Sharon stared at the receiver from which Freya’s voice was emerging. Then she picked up the phone but, rather than listening to it, she spoke softly, in a voice that was measured and tired but had an undercurrent of strength to it. “You know what I think?”
“Sharon, you need to listen to me—”
“I think,” Sharon continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “that you just wanna frak with people. With me. With Adama. With the president. The whole council. You just wanna use me to stir things up. I don’t know why. I also don’t care very much. Maybe something will come up to make me care but, right now… I don’t.”
With that, she turned and hung the phone up, cutting off Freya’s voice as she continued to protest.
Freya thumped with her open palm on the outside of the cell, but Sharon ignored her. Then there was the heavy noise made by the outside door that led into the cell area, and Freya glanced over. She was not remotely surprised when Adama strode in.
She was surprised, however, when two colonial marines followed him in and pointed their weapons straight at her.
Adama barely kept his cold fury in check as he stared at Freya Gunnerson. His jaw was so clenched that it was difficult at first for him to utter words. “I’ve just been informed,” he said without preamble, “that two of my people are being held on the Bifrost. On your father’s vessel.”
“Really.” Freya looked as if she were feigning interest and not doing a good job of it. “Should that be of particular importance to me?”
“Considering it’s going to have a very direct impact on your own liberty, I’d think it should.”
Freya laughed at that. Her laughter did not sit well with Adama, who refrained from ordering the marines to shoot her in the leg in order to get her full attention. But resisting the temptation was no easy chore. “My liberty?” asked Freya when she’d sufficiently recovered herself. “Two of your soldiers got themselves into some trouble on my father’s ship. How does that have anything to do with my liberty?”
“They’re being held there on some trumped-up charges. Suspicion of stealing a holy book of yours.”
“The Edda?” The amusement vanished from Freya’s face, although Adama was sure it might be nothing more than a superb acting job. “They took the Edda?”
“They are suspected of doing so… except my own suspicion is that your father knows perfectly well they didn’t. He’s doing this to force the issue of your people, the Midguardians, becoming members of the Quorum.”
She shrugged. “That’s possible. I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. He tends to come up with unorthodox solutions to achieve his goals. I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me. Certainly you’re not intending to keep me prisoner as some sort of retaliatory step.”
“That is exactly my intention.”
She laughed again, but this time it had a much more skeptical, even scolding tone to it. She addressed him as if the matter were already resolved and she was trying to guide him to the solution in the same way that a parent would ease a child over the span of a brook lest they wet their feet. Adama’s face didn’t so much as twitch. “Admiral,” she said when she’d composed herself, “Perhaps you think that your feckless imprisonment of Lieutenant Valerii gives you the right to lock up anyone and everyone you want. Hell, you tossed the president of the Colonies into jail as part of a military coup. Some people believed that, since your… unfortunate incident…”
“My assassination attempt by someone who looked just like your client, you mean.”
“Yes,” she said dismissively as if the specifics were of no importance. “As I was saying, some believed that you had changed in your attitudes and outlook since then. It appears now that you’re… what’s the best way to put this…?”
“Not frakking around.” There was no trace of humor in his voice, no flicker of pity in his eyes. The absence of both finally got through to Freya Gunnerson, and she began to realize her extreme vulnerability.
However, she was almost as skilled as Adama in presenting an air of conviction and certainty. “I was going to say ‘regressing’. You don’t seriously think you can hold me here?”
“Unless you’re packing enough weaponry to shoot your way out, I seriously think exactly that. Your father has my people. I have you. I’m thinking you might be something I can trade.”
She squared her shoulders and faced him, not backing down in the slightest. “I am not a commodity. However you may choose to view Sharon Valerii, Admiral… I am human. I have committed no crime. I am not responsible for the actions my father has taken. I knew nothing about the theft of the Edda until I heard it from you just now. You have no grounds whatsoever upon which to hold me.”
“Arrest you,” he growled.
“The smartest thing you can do—frankly, the only thing you can do—is stand aside so that I can return to my vessel. If you wish, I assure you that I will talk to my father and convince him to release your people as soon as they turn over the Edda. Considering our tribal law prescribes murder as the punishment for theft of the book, I think that’s rather generous on my part. This offer has a limited shelf-life, Admiral. I suggest you take me up on it.”
Suddenly Adama was distracted by a loud thumping from the cell. He glanced over at Sharon. She was now holding the phone inside to her ear and was gesturing for Adama to pick it up.
His first instinct was to ignore her. To just let the phone sit there in the cradle where Freya had left it. But Adama had gradually come to the realization that his first instinct was frequently unreliable when it came to Sharon Valerii. Without looking back at Freya, he strode over and picked up the phone.
Her voice came through low and conspiratorial. There was demand in her tone, but it was laced with pleading. “Take her outside. I want to talk to just you.”
He was tempted to ask why, but saw no reason to hurry it. He turned to the marines and said, “Escort Miss Gunnerson outside and wait there for further orders.”
“Admiral,” said Freya angrily, “she’s my client.”
“And this is my ship,” he reminded her grimly. “I win.” He nodded confirmation of the order he’d just given, and the two marines removed Freya from the room. They kept their weapons in plain sight, but it wasn’t as if she offered huge amounts of resistance as she was ushered out. As combative as she was, Freya knew better than to try and have it out with two heavily armed marines.
The moment they were alone, Sharon said briskly, “She was lying. She knows something.”
The flat assertion caught Adama by surprise, although naturally there was nothing in his expression that would have confirmed that. “You were able to hear us?”
“I can lip read.”
This admission startled Adama. Even more startling was that he’d never thought of that before. “All right,” was all he said.
“So I wanted you to know… she was lying.” She hesitated and for a moment even looked slightly confused. “I just… I wanted you to know that. I thought it might help you.” Then, as if rallying from self-doubts, she said more forcefully, “Because that’s what I do here. I help you. That’s all I do,” she added pointedly… a point that did not elude Adama.
“How do you know she was lying?”
“Because I can tell.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Maybe,” she allowed, “but it’s the best one you’re going to get. I can tell. We can tell. There’s certain ways to determine when a hu—” She caught herself and amended, “when someone… lies. We’re trained to see them, spot them. Take advantage of them.”
“Trained?”
“Maybe that’s the wrong word. It’s… hardwired into us. One of the tools of our trade, so to speak.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
She smiled thinly. “You’re not ‘supposed’ to do anything, Admiral. You can do whatever you want. I’m just telling you what I know.”
“In order to help.”
“That’s right
.”
He considered that for a brief time. Then he said, “Let’s say… for the sake of argument… that I believe you. What do you suggest I do with this information?”
Sharon shrugged. “I don’t know. Get the truth from her, I suppose.”
This time the pause from Adama was far longer, his eyes studying her with calculated coldness. Two of his people were in trouble, and the reason they were in trouble was because he had sent them into the situation in the first place. So it was bad enough that he was dealing with the sense of personal responsibility over having thrust them into harm’s way. He didn’t feel guilty over it; putting soldiers of his, even beloved ones—hell, especially beloved ones—into jeopardy was simply another day at the office for him. He wasn’t second-guessing his decision. Given the same circumstances, he’d do the exact same thing again. Nevertheless, his sense of personal involvement was even sharper since difficulties had arisen from a specific mission upon which he had dispatched two of his people, as opposed to ordering pilots into the air to defend against an unexpected Cylon assault.
He had no hesitation, none, about sending in armed troops to get them back. After all, he had been willing to throw his pilots against the Pegasus in order to retrieve Helo and Chief Tyrol when Admiral Cain had been ready to have them executed. But if there were ways in which to resolve the situation that didn’t risk yet another incident that the press could transform into Galactica-against-the-fleet, he was more than willing to pursue them.
Adama was starting to think that Sharon Valerii was hinting she might serve as that means of resolution.
“Are you suggesting,” he asked slowly, “that you would be capable of getting that truth from her?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t suggesting that, no.”
“I see.”
The seconds of silence stretched out.
And finally, Sharon said, “But if I were… what’s in it for me?”
At that moment, things that Tigh had said to him came back to him. How it was that, despite everything that had happened, Adama still looked at Sharon Valerii and saw Boomer, the eager, ready-to-please young recruit and pilot whom Adama and Tigh couldn’t help but have a fatherly enjoyment of and tolerance for. When she’d become inappropriately involved with Chief Tyrol, the bulk of their anger about such a relationship had been focused on Tyrol rather than Valerii, even though they were both equally responsible.
As insane as it sounded, despite the fact that his chest had been ripped open by several shots delivered at point-blank range by a creature who was identical to this one… a creature now dead, and yet here she was hale and hearty and pregnant, of all things… despite the fact that he knew in his heart of hearts that she was nothing more than a machine, an automaton, a damned frakking toaster… despite all of that, he still couldn’t help but feel as if she were still good ol’ Boomer, the utterly human Sharon Valerii.
But the individual who had just asked the question, “What’s in it for me?” was not Sharon Valerii, nor was she Boomer. Right there, right then, was the calculation and coldness of a Cylon agent: detached, unemotional, deliberating as to what would be required in order to complete a mission that would potentially bring misfortune to a human being… misfortune that didn’t bother Sharon in the least, because she wasn’t remotely human.
He should have turned away. He should have been repulsed and revolted over the slightest notion of embarking on any endeavor in league with this… thing.
But he didn’t. Because instead of simply surrendering to the notion that this was indeed some unemotional, calculating inhuman machine which feigned every emotion in service of its greater goal of sabotage, Adama decided to say something just to see how she would react.
“One of the people taken prisoner on the Bifrost is Starbuck.” He hesitated for a carefully timed moment and then said, “The other is Helo.”
And there it was.
The coldness of the Cylon that she was at the moment instantly dissolved into the Sharon Valerii that she once had been… back before Adama knew her to be anything other than Sharon Valerii. Telling her that Starbuck was in trouble gained her interest. Telling her that the father of her child was endangered engaged her heart.
So apparently… she had one.
Her face paled, her eyes widened, and he saw a sharp little intake of breath. Quickly she tried to cover it, but he’d seen it. More than that: She knew he’d seen it.
“Does that change things at all?” he asked, knowing the answer before he asked it.
“It… provides some incentive.” She considered the situation carefully, obviously turning over all its aspects in her mind, and then said, “Are you interested in a deal?”
“I don’t bargain with Cylons,” he replied. Then, before she could say anything, he added, “But if I did… hypothetically… what sort of terms are we talking about?”
Sharon Valerii had had a lousy night’s sleep.
She had been dreaming of Laura Roslin… and she didn’t know why.
She had seen herself lying flat on her back, tied down to a bed in sickbay. Her stomach had been flat and taut, not at all the swelling lump it was now. She had struggled to free her hands and feet, but they were too well secured. She had tried shouting at the top of her lungs, but even though her mouth was wide open and she was trying to scream, nothing was emerging from her throat.
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 h
er, 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.
[Battlestar Galactica Reimagined 03] - Sagittarius is Bleeding Page 24