Sagittarius Is Bleeding: Battlestar Galactica 3

by Peter David

  Adama stared down at the woman on the floor who had previously been the arrogant, self-confident attorney. She looked like she had been through a horrible ordeal that transcended the injury to her face. She was sitting up, her back propped against the wall of the jail cell. There was a stark contrast between what she had been and what she was now. Adama hadn’t especially liked her. She’d been a damned irritant and nuisance and too smugly superior by half. But he wouldn’t have wished this on her.

  You are so full of crap, he told himself. You damned well wished this on her. You consigned her to this for convenience’s sake. Don’t pretend that you didn’t want this. You knew this was inevitable. If you’re going to walk a path, don’t kid yourself that you stumbled down it by accident.

  He restrained himself from asking if she was all right because he knew he would simply get a sarcastic answer to the effect that he didn’t care. That wasn’t entirely true, but he wasn’t about to put some sort of gloss on things. Instead, as curt and down-to-business as he could be, he said, “Well?”

  Freya glared at him for a moment and then said, “I took it.”

  “It?”

  “The Edda.” She wiped blood from her nose and mouth and only succeeded in smearing it around her face. “What my father is looking for.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she said tersely, “I’m not stupid.”

  Adama waited, saying nothing.

  “One of my responsibilities on my father’s ship is traffic. I get the flight manifests of who’s coming and who’s going. The moment Galactica filed a flight manifest stating that two of Boxey’s former cronies were coming over, I knew something was up.”

  “How did you know something was up?”

  “Because you’re a bastard,” she snapped. “Because you wanted ties cut between Boxey and your precious pilots. So if they were heading to our ship, then that meant one of two things: Either you had decided that Boxey wasn’t a threat, which meant you had changed your mind, which I assumed you hadn’t since—”

  “I’m a bastard,” he said without inflection.

  “—or you had decided he was a threat. If we’d refused entrance to them, that could have resulted in a direct attack from Galactica which we weren’t prepared to repel. So I figured if the Edda disappeared while they were on the ship, suspicion would fall on them.”

  “So you took it upon yourself to try and frame my people. Show it to me.”

  “It’s in my case. I have to take it out of there.”

  “Do so.” And then, in acknowledgment of the marines standing near him, he added, “Slowly.”

  She nodded, understanding why it would be wise for her to exercise caution at every moment. Under the circumstances, any sudden motion could get her shot. The case, as it so happened, had slid under Sharon’s bunk. She gestured for Sharon to give it over to her. Hooking the handle with her toe, Sharon slid it over to Freya, who flipped the snaps and—very carefully—opened it. She removed several folders filled with papers, set them aside, and then removed a false bottom to the case. Lifting it out, she was aware that the marines were watching her with fearsome intensity. Her hand trembled slightly and she didn’t make another move until she was able to will it to stop. Then she lifted a small but thick volume from the briefcase and extended it toward Adama. Adama gestured for one of the marines to retrieve it. He did so, then stepped back and handed it to the admiral.

  The book smelled of age, and there was an inscription on the cover in letters that Adama couldn’t read. Opening it carefully, lest any of the pages fall out, he turned the pages carefully. The letters were incomprehensible, written in a language he hadn’t the slightest familiarity with.

  A snorted laugh from Freya caught his attention. He peered over the top of the book at her. “Do you find something amusing?”

  “Other than that you’re holding it upside down, you mean?”

  Adama didn’t bother to turn the book over. It wasn’t as if it would suddenly have made sense if he had done so. Instead he closed it and then, in a calculatedly cavalier fashion, tossed it to her. She let out a gasp and lunged at it, snagging it before it hit the floor. Clearly shaken by her holy book nearly striking the ground, she clutched it to her, and then looked daggers up at Adama.

  He wasn’t inclined to give a damn. “Odd how you care so much about the rules of law . . . until they’re inconvenient for you.”

  “The fleet still doesn’t entirely trust you, no matter how much reporters from Fleet News Service sing your praises,” said Freya. “I played on that in the name of protecting an innocent young boy from your investigations. I didn’t want to see him treated the way you treated her . . .” and she glared at Sharon, “. . . although I admit at this point I don’t give a damn what you do to that . . . creature.”

  “You decided you could use my people as a bargaining chip.”

  “Yes.”

  He took a step toward her, lancing her with a glare. The sheer hypocrisy of one who purported to be so morally superior to him, using his people in a game as if they were poker chips . . . it infuriated him. With a stoic demeanor born of long practice, he said, “It may interest you to know that your father is, as we speak, en route to Colonial One. He’s presenting himself as a bargaining chip in order to make up for what turns out to be his daughter’s subterfuge.”

  Her eyes widened. “He did that . . . ?”

  “Yes, Miss Gunnerson. He did exactly that. Perhaps the next time you play games with people’s lives, you’ll want to make certain that all the pieces are in their correct place.”

  She didn’t respond. Instead her head sank back and she closed her eyes. She had put her hand against her nose to stop the bleeding and she had more or less succeeded.

  The marines were clearly waiting for their instructions. Adama didn’t waste any time. “I’m going to send advance word back to your vessel that you have your book, along with a recording of this session so they’ll know precisely what you did. Then marines will escort you back to your vessel. I want you off my ship.”

  Sharon looked up for the first time and registered surprise. “Off . . . ?”

  “You heard me.”

  “But . . .”

  She began to stand and the marines instantly tensed. Sharon froze in a half crouch and then, very slowly, sat down on the cot once more. “With all due respect, Admiral . . . are you sure that’s wise?”

  No. It may be unspeakably stupid. But President Roslin is trying to defuse a delicate situation, and I want the meeting with the Quorum to have as few distractions as possible. So even though I may be throwing in a bargaining chip that I could have made good use of, I’m going to send her back to her ship with her tail between her legs in order to make sure that Wolf Gunnerson doesn’t go off the deep end because his daughter’s in the hands of the military.

  He made no answer. Instead he made a curt gesture with his head to the marines. They slammed the door to Sharon’s cell shut with a resounding clang, and led Freya out at gunpoint. As they headed for the exit from the brig area, Sharon suddenly lumbered to her feet, cupped her hands around her mouth, and shouted, “Who’s the bigger bastard, Admiral! You or me? Especially considering that I—as I’m always being reminded—am not human! We had a deal, Admiral! We had a frakking deal! And you’d better come through on your end or . . .”

  He stopped, turned and faced her. He never raised his voice, which would have made it difficult to hear him. But he spoke slowly enough that the movement of his lips was unmistakable as he said, “. . . or what?”

  Sharon had no answer. Nevertheless, she remained standing until Adama, Freya Gunnerson, and the marines exited the area. The last thing she saw of them was Freya making an obscene gesture in her direction. Sharon didn’t return it.

  Colonel Tigh would have been interested to know that he wasn’t much happier than Sharon Valerii had been with Adama’s decision. Adama, wisely, had chosen to apprise him of it when both of them were on CIC. He had obviously
known that Tigh would never raise any kind of major fuss about it with the rest of the command personnel there, which made it ideal for Adama if he didn’t feel like getting into ten rounds of “Why the frak did you do that?!” with his second in command.

  So Tigh had held his tongue and his reaction, although he knew that Adama had maneuvered him into having to do so, and he made sure—with as many subtle hints and signals as he could—that Adama knew that he knew. Of course, in the end, Adama didn’t care, which pretty much trumped the entire issue.

  This left Tigh in CIC fuming over the ongoing situation that continued to leave them vulnerable to another Cylon ambush. He found that he was staring for ages and ages at every single person in CIC. Sooner or later another one of his people would realize that he was staring at them, but it wasn’t as if they could complain about it. What could they possibly say? “Colonel, please stop looking at me.” It would sound ridiculous.

  Even more ridiculous was that he was doing it in the first place. It wasn’t as if he was expecting one of them to suddenly collapse to their knees and begin sobbing, “I’m sorry! I can’t stand the pressure anymore! I’m a Cylon! I confess! Shoot me now before I endanger the fleet!”

  It left Tigh with a vague sense of frustration. The investigation had gone nowhere, leaving him feeling impotent and confused.

  How could it possibly be? He was certain none of these people were Cylons. They were the hardest-working officers he’d ever had the privilege to have under his command. They were loyal, honest, unafraid to speak truth to power. Even though he knew the dim opinion of him that was held by many, they continued to treat him with respect, at least to his face.

  Look there at Dualla. Constantly monitoring communications, staying on top of everything. Her logs were meticulous. Yes, it was possible that she was falsifying something, or perhaps sending communications to the Cylons, but he just couldn’t believe it. Then again—he reminded himself—would he have thought such a thing of Boomer before it was revealed that she was a Cylon? Well . . . yeah. Yeah, truth to tell. He’d always had suspicions that something was off with her. Not that she was a Cylon necessarily because, hell, how could he have known that the Cylons looked like humans now? But she hadn’t been quite right. He’d used to think his opinions of her were colored by her illicit affair with Chief Tyrol. It always seemed that when something was going wrong or something was being covered up, Sharon Valerii was in the middle of it. So when the explosive revelation had been made, through her attempt on the Old Man’s life, that she was a Cylon agent, Tigh had been shocked but not too shocked.

  But Dualla? Straight arrow all the way. Yes, he knew she and the president’s aide had a thing brewing, but there was nothing untoward about that.

  And then there was Gaeta.

  Tigh’s attention swung over to the ship’s young tactical officer. He’d served Adama for three years, as officer of the watch in addition to his other duties. If Gaeta had been an enemy agent, certainly he could have brought Adama down in flames long before this. Things didn’t just happen for no reason. Look at Gaeta, at his station, working hard on new coordinates, having dumped the previous ones for fear that perhaps somehow the Cylons had managed to find out about them. Standing there, muttering to himself as he developed a new escape plan should the Cylons attack, scratching away at his hand . . .

  Tigh suddenly stopped. He frowned. He took a step toward Gaeta, who wasn’t paying any attention to him, so lost in his work was he. Gaeta continued to mutter calculations, making certain that the coordinates would bring them to safety rather than disaster. It was at that point Tigh realized that Gaeta always did that: always spoke softly to himself to help focus his attention on whatever he happened to be doing.

  No. It couldn’t be that simple.

  Waiting for his call to be put through to the Bifrost, Adama was watching Tigh with open curiosity. He imagined he could almost see the wheels turning in Tigh’s head, but he wasn’t entirely certain in what direction they were spinning.

  At that moment, Dualla called out, “Admiral . . . Starbuck on the line.”

  Deciding that whatever was up with Tigh could wait until later, Adama picked up the phone and, said, “Starbuck? Are you and Helo all right?”

  “Couldn’t be better, Admiral,” came her pleased voice. “We’re hearing from our jailers that Freya Gunnerson is now stating she’s the one who took their precious book.”

  “That’s correct.”

  He knew that Starbuck would be able to tell from his tone that there was more to the story than that. He also knew that she would be well aware not to ask about it. “There’s some skepticism being expressed by our captors over it.”

  “That should evaporate when she shows up with the book in hand. Her escorts will make sure she presents it.” He paused and then said, “What’s the status of your visit?”

  “Well, the young fellow we came to visit appears to have gotten kind of shy.” She said it lightly, as if they were discussing something of little to no consequence. “We thought we would hang out until he shows up again.”

  “Is the environment conducive to that?”

  “I think it will be, once we’ve been cleared,” she replied carefully. “In spite of everything that’s happened, I’m still very anxious to hook up with the young man.”

  “All right . . . if you think you can handle it.”

  He knew what the answer was going to be even as he said it: a curt laugh from Kara Thrace, followed by a brisk, “No problem on this end, Admiral. We’ll have the little scamp in hand before you know it.”

  “Very well. And Starbuck . . . be careful.”

  “I always am, sir.”

  “Galactica out.”

  He hung up the phone, knowing full well that Kara Thrace had many admirable qualities, but being careful never was, and never would be, one of them. He wanted her to be all right. He wanted her to live to a ripe old age. But he knew in his heart that that wasn’t how Kara Thrace was going to exit this plane of existence. She was going to go out in a ball of fire, howling defiance and laughing in death’s face the entire time.

  “It’s too bad she won’t live,” he said so softly that no one else heard him. “But then again . . . who does?”

  CHAPTER

  21

  Wolf Gunnerson was aghast at what Laura Roslin had just told him.

  He had been given quite decent visitor’s accommodations when he had arrived on Colonial One, considering the circumstances. Laura Roslin had come to meet with him once he was settled in, and delivered him the news that Adama had conveyed to her. She watched him carefully to see if there was the slightest hint of duplicity in his face as he reacted to what she was telling him.

  She had to admit, if he was acting, he was wonderfully accomplished at it. The blood drained from his face, and he looked as if he was starting to have heart palpitations. “Freya took it? Freya . . . ?” He rocked back in the chair that was far too small for him and groaned under his weight. “I can’t understand . . . what would possess her . . . ?”

  “I couldn’t begin to say,” Roslin said, trying to be as diplomatic as possible. “Nevertheless, the fact remains: She has it in her possession. She is being turned over to the authorities on your vessel even as we speak. That aspect of this . . . crisis . . . appears to be settled.”

  “So it does.” He was still looking like a man in shock. “That she could do such a thing . . . put a couple of innocent soldiers under the light of suspicion. You think you know your own child, and then . . .” He shook his head, discouraged, and then looked up at Roslin. “Do you have children of your own?”

  “No.”

  “They bring great joy, but also great heartache. This is obviously one of the moments of heartache. What must the Quorum think of me?”

  “They will think you were deceived,” she said, still trying to choose as delicate phrasing as she could. “It can happen to anyone. In fact, I daresay it’s happened to everyone at some time or another.”r />
  “I certainly hope they will still be willing to meet with me,” said Wolf Gunnerson. “I mean, I can see how you could turn around and send me back to the Bifrost, dismissing me out of hand.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” she said. “In fact—believe it or not—this has had a positive effect on the meeting you requested.”

  “Has it?” He seemed anxious to hear some benefit from what he clearly perceived to be a gargantuan fiasco.

  “Yes. There were two members of the Quorum who were still holding out, contending that they were being strong-armed into this meeting because of the hostage situation. With that no longer being a factor, they have acceded to the will of the majority and are going to be attending. In fact, everyone should be here shortly. You will receive a fair hearing.”

  “That is all I have ever asked,” he said politely.

  It was hard for her to believe that a man this large was capable of being so soft spoken. “There’s been a recent development.”

  “Oh?” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “What now? My daughter has announced she has a bomb and intends to obliterate us all?”

  “Hardly,” she said. “A reporter who has been supportive of the administration has asked to have an exclusive interview with you.”

  “The press traditionally isn’t friendly to my cause. I’m not sure of the advantage . . .”

  “The advantage is that she has sworn to give you a platform to speak your mind and get your beliefs out to the populace.”

  Wolf still looked suspicious. “Can she be trusted?”

  “She was given complete access to all levels of Galactica and came back with a story that was extremely even-handed. Even Admiral Adama was satisfied with it, and he’s not exactly the easiest of audiences to satisfy.”

  Her description of the previous story caught Wolf’s interest. “I believe I saw that coverage. That was . . . Diana Bears, was it?”

  “D’anna Biers,” she politely corrected him. “She’s right outside with her cameraman, ready to talk to you if you’d be willing to permit it. By the time you’re done, the Quorum should be assembled in the main conference room.”