by Peter David
“I don’t believe that.”
“Really,” he said stonily. “With all respect, Madame President . . . where was the high road when you wanted me to kill Admiral Cain?”
“That’s . . .” Obviously she was about to say that that was completely different, but the protest died before she could complete it. Then she let out a heavy sigh and said, “I suppose I did forfeit the moral high ground on that, didn’t I.”
“You forfeited nothing, Madame President. I think we both concur that sometimes we have to do things that are unpleasant in pursuit of the greater good. We simply differ on the specifics of what and when.”
“I suppose that’s as it should be,” she admitted. “If we walked in lockstep, we’d never be forcing each other to reconsider our positions. But,” and she still looked none too pleased, “I still feel my privacy has been invaded.”
“Not intentionally.”
“A shot that goes astray and takes down an innocent is no less fatal due to lack of intent. But there’s no point in harping on it. What’s done is done. And . . . I suppose I should have told you.”
Adama considered all the reasons that he’d come up with as to why she had felt she could not do that. As she had just said, though . . . there was no point in harping on it. “One hopes that, should the need arise in the future, you will. For now, at least, I do know.” He leaned forward. “Do you truly believe that Valerii’s unborn child could be having an influence on you?”
“As we’ve already learned, we don’t know what the Cylons are truly capable of. It’s one of the reasons that I wanted the pregnancy aborted. There’s too many unknowns attached to its development.”
“I agree.” He paused and then said, as dispassionately as he could, “That option still remains.”
“I know. And if I relapse . . . ?”
“We could drain the fetal blood. Keep it stored on an as-needed basis.”
“Would you embrace that idea?”
Adama’s face never changed, but he admitted, “It’s a bit . . . parasitic . . . for me.”
“Me too,” said Laura. She rubbed her eyes in a manner that emphasized the lack of sleep she’d been lately experiencing. “Honestly, Admiral . . . I’m open to suggestions.”
“There’s one avenue you haven’t pursued.”
“That being.”
“You could talk to Sharon Valerii.”
She stared at him with a level gaze for a time.
“I could indeed,” she finally said.
CHAPTER
14
Sharon knew something major was happening when the marines came in to manacle her to her place.
Ordinarily she only spoke to visitors through the phone unit. So when the marines came in and bound her wrists, and fastened them in turn to a shackle on the floor, she was aware that meant someone was actually going to be entering her cell. Her guess was that it was Adama. Typically they made sure she couldn’t move, and even then they kept guard with weapons that they would use if she made the slightest gesture toward whomever was there. She had once considered making a mocking comment such as, “Aren’t you worried I’ll shoot death rays out of my eyes?” but then thought better of it once she realized they’d probably clamp a metal blindfold around her just to play it safe.
She sat there with the stoic resolve of someone who was prepared to endure whatever her captors put her through. There were days when she wondered how she tolerated it, and she always kept coming around to the same answer: It wouldn’t always be this way. She didn’t know why she believed that. From the evidence of things, there was really no reason to. And yet she did, day after day. After all that she had been through, and with the baby growing in her belly, she had to believe that God had a greater purpose for her than to allow her to suffer and die.
She just wished she knew what it was.
Perhaps at some point the humans would come to realize that she was not a threat to them. Or perhaps the Cylons would take over Galactica, as Sharon suspected was inevitable, and she would be set free. Or, hell, perhaps the Cylons would wind up killing her themselves. It was always difficult to be sure.
But she was certain she knew when she’d find out. It was whenever D’anna Biers finally showed up at her cell.
She knew that if Adama ever asked her about other Cylon agents, she would never tell. Not even if it meant her death. She would keep her silence because she firmly believed that if she did betray them, then she would die of a certainty. Not only that, but it would be D’anna Biers who would pull the trigger. No one else. That was the sort of thing that D’anna would reserve for herself.
Every time she thought of D’anna, a shiver ran down her spine. She was the most formidable Cylon of all the models. The boldest, the most confident. To hide in plain sight the way she did. Other Cylon agents insinuated themselves quietly into positions where they could do damage, but not D’anna, no. She was a journalist, putting her face out there to be seen by everyone, smiling and smug and confident that none would see through her façade. Sharon envied her in many ways. There was no reason for her to have suspected at any time during her involvement with Helo, for instance, that he would have been able to determine she was a Cylon. Yet she had always worried. Every time he’d looked at her and seen only a human, she’d been concerned that somehow, against all reason, he would realize what she was. For that matter, in her previous “existence” as Boomer, she had only been able to function by being unaware of her true nature. Almost as soon as she had learned she was a Cylon, she could no longer live with herself. She couldn’t put a gun to her own head and pull the trigger; Cylons were hardwired against such pointless suicide. So her subconscious needs had kicked in and she’d settled for the next best thing: shooting Adama, thus guaranteeing herself a death sentence. She wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge of what she was, and wouldn’t have to deal with the way that her former friends would look at her. She preferred death to the prospect of living a life that was a sham.
But Sharon’s solution simply became Sharon’s problem all over again.
The thing is, death would likely have held no fear for her if it weren’t for the baby. But the life growing within her gave her incentive to live.
And so she remained silent. Silence might get her D’anna Biers, and D’anna Biers would in turn get her freedom.
The marines finished manacling her into place and then they walked out of the cell. She hadn’t even bothered to try and strike up a conversation with them. She knew better. They never reacted to anything she said. If they glowered at her, at least that would be something. But they didn’t. Instead they just sort of stared at her with dead eyes, as if she wasn’t even there. As if she was a . . .
“A thing,” she finished the thought aloud.
One of the marines barely glanced at her just before he walked out. He didn’t know what she was referring to, of course, and the chances were that even if he had, it wouldn’t have made a damned bit of difference. Actually, he probably would have agreed with her assessment.
She wondered if any of them could ever hope to understand.
“I’m not a thing,” she said, thumping her fist softly on her thigh. “I am not . . . some sort . . . of thing.” The baby kicked as if responding in sympathy. Sharon raised her fist and looked at it, turning it from side to side. Then she opened it and very slowly placed her palm flat on her stomach. “Maybe,” she whispered to the child within her, “you’re the symbol of this hand. Maybe you’re going to take the fist of the Cylons and turn it into an open hand, which the humans will take in turn. It’s possible. Anything’s possible, I g—”
There was a noise at the door and Sharon looked up. It opened and, not entirely to her surprise, she saw Admiral Adama enter. He stared at her with that look she’d come to know quite well: a mixture of suspicion, pity, and forced detachment.
Then Sharon’s eyes widened in ill-concealed surprise as President Laura Roslin stepped in behind him. There was no mixture of anything
in Roslin’s expression; rather there was nothing but deep, abiding resentment.
Well, that made perfect sense, didn’t it? Roslin resented her, or at least “Sharon Valerii,” for the assassination attempt upon Adama. She resented the child that was growing in her belly, since Roslin believed it represented a threat to the fleet and wanted to kill it. She resented the fact that she had to let it live because it had benefited her personally. And, obviously, she resented showing up here, now, for whatever reason they’d come up with.
Nevertheless, despite the fact that she knew how much Laura Roslin despised her, Sharon stood up. She noted with some amusement that Roslin took an involuntary step back, although the look of resentment on her face never so much as twitched. Adama stopped when Roslin did and glanced back at her.
Sharon bowed slightly at the waist in acknowledgment of Roslin’s presence, and it was at that point that Roslin must have realized Sharon wasn’t standing out of defensiveness or even a desire to attack. She was doing so out of deference for the office of the presidency. Sharon smiled inwardly, knowing that it probably annoyed the hell out of her. Nothing made someone who hated you more insane than responding to that hatred with patience and respect.
Roslin never changed her expression. Sharon wondered if Roslin’s face would crack should a smile ever stray across it. Sharon remained standing, although she was slightly stooped thanks to the restraints of the chains on not only her wrists and ankles, but also around her throat. Previously they’d also had a strap around her waist, but her expanding belly had gone beyond the strap’s capacity.
She waited to see if they’d pick up the phone, but they didn’t. Instead Adama went around to the far door, tapped in the entry code, and opened it. Sharon turned slightly to face them, but otherwise stayed right where she was and made no sudden movement. Even if it had been possible for her to do so, she wouldn’t have, because Adama had produced a sidearm and was aiming it directly at her heart. No, not her heart—her belly.
Suddenly a terrible notion occurred to her, but she didn’t allow that to be reflected in her voice, which remained flat and even. “If you’re here to execute me,” she said, “I just want to tell you that I appreciate you handling it yourself instead of dispatching a subordinate.”
“Sit down,” said Adama, the point of his gun never wavering.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Sharon, and she tilted her head toward Laura Roslin, “she’s standing. It would be a breach of protocol.”
Roslin made a sound of disbelief, and then saw in Sharon’s steady gaze that she was perfectly serious. “You have my permission to sit,” she said.
“Thank you.” Sharon did so. She gestured toward a chair that was some feet away, out of the range of movement that Sharon’s short leash permitted her. Laura’s gaze flickered from Sharon’s manacles to the chair and back to Sharon, as if she were mentally judging the distance between Sharon and herself. Answering Roslin’s unspoken question, Sharon said quietly, “It’s sufficient distance for safety concerns.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Roslin replied, and her expression seemed confident enough. Sharon suspected it was superb dissembling. Roslin sat in the chair, smoothing the folds of her skirt.
Sharon’s gaze flickered back to Adama. “Are you going to keep that pointed on me the entire time, Admiral?”
“Is that a problem?” The question sounded solicitous. The tone most definitely was not.
She shrugged. “Not for me. But your arm’s going to get tired after a while. And it could start to shake slightly from muscle tension. Which could result in your accidentally shooting me. Unless that’s your intent all along, in which case I suppose it’s all academic.”
“Your concern is appreciated,” said Adama.
“I’m sure it is,” replied Sharon, who was sure it wasn’t. She shifted her attention to Roslin, who was watching her as if hoping that she, Sharon, would keel over and die right then and there. “If you’re not here to kill me . . . are you here to say thank you?”
“Thank you?” Roslin echoed in mild confusion.
“You’re welcome.”
“I mean, why would I thank you?”
“Because I saved your life,” Sharon said evenly. “You’d be dead if it weren’t for me.”
“If a doctor found a cure with the aid of a lab animal . . . would you thank the animal?” Roslin said.
Sharon stared at her and then, very softly, chuckled deep in her chest. “I appreciate you putting it that way . . . and letting me know where I stand.” She could have asked what, then, Laura Roslin was doing there. Her mind raced, far faster than a human mind could have. Just one of the perks that she possessed; humans had no idea at all just how quickly she could think. It was obvious that Adama was there to serve as guard to Laura Roslin. He was taking no chance that Sharon might abruptly break her bonds and make a move on the president, try to kill her where she sat. (Now Sharon was really relieved she hadn’t made the eye beam comment.) The question, of course, was why was Adama doing that rather than having a marine guard or guards on hand to serve the same function? Well, there was only one answer to that, wasn’t there. Adama and Roslin wanted to discuss something of a sensitive nature . . . a nature so sensitive that they didn’t even want to chance marines standing there and hearing what was to be said.
It intrigued her to wonder what it might be.
She didn’t allow her expression to change or reflect the notions that were running through her head. Instead she simply waited patiently, one hand in her lap, the other resting gently on her stomach. She saw Laura Roslin notice her hand’s placement. Inwardly, she smiled. Outwardly, she waited.
“Commander Adama,” she said, “has informed me that, whenever he has asked you questions about anything, you’ve always answered them to the best of your ability. I would appreciate it if you could provide me the same courtesy.”
“Of course,” she said neutrally.
“Very well.” She leaned forward, studying Sharon intently, looking like she wanted to try and catch Valerii in a lie no matter what Adama might have said. “I want to know if you’re doing it deliberately.”
Sharon stared at her and stared at her and then said, “In the name of my people . . . in the name of the one God above all . . . I have absolutely no frakking idea what you’re referring to.”
“The dreams.”
“The dreams,” Sharon repeated. “What dreams?”
“The dreams that aren’t letting me sleep. The dreams that are . . .” She composed herself and said, “If you’re trying to get in my head, disrupt my life, I’m here to tell you that it’s working. Congratulations. And I want you to stop it or so help me I will ask Admiral Adama for his weapon and put a bullet in you myself.”
“That’s your prerogative,” Sharon said, unfazed. “And I’ll die with no more clue as to what you’re talking about than I have right now.”
“She doesn’t know.” It was Adama who had spoken. Laura Roslin looked up at him and, although he still had no intention of lowering his gun, there was still quiet conviction in his face. “She really doesn’t.”
“Would you bet your life on that? Or mine for that matter?” asked Laura.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
Laura considered that, and then nodded. “All right,” she said, apparently satisfied. “Which leads us to the next question of whether this might be the baby’s doing.”
By this point, Sharon had a clear idea of what Laura Roslin was nattering about. But a warning flashed through her consciousness. If she allowed her deductions to color the things she said, it would make it appear as if she did, in fact, have advance knowledge of what Roslin was talking to her about. Which would mean she was “in on it” or some such. Sharon didn’t dare take that chance, because she was still certain that Roslin was looking for an excuse—any excuse—to stop her child from being born. She wasn’t about to hand it to her. Continuing to keep her
face as impassive as she possibly could, Sharon inquired, “What is the ‘this’ to which you’re referring?”
“The dreams,” Laura said after a moment, apparently realizing that refusing to answer Sharon’s question would only slow matters down. “The dreams I’ve been having in which you’re a featured player. Dreams of birth. Dreams of blood. ‘Sagittarius is bleeding.’ Does that mean anything to you?”
“No. None of this means anything to me. You’re having bad dreams. Everyone does. Are you trying to blame them on my child?”
“I’m trying to determine what’s going on.”
And Sharon was suddenly on her feet. Adama had been relaxing ever so slightly, but the moment he saw Sharon even begin to make a motion, he had the gun ready to fire if need be.
“You are trying to put the blame on my baby,” Sharon said frostily. “Something’s going on in your head that could stem from any number of things rattling around in your subconscious, and you’re trying to use it as an excuse to kill my child.”
“I don’t require an excuse,” Laura Roslin reminded her harshly. “All I require is a piece of paper to write out and sign the order.”
Sharon didn’t budge from where she was standing, but she folded her arms and said firmly, “I have nothing more to say.”
“This meeting,” said Roslin, “is not over until I say it is.”
“Fine. Then, with all respect, I have nothing more to say until my lawyer gets here.”
“Your . . . ?” She mouthed “lawyer” without saying it and looked at Adama questioningly. He sighed and nodded. “How did she get a lawyer?”
“One showed up.”
Laura was about to say something more, but she quickly reconsidered it. That didn’t surprise Sharon. Roslin obviously felt that she and Adama should present a united front, and standing there and arguing with him about Sharon’s legal rights would only serve to undermine that front. Laura turned back to Sharon. “Look,” she began.