Sagittarius Is Bleeding: Battlestar Galactica 3

by Peter David

  And then Laura Roslin had walked in, and Sharon had gaped at her in complete shock. Roslin’s belly was swelled with pregnancy, as far along as Sharon’s own. More than that: She knew without the slightest doubt that it was hers—Sharon’s—child within Laura Roslin’s body. She had no idea how it could possibly be that she was no longer the mother of her own child, and yet that was what had happened.

  Laura had stood there, smiling, affectionately rubbing the child that she had taken from Sharon, and she cooed, “Mine now. All mine. Alllllll mine.”

  Give it back! Give me back my baby! Sharon’s voice had echoed in her own mind. She felt as if she were moving in slow motion, trying to swim through heavy, viscous liquid, and Laura Roslin turned and waddled away, singing some annoying human lullaby.

  Sharon had woken up at that point, her clothes soaked in cold sweat, gasping for air. A guard had charged in in response to her outcry, but he wasn’t remotely concerned about her well-being. Instead it was abundantly clear that he was wary of some sort of trick on her part. “What’s wrong?” he had demanded, the business end of his rifle aimed—not directly at her—but certainly in her general direction.

  She had gasped out, “Nothing. Bad dream. It . . . was nothing,” and he’d glared at her for a time and then turned and walked out.

  As silly as it sounded, she’d actually jostled her stomach to make sure the baby was still there. Despite the obvious distention of her belly, she wasn’t taken anything for granted. That’s how disturbing and confusing the dream had been. So she had shaken her stomach repeatedly until the baby—who’d presumably been asleep—offered a kick in protest. It was at that point that she gave a relieved sigh and settled back in her bunk.

  But she had not fallen back to sleep.

  Instead she had lain there and stewed on her situation, and although yes, it had all been a dream, she found herself being irrevocably drawn back to a grim and depressing realization: She had nothing. Anything that she possessed—even something as inviolable as the bond between mother and child—could be taken away from her at a moment’s notice and a president’s whim.

  Ever since the first visit from Freya Gunnerson, she had nursed the notion that maybe, through some miracle, Freya could prevail. Perhaps it was possible. Perhaps she could indeed achieve for Sharon some measure of freedom, some claim upon happiness. But her thoughts in those dark hours had turned bleak and frustrated. She knew the dream itself was not, could not, be real. That didn’t prevent her from connecting with the emotions and fears that were the underlying motivators for it.

  Despite the fact that there was a child within her, she had never felt more alone.

  Her foul mood had not dissipated during the day, and it was at that point that Freya had unfortunately chosen to show up and share with Sharon her latest views and theories on her case. When Sharon had lashed out at Freya, allowing her deep frustration with her situation to fuel her hostility, she had almost enjoyed the comic look of confusion in Freya’s face.

  Almost.

  Part of her was still angry with herself. After all, this had been the first individual in ages who had shown herself remotely interested in Sharon’s welfare. So why was she lacing into Freya, of all people?

  She had to think it was because she had come to the conclusion that her situation was not only hopeless, but it was obviously hopeless, and anyone who didn’t realize that . . . well, there was simply something wrong with them. They were stupid on a genetic level. That being the case, why should Sharon be wasting any time at all with them?

  And then . . . then Adama had shown up.

  And she’d learned of the situation that had developed on the Bifrost.

  And she’d learned who was involved in it.

  And that had focused her attentions in a new direction.

  So it was that when Freya Gunnerson was escorted back into the cell area that Sharon Valerii occupied, Sharon fixed her with a level and very disconcerting gaze. Adama, to Freya’s clear surprise, was no longer there. All bluster and annoyance, Freya said loudly to the marine escorting her—as if she were hard of hearing, or as if she were playing to an audience in imaginary balconies—“I don’t know what you think you’re doing! You have no legal right to hold me here!”

  “I know,” said the marine. “I’m just sick about that.”

  There was a second marine backing him up, and Freya looked around in confusion as the marine escorting her unlocked Sharon’s cell. The second marine kept his weapon leveled on Sharon lest she, for some reason, decide to charge the door in what would certainly be a suicidal escape attempt. Sharon stayed right where she was. Freya was shoved into the cell with her and the door locked behind her.

  “What’s this supposed to mean?” she demanded. “What, we’re both Adama’s prisoners now? Is that it?”

  Neither marine said anything. Instead they walked out of the room, the heavy door slamming shut behind them.

  “Oh, they’ll fry for this,” Freya told Sharon. She glanced around the cell as if seeing such an enclosure from the inside out was a huge novelty. Perhaps it was. Sharon had had plenty of time to become accustomed to it, so the “charm” had pretty much worn off. “I’m telling you, Sharon, they’re going to fry, the lot of them. Adama’s military-industrial complex has gone too far this time. Too far by half. They think they can silence protest or run roughshod over individual liberties, but when I get through with them—”

  “Shut up.”

  Freya looked taken aback. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Shut up . . . and listen.”

  There was something in Sharon’s voice, a . . . deadliness . . . that completely seized Freya’s attention.

  Sharon took a deep breath and let it out. “You lied to the Admiral. You’re not going to be allowed to lie to me. If you know what’s good for you, you’re going to tell me what’s going on, and you’re going to tell me now.”

  “Sharon, this is—”

  “If you don’t know what’s good for you,” Sharon continued, unfazed, “then you’re going to give me grief, and you’re going to stonewall . . . but you’re still going to wind up telling me, because I’m going to make you do so. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Obviously I do. I’m not stupid. And it’s perfectly clear what’s happening. You think that you have to throw your lot in with Adama and his ilk because you don’t have a chance when it comes to fighting for your own interests.” She smiled in a way that was an odd combination of sufferance and pity. “Sharon, Sharon, Sharon . . . you’re underestimating what a careful program of legal savvy and public relations manipulation is capable of producing. I didn’t have a chance to show you my nine-point plan to—”

  She didn’t get any further. Sharon’s right hand stabbed out and seized her around the windpipe. Freya’s eyes were round white orbs of shock and terror, and Sharon told her in low, measured tones, “Okay . . . obviously you didn’t understand what I said, which would seem to indicate that, yes, you are stupid. Normally that would be your problem. Now I’m making it mine.”

  Sharon took a step forward and shoved Freya back. Even though she was a couple of heads shorter than Freya, there was no disputing who was the stronger. Freya, having no say in the matter at all, was slammed back against the cell walls, which rattled under the impact. She let out a cry. Sharon didn’t care. Instead her eyes burned with fearsome intensity and her fingers worked their chokehold around Freya’s windpipe. Freya tried to cry out a second time and this time around she wasn’t even able to inhale the required air.

  “Listen very carefully,” Sharon Valerri told her, and there was no mercy in her voice and less than none in her eyes. “You need to understand your situation: You are locked in a cell with a Cylon. Do you understand that? A Cylon. Not a human. Not one of your own. A Cylon. And Cylons do not hesitate to do whatever the frak we feel like doing in order to accomplish our own ends. You are going to talk to me. If you do not . . . I am going to hurt you. I am going to hurt you
in ways that you didn’t know you could be hurt. I have a thorough and intimate knowledge of human anatomy and I am not afraid to use it. There are places on your body where applying the slightest pressure will visit agonies upon you that you will not have believed possible. And there will not be a mark on you to show an adjudicator or a Council member or the president herself. But the recollection of the pain you will suffer will stay with you forever. It will stay with you until old age, presuming you live that long, and on nights when you go to bed convinced that you’ve finally, finally left it behind you, on those nights you’re going to wake up screaming and your old nightmares will be back to haunt you. And in those worst nightmares, you’re going to see my frakking face looking at you with the most inhuman expression of detachment you’ve ever seen.

  “I will torture you for information and I absolutely will not give a goddamn about it. I can do that, you see. Nice advantage over humans. I can just turn my emotions off and do what needs to be done.

  “And I will do that to you.

  “Now talk to me about what I want to know . . . and don’t stop until I’ve told you I don’t want to know any more.” As a perverse afterthought, she added, “Please.”

  She released the pressure on Freya’s throat slightly on the assumption that Freya would start talking.

  Instead Freya snarled in her face, “F-frak you,” and launched wad of spittle that landed squarely on Sharon’s left temple. Sharon made no move to brush it away.

  “And we’re off,” Sharon said softly.

  Outside the cell, the marines heard the screams start. They weren’t Sharon’s. The guards stared at each other, and silently exchanged a question: Are we going to do something about that?

  After a few long moments, they did do something about it: One of them went off to get some earplugs while the other remained at his post and whistled idle tunes softly to himself.

  And he listened to the screams.

  He hated to admit to himself how much he liked the sounds of them. He wondered if it made him a bad person.

  Ultimately he decided that, if it did, that was okay.

  He could live with that.

  CHAPTER

  19

  Laura Roslin was doing an admirable job of keeping her cool, which provided a sharp contrast to Tom Zarek. She sat behind her desk, her fingers steepled, her level gaze on Zarek, whose renowned cool under pressure was showing its first signs ever of melting.

  “You can’t be blaming me for this bloody mess,” Zarek told her fiercely.

  Laura tried not to flinch at his use of the word “bloody.” Images from her dreams still had considerable force to her, and she was bound and determined not to let any of her haunted nights impede her ability to deal with the current situation. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept for more than two hours straight, and inwardly she lived in fear that some new delusion was going to present itself to her and make her unable to handle whatever problem she was embroiled in.

  Outwardly, she wasn’t presenting the slightest hint of her inner doubts. “They’re your people, Councilman.”

  “They’re from Sagittaron, Madame President. That doesn’t make them ‘my people.’”

  “You brought him in here. Brought him to my office, with high-flown words of how they deserved respect and proper treatment. How they were discriminated against because of their beliefs. And now it turns out they’re nothing but terrorists.”

  “That is not true,” Zarek said forcefully. “They have a grievance . . .”

  “So do terrorists.”

  “They’re the injured parties here, Madame President. Gunnerson is asserting that members of Galactica are responsible for one of their most precious artifacts going missing.”

  “If Mr. Gunnerson had a dispute with the military, and he wanted to be treated like a civilized member of society, then he could have come to me.”

  “With all respect, Madame President, the last time you had a major dispute with the military, Adama threw your ass in a cell and nearly demolished the fleet. So in my view you don’t exactly have a stainless record when it comes to such matters.”

  The blush of her cheeks shone a bit brighter against her makeup. “One wonders how that would have come out if you hadn’t been speaking with all respect.”

  Zarek started to speak again, but then reined himself in. “I’m sorry,” he said, which were two words that she certainly hadn’t expected to hear him utter anytime in their relationship. “That was uncalled for. Not . . . entirely irrelevant, but uncalled for nevertheless.”

  She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment of the apology, as half-hearted as it was. “The point remains, Councilman,” she said evenly, “that we have an explosive situation on our hands. Adama is champing at the bit to get in there and get his people back,” which wasn’t entirely true. Certainly Adama was monitoring things and she’d been talking to him extensively about it. But Adama wasn’t anxious to have yet another incident on his hands, and as long as his officers weren’t in immediate threat of losing their lives, he was willing to hold off taking action and instead allow diplomatic efforts to proceed. There was no reason for her to tell Zarek that, though. “I want to sort this out as much as you do, Councilman. There are human lives at stake, and besides, I’ve currently got every reporter in the fleet packed into my press room howling for a statement.”

  “Let me go over to the Bifrost,” said Zarek. When she shook her head, he said more forcefully, “I’m their representative, Madame President. I have some degree of relationship with their leader. In fact, I was over there earlier, before this business began. I’m the logical person . . .”

  “You’re the logical person to be an even better hostage, Mr. Zarek,” Roslin reminded him. “You’re not an outsider anymore. Like it or not, you’re a man of influence. A member of the Quorum. That gives you a certain amount of trade value. I’m not interested in handing them yet another chip. Their ship is embargoed for the duration and that’s the end of it.”

  “Then at least let me talk to them.”

  “Gladly,” she said, “provided they were willing to talk to us. Our initial attempts have received no response . . .”

  With timing that Laura Roslin would look back upon as being almost supernatural, Billy knocked and entered the room without being told to do so. “Wolf Gunnerson of the Bifrost on the line for you, Madame President,” he said, clearly trying to deliver the news in as dispassionate and professional a manner as he could.

  Roslin and Zarek exchanged looks. “People will surprise you,” Zarek said calmly.

  “Record the call,” she told Billy.

  He nodded. “Recorder is already on.”

  For a heartbeat she considered conferencing Adama in on the call. She quickly discarded the notion, not because she didn’t trust him to remain cool in the situation, but because she preferred to hold him in reserve as a possible club. I’m not sure how much longer I can hold the admiral in check was going to play better if Adama wasn’t actually in on the conversation sounding firm but reasonable.

  She took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then picked up the phone. In deference to Zarek, she pushed a button so that a speaker was activated. That way Zarek could listen to what was being said, although he couldn’t be heard himself. “This is President Roslin.”

  “Madame President,” came Wolf’s voice. “Thank you for taking my call.”

  “Thank you for calling,” she said formally.

  “So . . . it appears we have a bit of a predicament on our hands.”

  He didn’t sound especially threatening. They might just as easily have been chatting about each other’s respective health. “I would categorize it as somewhat more serious than that,” she said. “I hope you don’t think this is some sort of game, Mr. Gunnerson.”

  “No, Madame President, I most certainly do not. The most obvious difference is that games have clear winners and losers. If matters spiral out of control, we will have nothing but
losers.”

  Roslin wouldn’t have said it aloud, but Gunnerson was sounding amazingly reasonable about it. It was hard to remember that he was the one who had set this entire fiasco into motion. Although the chances were that he would have come right back and said that Adama was the one responsible.

  She knew perfectly well the reason that Adama had sent two of his people onto the Bifrost. Adama had been most efficient in keeping her apprised of his actions. The problem was that she had no way of knowing whether this entire issue with the Edda was some sort of trumped-up maneuver to try and distract from the business at hand. She wondered if Gunnerson even knew that they had a possible Cylon agent on board, although admittedly she was still having trouble believing that the boy was an operative. Roslin had to think that making no mention of Boxey was the best way to go, particularly if Gunnerson didn’t bring him up.

  Zarek, hearing what Gunnerson was saying, nodded and gave Roslin an encouraging thumbs-up. She tried not to roll her eyes at that. As if she needed moral support and pep talks from Tom Zarek, of all people. “I’m pleased to hear you say that, Mr. Gunnerson. This matter needs to be resolved immediately by the release of the colonial officers.”

  “I would love to comply with you, but I can’t at this time. Not until I know what the status of the Edda is.”

  “You have my personal guarantee, sir, that the two officers had nothing to do with it.”

  “And my people have my personal guarantee,” he replied, “that I will take every step to ensure the Edda’s return. Releasing two prime suspects—whom I assure you will not be harmed—would be counterproductive, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I would say, Mr. Gunnerson, that if you have the slightest hope of the Midguardians becoming members of the Quorum, then you have to release Admiral Adama’s people. Certainly you see that your actions won’t sit well with the Quorum.”