by Peter David
“Because,” she said patiently but firmly, “I’m bigger than you. I have a couple of guys who are bigger than you, and they’re making sure you don’t go anywhere. So now’s the time to come to terms with the fact that you’re going back to Galac-tica, and yeah, you’re gonna be checked out, but that’s the way it goes because I have my orders and there’s not a single frakking thing you can do about it.”
As it happened, she could not have been more wrong.
She received her first inkling of her fundamental wrong-ness, however, the moment that alarms started going off all over the ship.
They were practically deafening, so much so that Boxey had to put his hands to his ears, and even the hardened marines were wincing.
“The two of you, stay here with him,” Kara snapped at them, “and Helo, you’re with me,” and she bolted down the main corridor before any further conversation could be had. Helo promptly took off after her, leaving the two bewildered marines staring at their captive and waiting for someone to tell them what they were supposed to do.
Starbuck and Helo, meantime, were running as fast as they could. They passed frightened Midguardians who were certain that the alarm bells could only mean one thing: another Cylon attack. The same thing had occurred to Starbuck, and she was desperately looking for a viewing port to get a sense of what was going on outside.
“There!” shouted Helo, pointing ahead of them. “A viewing bay! Up there!”
She saw that he was right. A large round port window was set into the bulkhead ahead of them, which would give them a decent—if not enhanced—view of what was in front of them. Starbuck got to the port with Helo directly behind her, looking over her shoulder.
Starbuck gulped deeply when she saw what was heading their way.
“You’ve gotta be frakkin’ kidding me,” she said, her mind numb.
In Galactica’s CIC, Tigh drifted over to Adama and muttered to him in a low voice, “I’ll be right back.”
This alone was unusual: Adama wasn’t going to care if Tigh walked off CIC unannounced. This wasn’t grade school. If nothing else, he would have assumed Tigh was going to the head, and that hardly was worth a separate declaration. The fact that Tigh was taking the time to say something to Adama about his departure spoke volumes. Adama instantly knew that something was up. He met Tigh’s gaze, but saw the look in his XO’s eyes, and all he said in response was, “Okay.”
Tigh walked out of CIC like a man on a mission. When he returned a few minutes later, he was carrying several sheets of paper and a small wandlike device. Adama recognized it immediately for what it was, but he said nothing. Tigh’s movement had caught Dualla’s eye and a couple of other officers’. Like Adama, however, they simply watched in mute curiosity.
Gaeta looked up, bewildered, frowning. He stared uncom-prehendingly as Tigh held up a piece of paper that read, “Don’t say a word.” Slowly, still not understanding but not about to do anything contrary to Tigh’s explicit order—even if it was unspoken—Gaeta nodded.
He held up a second sign. It read, “Hold out your right hand.”
Gaeta did so, wondering obliquely if Tigh was about to slap it or something.
Instead Tigh extended the wand device. Naturally Gaeta recognized it as a bug detector. On two previous occasions he had stepped back from his station as Tigh had run the wand over the entire area to make certain there was no eavesdropping device hidden anywhere. Tigh had even had every member of CIC stand with arms extended to either side and run the wand up and down and around their bodies to make sure their uniforms weren’t bugged. Everything had come up clean. This time, though, Tigh ran it over the back of Gaeta’s hand, right where he had been scratching. Tigh had turned the volume on the wand down to almost nothing, but there was still a detector light on the handle, and the light instantly went off.
Gaeta’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Everyone on CIC, their attention completely engaged, also saw it, and their responses were similar. Adama’s jaw simply twitched which, for him, was the equivalent of his eyes leaping out of their sockets in astonishment.
“Mr. Gaeta,” Tigh said in a careful, measured, easy-to-hear voice, “verify the current emergency Jump point. Pegasus is reporting some uncertainty.” But as he spoke, he held up yet another sign, and it read: “Plot a new Jump point and keep your mouth shut as you’re doing it.”
Slowly Gaeta nodded and said, “Aye, sir.”
Tigh nodded in approval and then turned his gaze toward Adama in unmistakeable triumph. He held up yet another sign. It read, “Not bad for an old guy, huh.”
Not bad at all, mouthed Adama.
Even as he made new calculations, Gaeta spoke clearly—perhaps too clearly, but there was nothing they could do about this sudden self-consciousness—to the Pegasus, reverifying the Jump coordinates that were no longer relevant. He did so speaking into a dead phone, because naturally the Pegasus wasn’t going to know what the hell he was talking about if he’d been speaking directly to them. But if someone was listening in via a subcutaneous listening device in Gaeta’s hand—as Tigh obviously suspected was the case—they weren’t going to know that.
And just as Adama was starting to think that perhaps maybe, just maybe, the current crisis was nearly behind them, it all went straight to hell.
“Admiral!” Dualla suddenly called out. “The Bifrost!”
The ship had been up on a monitor, being watched carefully, ever since Adama had sent Starbuck and Helo over there. Now he, Tigh, and everyone else looked up to see what it was that Dualla was alerting them to.
“You gotta be frakking kidding me,” said Tigh.
And just when matters didn’t seem as if they could possibly get worse, space exploded around them.
D’anna Biers was one of a dozen reporters crowded into the conference room on Colonial One, watching with great interest as Wolf Gunnerson entered. Already seated at a large round conference table were the members of the Quorum of Twelve, with President Roslin at the table’s head.
Biers looked over the faces of the Quorum members when Gunnerson came in. They did not look to be an especially sympathetic bunch. Their expressions could best be described as “hardened disinterest,” although several of them were unable to contain their surprise at Gunnerson’s sheer mass. Even D’anna had to admit that, damn, for a human, he was pretty impressive.
For more ceremonial gatherings the Quorum convened on Cloud Nine, but this was a more “down and dirty” gathering, as Tom Zarek had referred to it. A handful of reporters were being permitted to attend in the interest of full disclosure; on the other hand, subsequent deliberations would likely be held in closed-door sessions. It simply wasn’t Cloud-Nine appropriate, again as Zarek had put it.
The meeting had already been chaired to order, and some preliminary business had been attended to. Now there was nothing on the docket but to deal with the matter of Wolf Gunnerson. Laura Roslin, as president, was charged with overseeing the running of the meeting, and she did so now with her customary brisk efficiency. D’anna ruminated on the fact that Roslin was a non-voting member except in times of a tie vote, at which point she would cast the deciding ballot. That meant that, should the Quorum split on the issue of the Midguardians, then she, Laura Roslin, would be the one who held their fate in her hands. And as far as D’anna was concerned, it was a toss-up as to which way she would fall.
She smiled with the inner amusement of a scientist watching rats hustle through a maze, knowing that in the long run, it was all fruitless because—in the end—they were still just rats, not destined to be long for this world.
She glanced over toward Gunnerson. He did not look back.
“Madame President,” Tom Zarek was saying, rising, from his chair.
“We recognize Tom Zarek, representative of Sagittaron.”
He nodded slightly in acknowledgment of her recognition, fiddled with the lower button of his jacket for a moment, and then said, “Mr. Gunnerson first approached me about the issue of recognition for the Midguardi
ans, so naturally I feel some responsibility in this matter. Consider this my personal request,” and he gave a smile that looked forced, “that the recent unpleasantness regarding the misunderstanding of the stolen religious relic . . . not color the feelings of this Quorum in considering the request of his people.”
“It is difficult to ignore it, Councilman,” Robin Wenutu of Canceron replied. “It’s a hell of a first impression to make.”
“I can understand your trepidation,” Zarek said. “Because, to be candid, it wasn’t all that long ago that I had to face down the looks of distrust on all of you.”
“Councilman Zarek,” said Eladio Puasha of Scorpia. “I don’t think that’s a fair assessment of our earliest experiences . . .”
“I think it’s a perfectly fair assessment,” Zarek told her with a fixed expression. “One moment I’m a terrorist; the next I’m a coworker.”
“You underestimate our ability to adapt, Tom,” replied Puasha. “If there’s one thing we’ve become accustomed to in months past . . . it’s a constantly fluctuating status quo.”
This drew nods of rueful disagreement, and surprisingly, Zarek’s smile turned genuine. “Fair enough, Eladio.” Then he grew serious once more. “I suppose all I’m saying is that, from my point of view—I fully understand the situation that would have driven Wolf Gunnerson to do what he did. And if Council-woman Puasha’s attitude is truly reflective of the rest of you . . . then I assume I can count on all of you to give him the fair hearing that he deserves.” Zarek paused a moment for what he had said to sink in, and then sat back down in his chair.
During the entire exchange, Wolf Gunnerson had never taken a seat, even though there was an available one near him. Laura Roslin gestured for him to take it, and he calmly shook his head. “I think it more respectful to remain on my feet,” he said.
“Very well,” said Laura. “Then, Mr. Gunnerson, you have the fl—”
She stopped. Stopped and stared, and looked ashen, and she seemed to be whispering something. D’anna looked carefully, and Laura was apparently saying, “Not now . . . not now . . .”
Sarah, who was seated at the president’s right hand, leaned forward, looking concerned. “Madame President . . . ?” she said cautiously.
“Headache . . . just . . .” Her voice sounded strangled. She looked as if she were having some sort of attack, and was fighting it off with Herculean effort that was only partly succeeding.
“Madame President?” asked Sarah again. And then, with the sort of intuition that only someone who sought religious meaning in every aspect of life could display, Sarah said with greater urgency, “Are you . . . are you having some sort of vision?”
D’anna leaned forward as well, eyebrow cocked. This was suddenly getting very interesting. She just hoped that it wouldn’t take too long to play out, since time was not something the humans had in abundance.
She couldn’t believe how smoothly everything was going. Here was Zarek, whose very presence continued to make her feel cold inside (and that had nothing to do with the fact that he was going to be her likeliest competition for the presidency; gods help the colonies if that happened), actually interacting like a grown-up with the other members of the Quorum. Gunnerson was patiently waiting for his moment to speak. When that moment came, Roslin started to tell him that he had the floor . . .
And Sharon Valerii was there.
She was everywhere.
No longer was she standing at one point in the room, drawing Laura’s attention. Instead every member of the Quorum of Twelve had disappeared, and in their respective places was an identical Sharon Valerii. Each one pregnant, each one with an expression of dispassionate placidity. Each one looking directly at her. They were shaking their heads sadly, and they genuinely looked apologetic.
Laura knew she had to be dreaming. She absolutely had to be. But she felt awake, and this was going beyond the simple hallucinations that she’d experienced earlier. This was borderline dementia, and it was the tipping point. She couldn’t take it anymore. To hell with the rest of the human race, to hell with her responsibilities. Laura Roslin was as much a fighter as any human being left alive, but it was ultimately too much, just . . . just too much. If Sharon Valerii’s unborn child had somehow insinuated itself into her mind, then . . . then . . .
Yes, that was it. That was the problem. All right, fine. I’ll show that unborn saboteur who’s boss. And I wouldn’t leave it to Doc Cottle to do it, because who knows, he might be a Cylon as well. I’ll just . . . I’ll just go over there myself and cut the child out with a knife, or . . . or put a bullet in Sharon’s brain, that’s it, that’s all, just done with it, just . . .
Sharon Valerii was speaking to her. The voice didn’t emerge from her mouth but instead went directly into Roslin’s mind, and what it said was, Now. Now. It’s about to happen now. Do something. Save us. Save us all . . .
And that was when it all became clear to Laura. Her mind leaped and everything suddenly seemed cast into a stark and new relief . . .
Gods . . . I was right the first time . . . it’s not trying to terrorize me . . . it’s not trying to drive me insane . . . it’s . . . it’s afraid . . . it’s afraid . . . it’s afraid and it wants my help to save it from . . . from what . . . ? From . . . ?
She heard another voice in her head, and it was Sarah Porter. Laura, feeling as if she were on the brink of something, pushed her way back to reality. Her teeth gritted, she said, “Mister . . . Mister Gunnerson . . . you may . . . you may go ahead . . .”
“Madame President,” Sarah said, still looking concerned. “I asked if you—”
“I heard what you asked,” Laura told her firmly, which was a lie since she was barely holding on to her own surroundings. “Mr. Gunnerson is here . . . we’re all here . . . let’s . . . move along.”
There was a brief, uncomfortable silence, and then Wolf Gunnerson reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and removed a sheaf of papers covered with scribbling. “I had promised Madame President,” he said, “that were I given this opportunity, I would inform you all of the truths of our sacred writings.”
“Your sacred writings,” Sarah Porter reminded him. She was still glancing every so often in Laura’s direction, but she was all-business enough to want to get business matters back on track. “Your truths. Not ours.”
“I would like to think,” Gunnerson said mildly, “that truth is truth.”
Laura knew that everyone at the table was still casting glances in her direction. She closed her eyes, opened them, and they were all still damned Sharon Valerii. Everyone in the room was . . . with, insanely, the sole exception of D’anna Biers, who was studying her closely as if dissecting her with her eyes. Laura had no idea what to make of that, and didn’t try to figure it out. She closed her eyes firmly, as if battling a headache, and when she opened them, everyone had returned to themselves . . .
. . . and the words Sagittarius is bleeding NOW were etched on the table.
Wolf Gunnerson was smoothing the papers, and he began to read aloud:
“The race of humans thus was ended
A blinding final winter done
The sword of demons, hot with flame
Assured no mortals left to run.
The gods were dead, had fought their last
Consumed by snake and wolf and blood
And so their last remains were gone
All swept away, as if by flood.
The rainbow bridge was all destroyed
It crashed and cracked and split apart
And in so doing did away
With humanity’s last soul and heart.
Gods’ worshippers were gone to dust
The last assault, did not survive,
Their final crash, their final burn
There was no human left alive.”
He paused, as if he was going to continue reading and then, sounding like a polite literature professor, said almost apologetically, “It goes on for several more pages, but trut
hfully, it’s just a reiteration of what’s already been said. The writers of the Edda tended to be repetitive in order to make certain their point was made.”
The Quorum members looked at each other in confusion, as if trying to see if anyone knew what Gunnerson was driving at.
“I can’t say that I understand, Mr. Gunnerson,” said Laura Roslin.
He gave her a vaguely pitying smile. “It’s all right there, Madame President. Ablind man could see it: We’re not supposed to be here. We were not destined to survive. The ‘blinding final winter’ is the nuclear winter of the Cylon attack . . . the signal that our gods are dead. And since our gods are the only ones that truly count, that means there’s really no point in anything else existing. The vast majority of humanity was annihilated by the winter, as was supposed to be the case. We, the Midguardians, survived so as to make sure the final prophecies would be fulfilled, and we came close,” and he brought his thumb and forefinger almost together, “this close. ‘Their final crash, their final burn.’ We were intended to die in the heart of that vast, all-consuming star. But that was thwarted at the last moment by Adama, displaying cleverness that Loki would have envied. But no matter, no matter. It’s being attended to even as we speak.”
Slowly Laura Roslin stood as the rest of the Quorum continued to shift uncomfortably in their seats, clearly not liking the sound of what they were hearing. She whispered, so softly that they had to strain to hear her, “The blood of humanity . . . on your hands . . . on the hands of Sagittaron . . . of Sagittarius . . .”
“Now wait a minute!” Zarek said. “I didn’t know anything about this!”
“What this?” demanded Sarah Porter. “What’s going on?”
And now the reporters, stirred up, started firing questions. Matters were spiraling completely out of control, and everything snapped into place for Laura Roslin, the final tumblers clicking in her mind. Even though she made no attempt to shout, her voice still rose above the crowd as she said, “Your precious book was never missing. You knew your daughter had it the entire time.”