Sagittarius Is Bleeding: Battlestar Galactica 3

by Peter David

  “Has there been any change in her behavior?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Has she been speaking to you about any difficulties?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  Slowly Baltar nodded, easily reading between the lines of Adama’s vague response. “Couldn’t say . . . or choose not to?”

  Adama inclined his head slightly, acknowledging that the latter was a distinct possibility. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. If, in your further research, specific aspects of side effects occur to you, you will share them with me, won’t you.”

  “Of course. And you would share any share specifics of negative changes in President Roslin’s condition, should any of them present themselves to you?”

  “You may expect me to, yes.”

  Baltar smiled in a way that didn’t give the least appearance of amusement. “Very carefully worded. I suppose I may also expect Cylons to come flying out of my ass. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

  “Vice President Baltar,” said Adama, “in your case . . . I wouldn’t rule out a single possibility.” With that he headed out the door.

  His exit, although naturally he didn’t hear it, was accompanied by delighted laughter from Number Six. Baltar gave her a sour look as she continued to laugh and then applauded slowly and sarcastically. “Now there goes a funny, funny man,” she said.

  “He’s the height of hilarity.” He looked at her suspiciously. “What was he talking about? What ‘side effects’?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” said Six, the picture of wide-eyed innocence.

  “Why don’t I believe that?”

  “Because, Gaius,” she replied, “you see the world as a vast web of lies and deceit. You believe in nothing and no one.”

  “I believe in myself.”

  “You believe in yourself least of all,” said Six with a giggle that sounded surprisingly girlish. “You second-guess yourself constantly and you live in perpetual fear that you’re going to be found out. In so many ways, you wish you were like her.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean,” she said, striding across the room on those legs that seemed to go on forever, “that Laura Roslin was on the brink of death and she still never showed one iota of fear. You envy her for that, because you jump at sounds and shadows. You envy her her fearlessness. You saw her cancer as a chink in her armor, and yet even staring oblivion in the face, she was unafraid. You could never look death in the face and remain un-fazed.”

  He stepped close to her, stared directly into her eyes, and said tightly, “Oh really? I’m doing it right now.”

  Then he turned his back to her and strode out of his lab, leaving her behind to watch him go with her face a mask of thought.

  What the frak did I do now?

  Naturally that had been the first thing that had gone through Starbuck’s mind when Tigh had approached her with a determined look on his face. Then the perpetually sour executive officer had told her, as bluntly as he could, that Adama wanted to see her in his quarters. Her initial sense of relief (Oh, good, Tigh hasn’t found some new excuse to toss me in the brig) was immediately replaced by a sense of vague dread (What did I do to piss off the Old Man?).

  She knew it was ridiculous for her to feel that way. It wasn’t as if she had a perpetually guilty conscience. Still, she couldn’t help but occasionally feel a bit besieged, and although she was reasonably sure she hadn’t done anything out of line lately, well . . . there was always the stuff she’d done in the past that she’d never been caught out for. So . . . well, yes, maybe she did have a perpetually guilty conscience at that, always wondering when one of her idiot pranks was going to catch up with her.

  Or, for that matter, it might be something of more recent vintage . . . literally. She’d been hitting the booze fairly hard lately, and had been hung over well into duty hours. Thank gods it hadn’t happened during a toaster attack. She had never been at anything less than her best when it had counted, but even Kara had to admit that that was as much luck as anything else. There was always the possibility that she might be forced to leap into a cockpit with her head ringing and her vision impaired. She liked to tell herself that if such a situation presented itself, she would automatically regain full sobriety and be ready to launch an attack at a moment’s notice. But she didn’t know how much of that was genuine and how much might just be wishful thinking.

  She didn’t want to think that anyone in her squad would have ratted her out, but she knew that was overly optimistic. It was entirely possible that someone had indeed done just that, and if she was going to be pointing fingers at anyone, it would probably be Kat. Kat had had it in for her for the longest time, and if presented with an opportunity to make Starbuck look bad, well, wouldn’t she grab it immediately?

  Maybe. Maybe not. Kat was determined to show Starbuck up, and to prove that she, Kat, was the best fighter pilot in the squad. But to show someone up, that person had to be around to be shown up. If Kat got Starbuck grounded somehow, then how would she, Kat, have the opportunity to prove to everyone that she had the goods and Starbuck didn’t?

  So it probably wasn’t Kat.

  Lee, maybe? Nah. If Lee had a bone to pick with her about drinking, or about anything, then he would just face her and tell her, not rat her out to his father. That just wasn’t his style.

  As she knocked on Adama’s door, she came to the conclusion that she had nothing to worry about. He probably wanted to talk about duty rosters, or perhaps he had an assignment for her. But she hated the fact that she had such a checkered history that she felt compelled to run through an entire litany of possible negatives before she could finally decide that she had nothing to be concerned about. It made her think about the times that Tigh would look her in the face and practically snarl at her, “You’re a screw-up, Thrace, and that’s all you’ll ever be.” At which point she’d punched him and, well . . . that’s when the fun usually started.

  “Come,” called Adama and she entered with no indication of anything in her mind other than being ready, willing and able to serve in whatever capacity she was required. Adama was leaning against his desk, sipping a cup of coffee, and he gestured for her to sit. She did so, folded her hands in her lap, and waited. She didn’t have to wait very long. “I have a job for you,” he said.

  “Anything, Admiral,” she replied. Outwardly her demeanor didn’t change; inwardly she breathed a sigh of relief that her hyperactive imagination had been off base. Her inner big-mouth urged her to ask if she was going to be required to assassinate anyone this go-around, but she wisely managed to keep silent.

  “Boxey is currently in residence on the transport Bifrost. I need you to go there and bring him back.”

  That surprised her. “How did he wind up on the Bifrost?”

  “The Midguardians have apparently taken him under their wing.”

  “I see,” said Kara, who didn’t. “And may I ask why we need him brought back here? I mean, with all respect, Tigh had me give him the heave-ho from Galactica. He wasn’t happy about leaving and I wasn’t thrilled about sending him. So . . . ?”

  Adama stared at her for a long moment, and she instinctively knew what was going through his mind: He was trying to decide whether to answer her question or not. Something was going on with Boxey that was obviously on a need-to-know basis, and he was endeavoring to determine whether she needed to know or not . . .

  That was when it hit her like a lightning bolt. Her eyes widened and before Adama could speak, she said, “This isn’t about the thing with him being a Cylon, is it? What, did Baltar change his mind?”

  Adama was a hard individual to provoke a visible reaction from, and there were probably two people on Galactica who could accomplish it with facility. One was Lee Adama, and the other was looking at him at that moment. He blinked in surprise, and then looked wearily amused. “I should have known you’d figure it out,” he sighed.

  “I don’t believe it,�
� Kara said firmly. “I don’t. Baltar’s up to something. The man’s a born liar.”

  “Really. I didn’t think you knew him that well.”

  She flinched involuntarily at that, and she was sure that Adama had caught the subtle but telling reaction. Not a damned thing slipped past him. Covering as quickly as she could, she said, “I’ve played poker with him.”

  “I see.” The words hung there, and Kara was certain that she was being paranoid. Was there any possible way that Adama could tell—from that slightest of exchanges—that she’d had a drunken one-night stand with the then future vice president? It was one of the most ill-advised encounters she’d ever experienced, attributable partly to liquor and partly to morbid curiosity over whether mental prowess translated to . . . other types of prowess. The encounter had been something of a disappointment, and even now she and Baltar endeavored to look in other directions when they chanced to cross each other’s paths.

  Adama continued to study her with his dissecting stare, and then said, “Then I guess you would know. The question then becomes, why would he lie about it?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  “Neither do I,” Adama said. “So it’s better to be safe than sorry, don’t you agree?”

  “Yes sir,” Kara said without hesitation. “I assume you want me to go in presenting a friendly face. It’s better to have me going in as a friend than storm the place with marines trying to force them to turn him over to us.”

  “Infinitely better,” said Adama.

  “You want me to go over there, tell him we miss him over here, tell him I talked to you and you’ve relented on him hanging out with us, and he’ll return with me . . . at which point he gets tossed in a cell and poked and prodded all over again.”

  “Yes.”

  Kara kept her face carefully neutral. Inwardly, she was recoiling at the entire prospect, and there was a deep, burning rage building within her that was directed entirely at Baltar. But Adama didn’t need her outrage at that moment. He needed her cooperation, and he needed her level head. Since she was at her most focused when she was behind the weapons console of a Viper, she pretended that was where she was. Mentally she conjured up a vista of space before her, and coming toward her was a Cylon raider. Except instead of the standard Cylon helmeted face upon it, the sneering face of Gaius Baltar was etched on it. She pulled the trigger and, in her mind’s eye, blew it out of space.

  “No problem,” Kara assured him and then, as an afterthought, asked, “Mind if I bring Helo? He’s the other pilot besides Sharon that Boxey associates with being rescued. So having him along will likely help.”

  “Be my guest,” said Adama.

  “I’m on it.”

  “Kara,” said Adama, standing, “thank you. And be careful.”

  “Aren’t I always?” she asked with a wry smile.

  He didn’t return the smile. “Almost never.”

  “Wow,” she said. “I got an ‘almost.’ ”

  “I was being generous.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  In what she had to think was the most admirable display of restraint she’d ever shown—and, sadly, no one was ever going to know it—Laura Roslin sat at her desk and watched blood pour from Sarah Porter’s eyes and ears and mouth without giving the slightest indication that anything was wrong.

  Porter was the representative of Gemenon, an extremely hard-nosed and intelligent dark-skinned woman who had never hesitated to get into Laura’s face on any topic. Of all the members of the Quorum, she and Roslin had the most fractious history, going back to when Roslin had denied Porter’s request for additional water supplies on behalf of her constituency. Porter had retaliated (or at least that was how Laura had seen it) by backing Tom Zarek as vice-presidential candidate, but she’d been outmaneuvered when Laura had brought in Gaius Baltar who had, in turn, coasted to victory.

  Since then Laura had wondered whether or not Sarah had, in fact, won out in the end. It wasn’t as if Baltar was any picnic as vice president. But she kept those thoughts to herself.

  “The Midguardians?” Sarah Porter was making no attempt to mask her sheer disbelief that Laura Roslin was bringing up such a subject. “They’re clamoring for recognition . . . and you’re actually thinking of giving it to them?”

  “That might be too drastic a way to put it,” said Laura. Under her desk, she was jabbing her fingernails into the palm of her hand, endeavoring to keep herself steady in the face of what she was certain were more delusions. I am awake. I am awake and this is not happening, she kept telling herself, and it was all she could do not to scream. “More accurate to say that I’m . . . thinking about thinking about it. That’s why I wanted to speak to you.”

  “Me?” Porter looked amused. “Do you see me as a potential ally, Madame President?”

  Laura wasn’t sure how to take that, plus it required all her effort not to become ill from the sight of Sarah Porter’s eye slowly seeping out of her head. Behind her, Sharon Valerii was mouthing, “Sagittarius is bleeding.” Laura forced a smile that bore far more resemblance to a grimace and said, “Of course it is.”

  “Of course what is?” said Porter.

  A part of her mind heard the disconnect between what she was saying and what Porter was hearing. It sounded vaguely familiar to her for some reason, and then she realized why: It was like having a conversation with Gaius Baltar. He likewise spoke in a disjointed manner. For one wild moment she wondered if he, too, was speaking to invisible Cylons that only he could hear, and then dismissed the notion as just too crazy for words. “Of course . . . I do,” Laura corrected herself with effort. “I think, if you look at the issues that we typically face, you’ll find we’re united on far more things than we disagree upon.”

  She wasn’t wild about the look that Sarah was giving her, as if there was something that should have been obvious to her that wasn’t. Finally Porter said, “Perhaps you’ve forgotten, Madame President, but I vouched for you.”

  “Vouched . . . ?”

  “There is no one in the Quorum more conversant with the Pythian Prophecies than I am,” said Porter with a clear touch of pride. “No more who is more familiar with the Sacred Scrolls.”

  “Ahhh,” Laura said, suddenly comprehending. “I understand.”

  “Do you?”

  Laura rubbed her eyes, partly from fatigue, and partly in hopes that when her vision cleared, Sarah Porter would look normal once more. “You verified that the Prophecies spoke of a dying leader. You stated that you believed that leader to be me.” She lowered her hand and tentatively looked up at Sarah. The blood was gone and, mercifully, so was Sharon Valerii. Laura let out a sigh of relief.

  “That’s exactly right,” Porter said stiffly. “The leader whose vision would send us toward Earth . . . but who was dying and so would not live to see us arrive in the promised land.”

  “You said it was me, and suddenly I’m cured.”

  “Yes.” Porter didn’t sound particularly happy about it.

  “What can I say?” asked Laura Roslin with a shrug. “Pardon me for living.”

  “Madame President, I staked a good deal of my credibility to the notion that you were the leader of prophecy,” Porter said, giving her a defiant look and tilting her chin in a pugnacious manner. “With your miraculous cure, that credibility has taken a hit. Plus we have not seen satisfactory disclosure over the manner of your cure. People are asking questions.”

  “They can ask all the questions they want, Councilwoman,” said Roslin calmly. “My cure is a matter of doctor/patient confidentiality. A radical new treatment for which I agreed to volunteer.”

  “A cure that will be made available to others who may be ill?”

  “If long-term observation of my recovery indicates that it would be appropriate, then yes, absolutely,” Laura told her. “But it would be premature to attempt to duplicate my cure. Anyway . . . Sarah . . . that’s not why I brought you here.”

  “A rather clumsy
attempt to change the subject,” Porter observed.

  “I prefer to think of it as a clumsy attempt to bring us back to the original subject.”

  “The Midguardians.” With the air of someone who not only doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but would prefer to see them all roasting on a spit, Sarah Porter asked, “What do you want to know? If I will support their petition to become part of the Quorum? Absolutely not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they are heretics. Because they do not worship the same gods as we.”

  “Should that make a difference?” asked Roslin.

  “Of course,” said Sarah Porter. “Of course it makes a difference. What are you suggesting?”

  “That perhaps we should consider putting aside religious concerns when it comes to government. That perhaps they should be two different aspects of life, not commingled.”

  Porter tried to stifle a laugh and failed utterly. “You’re saying there should be a separation of church and state.”

  “It has occurred to me.”

  “President Roslin,” said Porter, looking at her with amazement as if seeing her for the first time, “I knew that you had many ideas others might consider . . . aggressive. But they were always steeped in tradition. The deviation came from those people who believed the traditions and writings to be sweeping cautionary tales, as opposed to others such as myself, most of the residents of Gemenon, and other more spiritual colonies who accept the divine wisdom of the Prophecies. But no one has suggested simply operating as if religious beliefs don’t matter.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that at all,” Roslin replied. “You know how deeply rooted my convictions are. I was simply suggesting that perhaps just because they’re my beliefs, and your beliefs, doesn’t mean they should guide our decisions in terms of the rights of others.”

  “With all respect, Madame President, that’s absurd. Our very morality stems from our beliefs and the lessons that the gods have taught us. If we don’t root our decisions in those beliefs—if we don’t allow the Sacred Scrolls to guide us—then we have nothing. We might as well be soulless Cylons.” She paused and then said cautiously, “Certainly you’re not advocating supporting this . . . this Midguardian bid for power.”