by Peter David
“With all respect, I have nothing more to say—”
“It will go better for you if—”
“—until my lawyer gets here.”
“If you truly are concerned about your baby—”
“With all respect,” and her voice got louder and her manner even colder, “I have nothing more to say until—”
Laura put up a hand, silencing her. Her eyes closed as if she were fighting a migraine. She forced a smile and said, “All right. You’ve made your position clear.” She rose and Adama unlocked the door, still keeping his gun aimed at Sharon. Sharon remained standing even after both Adama and Roslin had exited. Roslin paused and then turned and said, “You should have cooperated.”
“I’ve done nothing but cooperate,” replied Sharon, and her voice grew harsh, allowing some of the anger that had been building up to bubble into visibility. “And for my cooperation I’ve been confined to a cell half the size of any quarters . . . I’ve been beaten, sexually assaulted, and nearly raped . . . I have no room to do any kind of exercise . . . I’m getting bedsores . . . I stink because I have no shower facility, I can’t even go to the head without being under observation, and I’m not sure but I think there’s things living in my hair. You want to solve whatever problems I present? Let me go. Someone will put me down like the dog I’m being treated like, and we can all move on to other things.” And then, her fury pushing her in a direction that wouldn’t even have occurred to her earlier, she turned and focused a malevolent gaze upon Laura. “You know so little about us. Who we are, how we function. Consider this little notion: Perhaps the blood coursing through your veins that you stole from my child . . . the blood responsible for your salvation . . . is turning you into one of us. Never occurred to you, did it? Maybe these dreams you’re experiencing are the first steps on your road to becoming a Cylon yourself. How will it feel, I wonder, if you wind up going from being revered to feared. To losing your friends, your liberty, everything, in one shot. Take a good, hard look at the décor here, Madame President. You might just be sharing it before you know it. And by the way . . . I don’t have another frakking thing to say until my lawyer is here.”
And with that final announcement, she flipped herself back down onto her bed. In doing so, it pulled the neck chain taut and she gagged slightly before she could readjust herself so there was some slack in the chain.
She made no further moves until the president and the admiral were gone, at which point she fought desperately to keep hot tears from rolling down her cheeks, and didn’t quite succeed.
CHAPTER
15
Adama had never seen Laura Roslin as shaken as she was at that point. She was seated in his quarters and was looking shell-shocked. Inwardly he cursed himself as a fool, believing he should never have taken her to see Sharon Valerii in the first place . . . particularly galling since it had been his own damned suggestion.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked her gently.
“I’ve never wanted one so desperately in my life.”
Reaching under his desk, he pulled out a bottle of alcohol that had been a gift from Tigh. Adama was reasonably sure Tigh had acquired it from the black market, but Tigh hadn’t volunteered the information and Adama felt it better not to inquire too closely. Considering Laura’s state of mind, he suspected she wasn’t going to ask too many questions either. He filled a glass for her and slid it over to her. She took it without even looking at it and knocked it back in one shot. Then she held the glass out again and Adama filled it without comment. This time she sipped it far more slowly.
“You’re not turning into a Cylon,” Adama assured her.
“How do we know that?”
“Madame President . . .”
“How do we know?” she repeated. There was no fear in her voice, no trace of panic. She was asking in what could have been an almost clinical fashion, as if they were discussing the results of some new experiment. “You can’t say it’s impossible. You don’t know. Neither do I. Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps I’m undergoing some . . . metabolic process that is slowly transforming me into one of them.”
“That’s absurd.”
“So you say. But you don’t know.” She looked him square in the eye. “Do you.”
The truth was that he didn’t, but he wasn’t about to say that to her. It wasn’t what she needed to hear. “Yes. I do.”
“You were the one who said,” she reminded him, “that Sharon Valerii has always told you the truth.”
“All she did was float a possibility. Possibilities are nothing more than that . . . and can be dismissed just as quickly.”
“Possibilities can also be things to be explored.”
He gestured in a you-tell-me manner. “How would you suggest we explore it?” he asked. “Dissect you?”
Adama wasn’t serious, of course, but she looked thoughtful as if were actually a viable notion. “Did you dissect the previous incarnation of Valerii?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you discover that readily distinguished her from being a human?”
“Nothing,” Adama admitted.
“Nothing. Which leads us back to wondering how you would know in my case.”
“It’s more than biological.”
“Is it?” she asked, one eyebrow cocked. “If we can’t distinguish them from ourselves, and if we can’t even tell if we’re turning into one of them . . .”
“I can tell.”
“You can.” Roslin made no effort to hide her disbelief of the claim. “How?”
“In their eyes. They can’t disguise their pure hatred for us. I see it burning in there with cold fury. That’s how you tell.”
“Really. And if that tell should fail?”
“Well,” he paused, “getting shot is also a good tip-off.”
Despite the seriousness of the situation and her bleak mood, Laura Roslin smiled at that. “I should think it would be.” Then her amusement faded, to be replaced by grim apprehension. “Admiral . . . if you ever have any reason to think I’ve been . . . swayed . . . over to their side . . .”
“I will act accordingly.”
“Even though there will be those who accuse you of treason?”
“The survival of the fleet is my overriding concern,” said Adama firmly. “I’ll deal with whatever consequences may result from that. But I repeat: There is no way that you could, or would, become a Cylon.”
“How do you know, Admiral? How do you truly know?”
“Because,” he said with conviction, “you are far too much a woman of conscience to allow that to happen. If you truly believed that you presented a threat to the fleet . . . that you had allied yourself, however against your will it was, with the Cylons, then you would come to me and ask me to put a shot through your head.”
“And could you do that?” She saw the brief flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Could you? I come to you and say, ‘Admiral, it was everything I could do not to open fire on the Quorum of Twelve. Kill me before I kill someone else. That’s a direct order from your commander-in-chief.’ Could you do it?”
The hesitation evaporated and slowly he nodded. “Absolutely.”
“Huh.” She frowned. “I don’t know whether to feel relieved about that, or concerned.”
“Both, I suppose,” said Adama.
“All right,” Laura replied. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“I hesitate to mention it . . . but have you spoken with Doctor Baltar about this?”
“No,” she admitted. “I have . . . concerns about him. I would not feel comfortable trusting him with this situation at this time.”
“Concerns.”
“You have none?”
“I didn’t say that,” said Adama. “Simply nothing that I can act upon. And you?”
She hesitated and then said, “The same. Or, at the very least, nothing I can put into words.”
What would I say? That I had visions of him on Caprica, locked in a
passionate embrace with a known Cylon agent? There’s still too much I don’t know. He’s the foremost expert on Cylons. If I were becoming influenced by the Cylon fetus, then wouldn’t it be in the Cylons’ best interests to have the man who knows most about them to fall under suspicion?
She knew she couldn’t go on like this forever. Sooner or later, she was going to have to sort this out, or resign from the presidency. That was the only option left to her if she thought that her own mind was unreliable. Until it reached that point, though, she was going to try and play things as carefully as she could.
“You should still seek medical aid,” Adama said firmly.
Laura nodded in agreement. “All right,” she told him, albeit with reluctance, “I’ll speak to Doctor Cottle about it.”
“Excellent.”
Adama began to stand, clearly thinking the meeting was over, but Laura didn’t move. Her gaze hardened and she said, “She has a lawyer?” This prompted Adama to sit back down again with an audible sigh, as if he were deflating and that was what was lowering him back into his seat.
“Yes,” he said.
“And she spoke with this person?”
“Yes.”
“And you allowed this?”
“I considered shooting her,” Adama said, “but I was daunted by the prospect of the paperwork.”
She shook her head, clearly not amused. “You should have denied her access.”
“If I had, she would have gone public with the presence of the Cylon.”
“You just know it’s going to happen sooner or later.”
“Possibly. Considering we’re still trying to get a handle on what caused the Cylons to be able to anticipate our Jump, my vote is for ‘later.’ ”
“I suppose you’re right,” she allowed. She shook her head and half-smiled. “I hate to admit it . . . and if asked, I would deny it . . . but I’m starting to see the advantages of martial law. Under such conditions, you could have just held her indefinitely at your whim.”
“A dictatorship is also an option,” he pointed out.
“In case you haven’t been paying attention to the press, there are some who are under the impression that we already have one.” Laura appeared to give it some consideration, and then she shook her head sadly and said, “It wouldn’t work. I look ghastly in jackboots.”
“Imagine my relief.” He paused and then said, “She made the argument that Sharon Valerii is so indistinguishable from a human that it was inappropriate—even illegal—to treat her as anything but.”
“What did you say?”
“I said she was a machine.”
“What,” Laura asked after a moment, “do you truly believe?”
Adama leaned back in his chair. It was a question that he’d been wrestling with ever since he’d come out of his coma and had come face to face with the creature that had shot him. “I hate to say it, but—”
“You don’t know? Admiral . . . Bill . . . one of them tried to kill you.”
“And another one of them saved you,” he reminded her. “I look into the face of Sharon Valerii, and I see the enemy. I see something inhuman. But . . .”
“But what?”
He tried to figure out the best way to phrase it. “The lawyer was right about one thing. It is always easier to think of an enemy as less than human, even when you know they are. So when you know they’re not, how much easier to make them less than they are?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
Adama’s mind rolled back to a meeting he’d had with the Cylon. The results of that encounter had never been far from him, and they continued to haunt him. “I had a talk with her . . .”
“It.”
“With the Cylon, back when we first encountered the Pegasus. When it looked as if I was going to have Starbuck assassinate Admiral Cain. I asked her why the Cylons hated us. Why they were trying to kill us. She brought up something I’d said about humans deserving to survive . . . and suggested that maybe we weren’t. That we weren’t worthy to. And when she said that, there was something about her . . . she seemed . . .”
“She seemed what?” prompted Laura.
“Wise. Wiser than us. Older than us.”
Laura Roslin looked as if her eyes were going to leap out of her head. “Are you saying that they’re rendering judgment upon us . . . and are worthy of doing so?”
“No,” he said flatly.
“Then what . . . ?”
“The reason Admiral Cain wasn’t killed by Kara Thrace . . . was because Sharon Valerii made me feel as if I wasn’t living up to the promise of humanity. I was as willing to kill the admiral . . . as the Cylons are to kill us. In that moment, she was more human than I . . . and I was more machine than she. No wonder we can’t determine, even through autopsy, what the differences are between us. There are times when the line blurs so much, I’m not sure where it is anymore.”
“I remind you, Admiral, that it was a Cylon who coldbloodedly killed Admiral Cain after you, in your humanity, declined.”
“I am aware of that, yes.”
Laura could almost see the wheels turning within his head. “May I ask what you’re thinking?”
“I’m thinking that either Sharon Valerii is one of the most brilliant actresses of her age . . . or there may be some sort of actual dissent within the ranks of the Cylons. If there’s one Sharon who truly believes in humanity . . . there may be more. And it’s possible that somehow down the line, we might be able to exploit that.”
She arched an eyebrow in interest. “You mean foster some sort of civil war within the Cylons themselves?”
“The notion of having them invest their talent for homicide into obliterating each other rather than us is an appealing one, wouldn’t you say?”
A slow smile spread across Laura’s face. “Do you think it’s possible?”
“As we’ve established, when it comes to the Cylons, anything is possible.”
Laura nodded in agreement. “The bugs in the rooms,” she said after some consideration. “They have to come out.”
“No.”
“Admiral . . .”
“It’s a military matter, Madame President. A military decision. I stand by it and until we get this sorted out, they’re staying where they are.”
She scowled. “I want your word that they’re gone once things are ‘sorted out.’ ”
“You have it.”
“And be certain to tell Colonel Tigh that I’m not happy with him at all.”
There was a knock at Adama’s door. “Yes?” called Adama.
“Do you have a minute, Admiral?” came Tigh’s voice.
Adama’s eyes flashed with amusement as he looked at Laura. “By all means,” he said.
Tigh pushed the door opened, walked in and stopped when he saw Laura. “Madame President,” he said in surprise. “An unexpected honor.”
“We were just talking about you,” Adama told him.
“Really. Nothing good, I hope,” said Tigh.
“The president wished me to inform you that she’s not happy with you at all.”
Tigh didn’t look the least bit bothered. “Then my hope was fulfilled.” Before either Adama or Roslin could explain specifically what it was that Tigh had done to draw the president’s ire, his voice grew serious and he continued, “Doctor Baltar has come to me with a situation.”
“Is this about the matter that we heard him muttering to himself over?” When he saw Tigh’s surprised gaze flicker over to Roslin, he added, “She knows about the bugs. And she knows that I knew from the start. Colonel Tigh,” he said to Roslin, “suggested that I claim ignorance of the program to spare me your ire.”
“Did he.”
“Yes.”
“Huh,” she grunted. “That was very noble of you, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Madame President.”
“Doesn’t make me any happier with you, though.”
“Understood. Admiral,” he continued, looking as if the president’s ha
ppiness with him wasn’t of particular importance, “the doctor wishes to meet with you. He believes that the boy may in fact be a Cylon.”
Roslin’s cheeks pinked slightly at the prospect of another Cylon being identified. “Boy? What boy?”
“Andrew Boxman. The pilots call him Boxey,” said Adama. “He was caught having a private conference with Sharon Valerii.”
“Naturally he was checked over to make sure he wasn’t a Cylon himself,” Tigh told her. “Baltar originally gave him a clean bill of health . . . but now apparently he’s having second thoughts.”
Laura started murmuring the name “Boxman” to herself. She frowned a moment, trying to figure out why it sounded familiar, and then she remembered. “Wasn’t the officer who was killed at the meeting station when the Cylons first attacked named Boxman . . . ?”
“Boxey’s father. He’s orphaned.”
“We know who his parents were, and we still felt it necessary to check if he was a Cylon?”
“We know that an Alex Boxman existed at some point,” Tigh said. “We’ve no idea whether the one who came aboard Galactica—in the company of Sharon Valerii yet—is the original item. Alex Boxman may well be dead and this one is an im-poster.”
“Do they do that? Impersonate other people?”
“We don’t know,” Tigh said stiffly. “But it’s preferable not to take chances.”
“Yes. Yes, of course, you’re right. Do we know where he is now?” asked Roslin.
“We’ve been keeping tabs on him, just in case,” Adama said. He was sifting through some notes on his desk and produced one that had been delivered to him recently. “According to child protection authorities, he’s taken up residence on the Bifrost, under the guardianship of—by astounding coincidence—Sharon Valerii’s lawyer, Freya Gunnerson.”
“Gunnerson . . . ?”
He noticed the uptick in her voice. “You know her?”
“I suspect I know a relative of hers. How old is she?”
The question surprised him mildly and he glanced over at Tigh. Tigh shrugged. “Mid-twenties, I’d make her out to be.”