[Battlestar Galactica Reimagined 03] - Sagittarius is Bleeding

by Peter David - (ebook by Undead)

  “If that’s true—and I’m not saying it is, but if it were—certainly don’t you think some of that can be attributed to the fact that I haven’t been sleeping much lately? That might have something to do with it.”

  “Something. Maybe. But not all of it.”

  “Then what—?”

  “Madame President,” Billy said, shifting uncomfortably in his chair, “I really… really think it’s inappropriate for me to be discussing this with you…”

  “Billy,” said Roslin, her voice softening slightly, “I don’t know if you’ve noticed… but you and Lee Adama are the only two people I’ve known I could count on from the moment I became president… and, frankly, even Lee has been shaky every now and then, since he’s got a bit of a conflict of interest.”

  “That’s understating it,” muttered Billy.

  “You’ve seen me at my worst and at my best… or at least what passes for my best. You, of all people, should know you can speak honestly with me.”

  “All right.” He lowered his head and interlaced his fingers, looking as if he were working to find the best way to put it. “I think it’s more than just the dreaming… the sleeplessness. You’ve seemed more tentative in your decision making, in your attitude… in everything.”

  “Really.” She maintained her pleasant tone, although it was not without effort. “And why do you think that would be?”

  “Well… if I had to guess… it’s because as long as you were convinced you were going to die, you had nothing to be afraid of. I mean, what’s the worst that can possibly happen to someone? It’s death, right? And because you had adjusted to the idea that you didn’t have much time left, you were determined to do everything you could before your time ran out because you figured, you know… you had nothing to lose. You weren’t in it for the long haul. You weren’t a marathon runner; your life was boiled down to the hundred-yard dash. You just ran with everything you had, head down, arms pumping, and anything that got in your way, you ran right over it. But now… now you’ve got something to live for. A lot to live for. And you no longer have the—it’ll sound weird—you don’t have the ‘comfort’ of knowing that you won’t be around for much longer. Now you can afford to take your time in trying to get humanity to Earth because you actually have a chance of seeing it yourself. Plus you’re considering every single aspect of everything because you have time to think about all the ramifications, all the sides, where before you just… well, it seemed like you just went with your gut.”

  “That was never the case, Billy. I always considered every aspect.”

  “Maybe. But I don’t think you gave everything equal consideration, the way you do now. I mean, hell,” and he almost laughed, “there were times when it seemed like you were spoiling for a fight more than Adama, and he’s the soldier. Lately you’ve been more cautious. More… politic.”

  “Well, I am a politician.”

  “No, Madame President,” he said firmly. “You’re a leader. There’s a difference. A huge difference. A politician cares what people think, and they hate her for it. A leader tells them what to think, and they love her for it.”

  “I think you’re selling me a little short as a politician, Billy.”

  “And with all respect, Madame President, I think you’re selling yourself short as a leader. I think you weren’t afraid of dying, but now you’re…”

  “Afraid of living?”

  “Not afraid. Just… concerned.” He paused and then looked down, feeling ashamed. “I said it wasn’t appropriate for me to say stuff like this.”

  “Billy,” she said slowly “I may be many things… but the one thing I remain is your president. If you, of all people, can’t communicate with your president… what hope does any of the rest of my constituency have?”

  “You’re not upset then.”

  “No. I don’t agree with what you have to say, but I respect that you said it.”

  “Thank you, Madame President. Is that all?”

  She nodded and yet again he rose from his chair. He started to head for the door and then Roslin called, “Billy… I know you graduated with degrees in political science and government. But before that, did you study psychology at all?”

  He smiled. “Two years, before I changed majors. You could tell, huh.”

  “Let’s just say that it wasn’t a wasted two years.”

  “Thank you, Madame President,” he said, bowed slightly, and left.

  His words stayed with her, though, long after he had gone. Her impulse really was to reject what he he’d said out of hand… but the more she thought about it, the more she wondered if he had a point. It wasn’t that she’d resigned herself to dying, but she had accepted it. She knew how her life was going to end, and her existence had turned into a race against time. It had enabled her to focus her efforts with laserlike efficiency. Now, though, the ending was no longer certain, and her future—so clearly defined—was now murky. The focus was gone. She was still determined to get humanity to its new home, but with the time element gone, she could afford to… to…

  “To be more cautious. More politic,” she echoed his words. “Let’s face it… more weak.” Billy hadn’t said that, but she said it. It was part of the reason she’d been content to let Adama and Tigh go talk to Baltar. She had a feeling that someone like Baltar would easily sniff out weakness. She’d come to see Adama as an ally, and even with him, she didn’t want to allow anyone to see her at less than her best. But Baltar would sense her weakness and—if he was indeed a Cylon sympathizer of some sort as she was beginning to believe—she didn’t want to chance letting on to the opposition that there was any diminishment in her capacity.

  But she couldn’t keep it up forever. She needed to pull herself together. Laura hated to admit it, but Billy might have indeed had a point. The cancer had loomed large as the final coda on her life. Now the end of her life had yet to be written—which meant that everything leading up to it needed a heavy rewrite. And she was going to have to take pen in hand and write it herself… before someone removed the pen from her hand and did the writing for her.

  Weaker. Less of a leader. She didn’t like the sound of it or the feel of it. And she was starting to think that maybe she should be doing something about it…

  … provided there wasn’t an unborn Cylon who was trying to drive her insane.

  * * *

  Saul Tigh had the sneaking suspicion that Gaius Baltar was trying to drive him insane.

  Adama didn’t look any happier, but as always, he was able to contain whatever annoyance he was feeling beneath his stony exterior. They were in Baltar’s lab and Baltar—as he so often did—looked slightly furtive, as if he already knew what you were going to say and was planning his next response several steps further along the projected conversation. Tigh didn’t understand why anyone would feel the need to be thinking that much about something as simple as a discussion. It was as if Baltar considered it all some sort of battle of wits, and rather than communicating the way a normal person did, he was out to win a game that only he knew he was playing. Tigh felt there were only two reasons for Baltar to be thinking that way: He was so brilliant that he couldn’t help but try to stay ahead of the curve… or he had something he was hiding and was trying to head off questions before they got uncomfortably close.

  Either way, he got on Tigh’s nerves with remarkable ease.

  “So now you’re saying,” Adama asked slowly, wanting to make certain he understood what he was being told, “that Boxey might be a Cylon?”

  “I’m saying that I’ve discovered anomalies in the original blood sample I drew,” replied Baltar. “I make it a habit to recheck my findings… particularly when Cylons might be involved. Everything about them is geared towards subterfuge.”

  “Even their blood?”

  “Every aspect of them, Admiral,” Baltar said firmly. “In the case of young Mr. Boxman, there are some things that don’t properly match up. His cell count for one. It leads me to wonder wheth
er something went wrong with the test the first time.”

  “What sort of something?” asked Tigh.

  “It could be any number of things,” Baltar replied. He sounded annoyed that he would be required to explain something that was clearly, to him, blindingly obvious. His voice grew lower, as if he were concerned that someone was listening in. That, of course, carried with it some irony considering that he was right. It was just that the people who were listening in on him were sitting right there in his lab. “The most disturbing of those possibilities is some sort of sabotage. That someone snuck into the lab and did something to the sample I was using for testing while I wasn’t around.”

  “Where the frak did you go, considering you know how important the test is?” demanded Tigh.

  Baltar gave him a withering glance. “The test involves growing a culture, Colonel. That takes time. Simply baby-sitting it for the duration isn’t really a viable option. Feel free,” he added with increased sarcasm, “to refute me with your copious years of scientific training.”

  Tigh glared at him, hoping his scowl would be sufficiently intimidating. Baltar, tragically, didn’t look intimidated in the slightest.

  “That’s what I thought,” said Baltar when Tigh had no comeback.

  Clearly wishing to move forward, Adama said quietly, “What do you need us to do?”

  “Why… bring the boy back here, of course,” Baltar said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I ran tests on the blood sample that remained, and from what I could determine, he has four of the six markers that would indicate that he is a Cylon. Unfortunately, due to their close resemblance to humans, four out of six is within the margin of error. Six out of six is the only way to be sure, and that’s impossible to determine with what I have on hand.”

  “Give us your best guess, Doctor, if you wouldn’t mind,” Tigh said. “Is the boy a Cylon or not?”

  “I don’t ‘guess’, Colonel,” Baltar replied with the heavy manner of the truly put-upon. “I conduct experiments and I draw conclusions. Guessing accomplishes nothing and can only lead to confusion and contradiction. I need him here to be sure.”

  Tigh and Adama exchanged looks, and then Adama said, “All right. We’ll bring him back.”

  “I’ll scramble a squad of marines,” Tigh said, heading for the door as if the entire matter was settled.

  He was halted in mid-stride by Adama’s calm, collected, “That may not be necessary, Colonel.”

  Tigh turned and looked at him in surprise. “No?”

  “We’ll discuss it further. Thank you, Doctor…” and then he paused and added, “Or do you prefer ‘Mr. Vice President'?”

  “Depends on the circumstance,” replied Baltar.

  Adama nodded, then accompanied Tigh into the hallway. He turned back toward the lab after a moment and said, “Would you mind telling Kara Thrace to wait for me in my quarters?”

  “Starbuck? Why?” But Tigh instantly thought better of what he’d just said and instead simply nodded and continued, “Yes sir.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Adama waited until Tigh was gone, then knocked once more at the lab door and let himself in before Baltar had a chance to say anything. He noted that Baltar was standing in an odd position, as if he were talking to someone. But there was no one there. Baltar jumped slightly at the intrusion and quickly smoothed his shirt… not because it was wrinkled, but obviously because he was endeavoring to regain his composure. “Did I interrupt a conversation?” Adama asked with a slightly bemused expression.

  “I talk to myself on occasion,” Baltar said. “It’s how I work through complex problems. Plus I’m starved for intelligent discussion, so…” The last comment was clearly intended to be a joke, but Baltar had the comedy stylings of a Cylon raider, so it fell flat. Knowing that it had, he cleared his throat and said, “Is there something else, Admiral?”

  “You’re responsible for President Roslin’s cure.”

  “Yes,” said Baltar warily, as if worried he was being set up in some way.

  “I’d like to know about the possibilities of side effects.”

  His eyes narrowed as if he were trying to read Adama’s mind. Caution still pervading his voice, he said, “Naturally there’s the possibility of side effects. We’re dealing with an entirely new branch of medicine. Using the blood of the unborn Cylon isn’t exactly the sort of treatment you’re liable to find in any medical textbooks. It was a desperation move.”

  “You didn’t know it would work?”

  “Of course not. I knew it could work, but that’s not the same thing. Frankly, I wanted to keep President Roslin here for observation for a month or two, but she was insistent about getting back to work.”

  “She would be, yes.”

  Baltar now looked extremely suspicious. “Admiral… is there something going on that I should know about? Is President Roslin suffering from some sort of reaction? I admit, I wasn’t entirely sanguine over the prospect of attempting an entirely new medical treatment on her. But since the alternative was certain death, I didn’t see that she had a good deal to lose. Any negative reactions she’s having, however, would certainly be helpful to know about, especially considering that others who suffer from similar illnesses might want similar treatment.”

  “Yes. It would.” Adama paused a moment, looking to be considering possibilities, and then said as coolly as ever, “I simply wanted to know if I should be on the watch for something.”

  “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-faze
d.”

  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?