by Peter David
Why? Why would she come out of her coma, her near-death experience, with new and increased suspicions regarding Baltar? Was there something that he had said or done that had made her think something was wrong with him?
“You still don’t get it, do you?” said Six.
“Not readily, no,” he admitted. “But I very much suspect you’re going to tell me.”
“For someone who purports to be a genius, you’re not always very bright, Gaius. It comes down to something as simple as this: When someone is on the verge of death, all the detritus is stripped away from their mind. Take it from someone who has died several times in her existence. Nothing clears the mind like impending demise, and things that may have been obscured by time and distance suddenly snap into very clear relief.”
“What, are you saying that because she was going to die, she’s now come to some sort of realization about me that she was blinded to before?”
“I’m saying that her behavior is not consistent with someone who damned well should have been grateful considering she would have died without your intervention.”
He was about to reply to that, to again issue an automatic denial and express his complete confidence that Laura Roslin had no reason, none, to suspect him. But he didn’t say that because he couldn’t get the words to come out of his mouth. Finally he said, “Not everyone is skilled at giving thanks to people.” He winced even as he said it, because it wasn’t remotely convincing even to his own ear. That being the case, it certainly wasn’t anything that Number Six was going to buy.
It was, in fact, so unconvincing that she didn’t even deign to address it. Instead she said, “Something’s in the air, Gaius. You can feel it. You can smell it. They think they can fool you and even hide it from you . . . but they can’t. They’re investigating Cylon infiltration in new and aggressive ways, and you’ve been targeted for suspicion. They’re going to do something about it. They’re going to try and find evidence.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know humans. In some ways, I know them better than you.”
“I see.” As far as Baltar was concerned, the entire discussion was becoming ludicrous. “All right, Gina . . . or Six . . . or whatever. Impress me with your knowledge of my people. Tell me what they’re going to do to try and find evidence.”
“Obviously,” said Six, “they’ll undertake some manner of surveillance.”
“Surveillance? You mean spy on us?” Baltar snorted derisively at that. “Adama would never approve something like that. I know the man . . .”
“As well as you knew me? As well as you knew what I was capable of?” She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if somehow it was possible to spy on the deepest arenas of this thoughts. “You want to believe you’re so much smarter than the rest of them, Gaius. You want to believe that you’re above reproach. But we both know you live your life with one eye cocked over your shoulder to make sure that no one is watching you. You have a dark, terrible cloud hanging over you, and you’re constantly aware of it. You are the betrayer of humanity, Gaius. How long do you think you’re going to be able to live with that?”
“As long as it takes,” he growled.
“If they want to believe they have an infiltrator, let them. Let them have the boy. At the very least, it will buy you time. Time you desperately need.”
“No,” he said firmly, “I won’t . . .”
“Do this for me. You owe me this much.”
Baltar laughed grimly at that. “I owe you? As if I haven’t done enough for you already.”
“Then do it for yourself. Check your lab for listening or viewing devices. Sweep your lab and come up with one. I’m sure I’m right. If I’m wrong—if I have done a disservice to the noble humans who run the Galactica—then I shall never make mention of it again.”
“As if I’m supposed to believe that.”
She hesitated, and then said with great solemnity, “If you do as I ask . . . I’ll tell you my real name. Not the fake one that Gina told her captors. My real name.”
“Is that so?” He sounded amused but also intrigued.
She nodded. “That’s so. Just do as I ask.”
Baltar, having returned to his chair, leaned back on it, tilting the front legs up a bit. “I will . . . consider it. I’m telling you, though, it’s a waste of time.”
He waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, he turned around and saw that she was gone. That was extremely strange. It was one thing for her to disappear into nowhere when she was intruding into the real world. At such times, she delighted in spurring Baltar on into conversations that always made him appear foolish. But she had no reason to make herself scarce while inhabiting his waking dreams.
This anomaly in her behavior was the first thing in their entire encounter that actually made him start to wonder.
It hadn’t been all that difficult for Baltar to obtain the equipment that he required to accomplish the task.
The result was that he was crouched in his lab, underneath his table, staring in wonderment at a small round device that he never, ever would have spotted on his own, even if he’d been looking straight at it. He needed the additional help of the detector, a small device with a wand and a helpful flashing light that blinked with greater frequency when pointed directly at what he was seeking.
“Gods,” he said, except he didn’t speak it aloud. Instead he mouthed it. His mind was racing over the past several days. He had no idea how long it had been there, and he racked his memory, trying to determine if he had had one of his doubtless incriminating conversations with Six while in the lab. He was reasonably sure that he had not. He had to think that if he had said anything that sounded truly treasonous, Adama wouldn’t have simply stood there and traded barbs with him that other day. He’d have had him arrested and Baltar would be in a cell by this point. It was reverse logic, he knew, but it seemed sound to him. Perhaps there had been enough in Baltar’s manner that had prompted Adama to start bugging him since that day, but the scientist had presented nothing sufficiently concrete for the authorities to act upon beyond that. Which meant he was safe.
Frakking bizarre definition of “safe,” he thought grimly.
But once he got over his initial panic, he came to a realization: As with all things, knowledge was power. His impulse had been to reach for the bug, to crush it beneath his heel as he would the device’s namesake. But he paused with his hand in mid-reach and then slowly lowered it. If he destroyed the bug, they would know that he knew. The fact that he was so nervous about being eavesdropped upon would in itself be regarded as something suspicious. Now, however, he had the upper hand. They didn’t know that he knew they were eavesdropping.
Which meant that they would tend to take at face value whatever they heard.
Which meant that he could throw them off the track if he said the right things.
Which meant that if they were looking for Cylon infiltraters, all he had to do to throw them off the track was give them someone else. To name names.
Lee Adama. Give them Lee Adama. Or . . . Roslin! Even better! Two birds with one stone . . .
The more he considered such things, though, the more he realized that he had to rein in his impulses. If he tried to point them in a direction that seemed too far-fetched, they might reject it out of hand due to their damnable loyalties and instead focus even more attention on him.
Which meant that the best thing to do was point the finger of suspicion at someone whom they already had uncertainties about.
Which brought him right back to where Six had been days ago.
He started to stand and almost banged his head on the table. Slowly he eased he way out from under and sat in a chair, forcing himself to come to a conclusion that he despised . . . but that was necessary. He had his own survival to think about.
He became aware of her gaze upon him before he looked in her direction. She said nothing, but instead put a single finger to her lips in a shhh motion. Then she slowly, and a
bit overdramat-ically, pointed at something. He turned his gaze to where she indicated and his gaze fell upon that which he already knew she was indicating.
It was Boxey’s blood sample.
He felt a stinging in his eyes, tears welling up slightly, and just as quickly he brought an arm across his eyes and wiped them away. He hated his weakness. He despised Six for the weakness that she brought out in him.
At the same time, he picked up his portable recorder and spoke into it with a voice that was flat, even, and impressively clinical:
“Laboratory note, follow-up to test results of subject Box-man. Standard recheck of Cylon/Human veracity test indicates possible invalid results due to possible corruption of test sample because of unforeseen circumstances . . . specifically the sterile conditions of pertinent testing equipment may have been . . .” He sought the right word. “. . . breached. Reason for this suspected breach remains unknown at this time. Resolution: I will resterilize all relevant lab equipment and retest. Enough of the original sample of subject Boxman’s blood remains that subject will not need to be reacquired. If results come back identical to the first, then will chalk it up to simple lab error rather than something . . . suspicious . . . and there will be no need to alert the authorities of this revised finding since it would be fundamentally unchanged. If results are different, then Admiral Adama must immediately be informed so that . . .” He gulped deeply and watched as Six nodded in slow approval. She licked her lips enticingly. “. . . So that proper defensive action can be taken.
Anastasia Dualla had no idea what to make of Billy Keikeya.
It wasn’t the first time she’d felt befuddled by her on-again/off-again relationship with the presidential aide. There was no doubt that they were friends. She enjoyed spending time with him. They’d even had some serious make-out sessions. But she wasn’t entirely certain where the relationship was going, or even if it was going anywhere at all.
So she had invited Billy over to share a nice homemade dinner, which was an impressive achievement considering that she couldn’t cook worth a damn. That little fact had never bothered her before. She had jokingly stated on more than one occasion that she’d joined up with the military specifically so that she never had to worry about making meals for herself ever again. She would just eat her meals in whatever mess hall was on hand and that would be that.
But this night she was getting together with Billy, and she wanted it to be special. The problem was that she had no cooking facilities in her quarters. So she’d gone to the mess hall and convinced the cooks there to let her try her hand at preparing a nice dinner that she could then take out and back to her quarters. There, she told herself, she would be able to boast to Billy that she had made it with her own two hands.
Unfortunately, her cooking acumen did not magically improve as she endeavored to prepare a couple of nice steaks for the two of them. Instead she had come damned close to burning both pieces of meat and only some timely intervention by the chefs on hand had averted disaster. They managed to salvage her efforts and even provide a nice presentation of the meal, which Dualla proudly brought back to her quarters and endeavored to keep warm as Billy ran late.
And later.
And later.
Finally, a good hour and a quarter after Billy was supposed to have arrived, there was a knock at Dualla’s door. The food might no longer have been warm, but Dualla was certainly seething. “Come in,” she said with a tone that indicated all hope should be abandoned by those who entered.
Billy hesitated a moment and considered running in the other direction, because Dualla’s voice made it clear that he was in as much trouble as he already suspected he was. But, deciding to be a man about it, he sucked it up and entered with a smile plastered on his face. He proudly held up an honest-to-gods small plant, with beautiful blue cup-shaped flowers blossoming at the top. He said, “Sorry I’m late. Things got a little . . . crazy . . .”
“For this late,” Dualla said icily, “I’d expect you to be sporting at least three visible wounds.” In spite of herself, she focused on the bouquet he was extending toward her. “You hang up my beautiful dinner which, by the way, I worked my ass off to prepare for you, and you think you can bribe your way back into my good graces with some flowers?”
“That was pretty much my feeble hope, yeah,” he admitted.
She grunted at that and then, in spite of herself, extended a hand. He crossed the room and handed her the flowers. She brought them up to her face and inhaled deeply, and then—against all of her better impulses—moaned in pleasure. “My gods,” she intoned in a voice that bordered on the orgasmic, “where did you get these? How the frak is it possible?”
“Connections,” he said.
She opened her eyes narrowly and eyed him with suspicion. “You didn’t get these from the black market, did you?”
“What a ridiculous question,” he said quickly. “You know how the president feels about that. I can’t believe you’d even ask me.”
“A ridiculous question . . . and yet I can’t help but notice that you’ve yet to answer it.”
“That’s because I’m astounded that you would even begin to insinuate that—”
“All right,” Dualla said. She hadn’t forgotten how annoyed she was with him, and yet she couldn’t help but laugh. “All right, forget it. Forget I asked. Forget I said anything about it at all. Anything I should know about the care and feeding of this?”
“Well,” he said, “you’ll probably need to acquire a lamp that simulates sunlight. Otherwise I’m not sure it’ll keep blooming.”
“I see. And where do you suggest I get such a device?”
Billy paused a moment and made a great show of thinking, even though he had undoubtedly thought about it before. “I know a guy who knows a guy who knows a girl,” he said after much consideration. “Not that it’s anyone connected with the black market, of course, because I would never—”
She put up her hands in surrender. “Let’s have dinner, you big idiot.”
The steak was naturally stone cold, and she thought it was tough as boot leather. But he made a great show of loving every bite, and was so enthused about the quality of the meal that she was having trouble staying mad at him. By the time dinner was over, as much as she hated to admit it, she had more or less allowed her once-towering irritation to vanish into the lost recesses of her memory.
“So how’s the investigation going?”
“Investigation?”
“You know,” he prompted. “Into trying to figure out how the Cylons knew where we were going to be making our Jump.”
“Oh.” She shook her head wearily, then stood and proceeded to clear away the dinner dishes. “Honestly, I don’t know. From what I hear, Tigh is conducting it. He grilled me up one side and down the other, and since then he’s moved on. I couldn’t tell you who’s on the hot seat now. What a frakking prick he is.”
“I honestly don’t understand why Adama keeps him on as executive officer,” Billy admitted. “I wonder about it from time to time . . .”
“Yeah, well, I wonder about it a lot more than that,” said Du-alla. “The man is a boozer and a frak-up, and everyone in CIC knows it. Hell, everyone on the ship knows it.”
“Does he know they know it?”
“Who knows?” She cleaned off the dishes in the sink, wiping them with a towel, and said, “And how are things with Roslin?”
“Fine.”
Something in the way he said it caught her attention. She continued wiping the plate but she wasn’t especially paying attention to it. “What’s wrong?”
“Wrong? Nothing.”
“Billy,” she put down the plate. “What’s going on?”
“Going on?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you think,” he asked, “that something’s going on?”
“Because I know you,” said Dualla, moving across the room. She turned the chair around and sat, straddling it. “Whenever you’re lying about
something or trying to hide something from me, you start repeating the ends of my sentences.”
“Repeating the—?” He caught himself and scowled with irritation. “That’s absurd,” he said, but as protests went, it sounded admittedly lame.
“It’s not absurd. Is something wrong with the president?”
“Dualla,” he said patiently, “even if there was something wrong—which I’m not saying there is, but even if there were—you know I couldn’t tell you.”
“I don’t know that at all, Billy,” she replied, clear irritation in her voice. “I thought we had at least some degree of trust built up, you and me.”
“We do.”
“Well, then—?”
“But President Roslin trusts me, too. Are you asking me to make a choice between those two levels of trust?”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked down. “No,” she sighed, clearly annoyed with herself that she had said anything. “No, of course not. Especially when, y’know . . . you’ve obviously made the choice. Your loyalty to the president is . . . it’s admirable.”
“Thank you. But . . .”
She looked up. “But what . . . ?”
“But it’s always going to put us on opposite sides, isn’t it. Because your loyalty to Adama is always going to be more important than to me, and my loyalty to Roslin is going to be more important than you. And if we’re going to have any sort of a relationship, the first thing that has to happen is that each of us is more important to each other than anything. So basically we’re screwed.”
Her jaw twitched, because there was so much she wanted to say in response to that. But in the end, all she could think of to say in reply was, “Seems to me like you’ve got it pretty worked out.”
“No, I don’t,” he insisted, shaking his head. “I don’t have anything worked out at all. Because there’s still so much that I want to say, and—”