Sagittarius Is Bleeding: Battlestar Galactica 3

by Peter David

  CHAPTER

  11

  Laura feels at peace, for the first time in a long time. She feels at peace because there is no question in her mind this time. The line between fantasy and reality is clearly demarcated. She has no doubt that she is dreaming now. With that knowledge brings peace of a kind. The recent press conference where figments of her innermost fears were strolling around in the objective light of day was a bit much for her. But this . . . this is definitely within her comfort level.

  Yet what she is experiencing is simultaneously comforting and disconcerting.

  She hears a heartbeat. It is steady and rhythmic, as a heartbeat should be. It’s difficult for her to place where it’s originating from, because everything around her is so dark. She strains to find a light source, but none is forthcoming. She tries to hold her hands up in front of her face, but she’s having trouble determining whether she’s actually moving them or not. She doesn’t quite understand why. It’s as if her mind is completely disconnected from her body. Still, she’s not upset over the lack of light. She’s not upset about anything. Instead she feels completely calm and content. Although all her problems are still present in her mind, she nevertheless feels as if she hasn’t a care in the world. She is calmer than at any other time that she can recall, and not only that, but she feels totally protected, as if nothing out in the world can possibly hurt her while she floats blissfully in . . .

  Oh . . . you have to be kidding . . .

  The words echo in her mind and she tries to say them aloud, but her mouth won’t form the words.

  This can’t be happening . . .

  Seized with a determination to shake off a dream that had abruptly become far too strange for her to continue, she starts twisting about violently. She is suddenly relieved that she can’t see her own body since she isn’t sure she could tolerate the bizarreness of what she is now certain she will experience. She feels completely constricted, even though there are no ropes or any other sort of bonds around her.

  Then the environment in which she is floating begins to respond to her struggles. There is trembling and violent vibration, and she perceives that there are walls surrounding her, starting to close in, and pushing her down, down through the liquid that is enveloping her . . .

  Too weird . . . too weird . . . make it stop, gods, please . . .

  But as much as she is repulsed by the reality of what is happening to her, or at least what she thinks is happening to her, there is nothing that she can do to prevent it. She tries to get a sense of herself within the context of the dream, but she cannot. She doesn’t know whether this is something that is supposed to be happening to her . . . or to someone else.

  She is shoved forward, the walls contracting around her, forcing her against her will. She seeks purchase and finds none. She continues to struggle but it means nothing. She is leaving the warmth behind, and suddenly coldness strikes her in the face. Laura opens her mouth, but nothing except a pathetic mewl escapes her lips.

  “Her eyes are open,” says a voice, and it’s a terribly familiar one.

  The world is shifting at odd angles around her, and she is looking up into the familiar face of Gaius Baltar. She recognizes him even though he is wearing a surgical mask over the lower half of his face. “Amazing. It’s like she’s looking right at me.”

  “It’s a girl,” the voice of Sharon Valerii moans, “I knew it would be a girl . . . God . . . she’s covered in blood.”

  “We’ll clean her off,” says Baltar. “Nurse. Come here.” He turns and, holding Laura carefully in his blood-covered hands, he extends her to the waiting figure of a Cylon soldier, all gleaming metal and a single, glowing red eye. Laura screams even louder, and it’s still emerging as a babyish cry.

  The Cylon takes her from Baltar. Its metal hands are cold, and Laura is shivering from the chill and from the fear. He turns around and walks away. Baltar is shouting for him to come back, and Sharon, who Laura can now see is lying flat on a table with her legs splayed, is reaching out desperately and crying for the Cylon to return her. The Cylon ignores her, walking out of the room, and now they are outside, the Cylon striding away from a small building, its feet clanking steadily. She is looking up at the night sky, and she recognizes the constellations. She has seen them before. She is on Earth. She is home.

  Behind her the building explodes in a fireball of sound and flame . . .

  She woke up and found that the Cylon warrior’s face had been replaced with that of Billy.

  She started involuntarily and realized that she was sitting in her office chair, which made perfect sense since she was in her office. For a heartbeat she thought she was still dreaming—again—for how in the world had she gotten from her bedroom to her office? Then, in that disorienting way that always occurs when one wakes up in an unexpected place, she remembered that she had, in fact, already gotten up that morning, and had come to work. She had leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for just a moment to rest them . . .

  . . . at least, she thought that was what she had done. What if she was wrong? What if her memory was playing tricks on her and actually she really was still asleep? Maybe she was even in a coma, and all that was going to happen now was that she was going to keep dreaming about waking up and waking up—

  “Madame President . . .”

  Billy’s voice, filled with unmistakeable concern that was cloaked with a veil of professionalism, said, “Your next appointment is here. Mr. Gunnerson . . .”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” She straightened her short jacket and sat forward in as businesslike a manner as she could, doing her best to indicate that she was raring to go. “Bring him in,” she said in her most no-nonsense voice.

  Billy looked as if he were about to say something, but then thought better of it and simply inclined his head. “Yes, Madame President.”

  He went out and, moments later, came back in with what appeared to be a walking land mass. Laura kept her face neutral as she rose to greet him, but inwardly she was astounded at the size of the man. He had to bend over slightly to pass through the door, and when he reached out to shake her hand, her hand literally disappeared into his. “Wolf Gunnerson, Madame President. It’s an honor.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said, gesturing toward the chair opposite her. He sat, albeit not without effort, as she sat back down in her own chair. She glanced behind him and saw only Billy. “For some reason I was under the impression Councilman Zarek would be joining you to help make your case.”

  “Councilman Zarek told me he thought it’d be better if I came in on my own. He said”—and Gunnerson raised a bushy, quizzical eyebrow—“that you would probably feel more at ease if he were not here.”

  She smiled slightly. “Councilman Zarek overestimates his ability to discomfort me. He would have been welcome to join you, but . . .” She shrugged as if it were of little consequence. “So . . . I understand you feel your people should be recognized as . . . what? A thirteenth colony?”

  “A fourteenth,” he reminded her, “if we count the long-lost colony that may or may not have wound up on our destination of Earth.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “For that matter, thirteen has never been the luckiest of numbers. Perhaps increasing the number of colonies—here and gone—to fourteen will change some of the luck we’ve been having lately.”

  Laura allowed a small laugh. In spite of herself, she was actually finding the fellow pleasant enough. She hadn’t known what she was going to be confronted with: some sort of wild-eyed religious fanatic, perhaps. But this soft-spoken behemoth didn’t match her preconceptions.

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” she said evenly. “Somehow, though, I doubt that that will be the sort of convincing argument the Quorum would consider.”

  “Yes, I know that,” he laughed. It was a deep, rumbling laugh that sounded like the beginnings of a ground quake. Then he grew serious and continued, “I’m not naïve, Madame President. I know the way t
hings work. Most of the time, when a decision is to be made about something, the consideration isn’t what is right . . . or what’s just . . . or what’s fair. It’s ‘What’s in it for me?’ ”

  “That’s a less-than-charitable view of the world.”

  “But not less than realistic.”

  “If you’re trying to focus on the realistic,” said Laura, “then certainly you have to acknowledge that my voice is merely that: a voice. As I made clear to the councilman, the question of statehood—which is really what you’re asking for—is not something that lies within the province of this office. That’s in the hands of the Quroum, and the Quorum doesn’t answer to me.”

  “No. But they listen to you. And if you put forward our case, that would carry weight.”

  “And why would I . . .” She stopped and now they were both smiling. “All right . . . I suppose, yes, I’m saying what’s in it for me? Or, more specifically, for the members of the Quorum. I don’t dispute that the Midguardians have been treated less than charitably in the past. But that persecution was a long time ago . . .”

  “A long time ago in the minds of you and yours. But a mere eye blink to me and mine. And even now, my people remain marginalized because of our beliefs. Dismissed as heretics and unbelievers. We’ve no active involvement or say in the destiny of humanity. That’s not right.”

  “I don’t dispute that,” said Laura. “But, despite what you may have read in some of the more enthusiastic publications . . . I am not a god. I don’t get to wave my hand and have everyone fall into line. There’s—dare I say it—politics involved. And whether we like it or not, that aspect has to be addressed.”

  “Have you heard,” he said, unexpectedly switching topics, “of the book of Edda?”

  “Yes. It’s your book of history.”

  “Correct. History of the past . . . and the present . . . and the future. The lifetime of mankind, covered in our verses, with greater accuracy and detail than is to be found in any of your prophecies.”

  “Well,” Laura said, not exactly convinced despite the obvious fervency of his belief. “That’s easy for you to say. But having never read it myself, or had access to it . . .”

  “That’s because the leaders of the ‘accepted’ religion have done everything within their ability to make certain no one does. After all,” and he leaned back, the chair creaking beneath his weight, “if it’s learned that someone other than the accepted oracles are able to know what’s to come, that would certainly diminish the miracles that support the current belief system. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would say,” she said slowly, “that it’s easy to complain of so-called conspiracies where none was intended.”

  “It is indeed . . . just as it’s difficult sometimes to convince others that such conspiracies exist. That’s what the conspirators typically count upon: disbelief. It’s the single greatest weapon at their command.”

  “Mr. Gunnerson,” she said, striving to keep the fatigue from her voice, “with all respect, I feel as if we’re going in circles here, and I don’t have the time—”

  Gunnerson reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather case. Placing it on her desk, he opened it with unmistakeable reverence. There was a small book inside. He removed it, held it up, and said with a touch of pride, “The Edda.” He flipped through it with the confidence of someone who knew what was contained on every page and found what he was looking for. He turned to a page toward the back. Then he cleared his throat and said to her, “Understand that I’m not only translating on the fly, but it’s supposed to be sung. But I figure you don’t need my abysmal attempts at vocalizing, particularly this early in the morning, so . . .”

  She gestured for him to proceed, intrigued in spite of herself.

  He held up the book and began to read. Although he was, indeed, not singing it, his voice still went up and down in places as if it were meant to be chanted and he couldn’t help himself.

  “The day would come, when the prodigal sons

  A gleam in metal, crimson of eye

  Would rain destruction down upon their fathers

  From the tinted sky

  The fathers would run, fleeing from the wrath

  Of sons, accompanied by daughters

  Their eyes would turn toward far-off home

  With verdant land and chill blue waters

  Two ships would guide them, one at first

  The galaxy would be its name

  Accompanied by flying horse

  Very different, much the same . . .”

  Her eyes widened, astonishment rippling through her. Gunnerson didn’t see it since he was looking down at his book, and when he closed it she had already managed to regain her composure. “There’s more,” he said quietly. “It describes individuals in the grand scheme of things who match up rather closely to you, Admiral Adama, some others.”

  “It’s . . . impressive,” Laura Roslin admitted, but she was not about to simply swallow everything that was being handed her. “On the other hand, hindsight is always twenty-twenty.”

  “Are you suggesting that these verses were written after the fact?” He sounded amused rather than offended.

  “I’m suggesting nothing, merely observing that it’s possible.”

  He held up the book. “Our ancients,” he said, “received these words from Woten himself, the father of the gods. They have been part of our people since our people had a people. It speaks of a twilight of humanity, in great detail, and everything that is to happen to humanity when that twilight falls. It speaks . . .” He paused, and then said, “Of how we survive. It’s all here.” He placed the copy of the book back into the small case, and closed it. “Understand . . . that it, and we, represent your salvation.”

  “How so?” she asked, intrigued but trying not to show it.

  “In the book of Edda,” he said, “it speaks of a bridge. A glittering bridge that serves as a connector between those who wander . . . which I take to be us . . . and Earth. The literal translation of the text is ‘Rainbow Bridge.’ The name the Edda accords it is ‘Bifrost,’ which is where the name of our vessel comes from. Our scholars believe, however, that the bridge is not necessarily a literal rainbow. It could instead be a representation of that which we understand now, but our ancestors could never have found words to frame: a wormhole, or bridge through space. Something that, should we be able to find it, would enable us to complete our journey in an instant. Bifrost is our way to our sanctuary . . . in more ways than one. And the Edda . . . tells us how to find it. It would bring us straight to it.”

  Too good to be true. Most things that are too good to be true . . . aren’t. An old warning that her mother used to voice came back to her unbidden, but it was certainly good advice. “You’re saying that your book of . . . prophecies, for lack of a better term . . . can get us to Earth?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes,” he assured her. “And you’ve no one to blame for not knowing these verses but your own church elders from centuries ago, who tried to burn all of our holy writings out of existence since they were offended by their very presence. If we’d been accepted when we should have been, then all our wise writings would be at your disposal. But we were not and, therefore, they are not. An unfortunate circumstance for you, certainly, but there’s nothing to do about it now. However, give us the equality that we deserve, and you will be welcome to review all of our texts, past and future. To embrace us is to embrace the end of our voyage so that we need not wander anymore.”

  The offer was a fascinating one. Laura didn’t quite know what to say. That in itself was irritating to her, for Laura Roslin had always prided herself on knowing just what to say in any given situation. And then, as she pondered how to respond to this startling offer, she saw something out of the corner of her eye.

  It was something just out the window—“viewing port,” she mentally corrected herself. Even after all this time, she was still tripping over substituting the appro
priate space-going jargon for what had once been the mundane aspects of life. A window was a viewing port, a room was quarters, a wall was a bulkhead; it had taken some adjusting for her, since Laura had always regarded space vessels as merely a mode of transportation from one point to the other, never requiring more than a few hours travel time. Taking up residence in one, well, that was another matter. All of which still left her wondering just what the hell she had spotted out the window.

  “Excuse me a moment,” she said to Wolf, and got up from behind her desk. Wolf Gunnerson, as protocol dictated, automatically began to stand as well, but she gestured for him to remain in his seat. She went over to the window and looked out.

  Sharon Valerii was looking back at her.

  Laura staggered back, her mouth dropping open, her eyes wide. The sharp intake of breath naturally caught Gunnerson’s attention, and Wolf stood once more, this time out of obvious concern. “Is there a problem, Madame President?”

  She didn’t hear him, or she heard him, but it didn’t really register that someone was talking to her. It wasn’t that she was seeing Sharon floating out in space. Rather, she saw her reflected in the window. The reflection exactly matched her movements, and she stared at it long and hard to make certain it wasn’t some trick of the light. Slowly she reached up, and Sharon’s reflection did the same. She placed her hand flat against Sharon’s reflected hand, and Laura spoke softly, so softly that Wolf—sitting not more than five feet away—couldn’t hear her.

  “Get out of my head,” she whispered, her mouth twisted into an uncharacteristic snarl. “Get . . . out . . . of my head.”

  Sharon’s mouth moved as well, and that was when Laura realized that Sharon wasn’t mouthing the same words as she was. Instead, Sharon spoke very slowly, the words she was forming easy to discern even if Laura hadn’t already had them burned into her mind through what seemed endless repetition.