable from humans. And if she’s indistinguishable from a human, on what basis can we contend that she’s not?”
“On the basis that she presents a security risk to this fleet.”
“An assertion you base on what aspect of her behavior, exactly? I’m not asking about her lookalikes. I’m asking you what specific crimes the woman in that cell has herself committed.”
Adama took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “None that I’m aware of,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t present a threat. Counselor, if we’re done here . . .”
“We are if you say we are,” she acknowledged. “This is your boat, after all. It’s just that I was given to believe that you were a man of honor.”
Adama’s face could have been carved of stone. “Are you questioning my honor?”
“I’m questioning what sort of man takes someone who has committed no crime—who has served the needs of humanity every time she was asked to—and treats her as if she is the most vile of criminals.”
“She. Isn’t. Human.”
She chuckled at that, but there was a sadness in her voice. “Isn’t that how one group always justifies mistreating another group? By pretending they’re not human, despite all evidence to the contrary? And because of that, they’re not deserving of rights.”
“My heart bleeds, counselor, considering the Cylons obviously think of us as animals to be slaughtered.”
“And we thought of them as slaves before they turned on us. No one’s hands are clean in this one, Admiral. But certainly part of their determination to exterminate us stems from the notion that they don’t think we’re deserving of the right to live free . . . just as you judge Sharon Valerii the same way. How are we to judge ourselves any better than the Cylons, if that’s the way we think?”
“And you can’t treat a Cylon like Sharon Valerii as if she is a human with the same rights as a human.”
“Convince me that she’s not human,” Freya said challengingly. “Her memories ‘transfer’? There are studies documenting humans functioning with highly developed versions of ESP. So the Cylons have simply improved upon that which was already a part of them. Cylons kill humans? As if humans don’t kill humans.”
“I don’t have to convince you of anything.”
Her face hardened. “Actually, Admiral, you do. See, our criminal justice system doesn’t allow for people to be held indefinitely, with no charges brought against them, while they’re pumped for information over alleged terrorist activities. No civilized society would allow such behavior, I’d like to think. In order to deprive someone of their fundamental right to liberty, the burden of proof is upon her accusers to prove that she has, in fact, done something worth being incarcerated for. You’ve admitted to my face that Sharon Valerii has done nothing. She’s being held for no damned good reason.”
“She is a military asset.”
“So are you, Admiral. But you’re not under armed guard and you can go wherever you wish. The fact remains that by every measurable standard, Sharon Valerii is a person. And all people within the Colonies have equal rights; that’s built right into the charter of the Twelve Colonies. Your imprisonment of Sharon Valerii is unconstitutional.”
“And you expect me to release her on the basis of this . . . specious claim?” said Adama incredulously.
“No. Getting her released is my fight, to be taken up with others. But at the very least, I should think that—in the interest of simple human decency—you would allow me to meet with her.”
“‘Others’ can’t know about her. I don’t even want to think what would happen if the general populace learns that she’s here.”
“If you think she’s going to remain under wraps forever, you’re deluding yourself. I’ll wager at least several people in the Quorum probably know by now. Or whatever marines you’ve got guarding her have told their loved ones about it, sworn of course to strictest secrecy. But secrets have a way of getting out, and in case you haven’t noticed, governments stink at keeping them. A casual slip of the tongue. A few too many drinks resulting in the wrong words said within earshot of the wrong ear. Next thing you know, this whole thing explodes in your face.” She eased back, sounding less confrontational but no less determined. “Look . .
. Admiral . . . if you allow me to meet with her, then anything I know about her—including her existence—becomes a matter of attorney/client privilege. I’ll keep everything to myself. You turn me away, shut me out . . . there’s no reason at all for me not to discuss whatever I know with whomever will listen.”
“Are you blackmailing me?” asked Adama, his tone fraught with danger.
“No, Admiral. That would be illegal. I’m simply explaining what will happen if you do the right thing . . . and the wrong thing. This isn’t blackmail. It’s simply endeavoring to give you an informed opinion.”
Adama’s instinct was to kick her off the ship. This woman hadn’t been there. She didn’t understand. She hadn’t seen the look that came over Sharon Valerii’s face as she leveled her gun at Adama’s chest and shot him at point-blank range. If Freya Gunnerson had seen that, she wouldn’t be sitting here today claiming that the thing down in the brig was entitled to be treated like any other human. In fact, if she had seen Sharon Valerii coming her way, she’d probably have run in the other direction.
Plus, on a practical level, Adama couldn’t see any way in which Sharon could be released, if for no other reason than that it would be a death sentence for her. Her predecessor had been gunned down. The odds were sensational that she would meet the same fate. The only way she would avoid it would be if she was assigned quarters and hid there for the rest of her life. What was really the difference between that and residing in a cell?