“Probably her father, then.” She laid out as quickly as she could the details of her encounter with Wolf Gunnerson.
Adama took it in, considering every word she said. “Hell of a coincidence,” he said finally.
“I don’t like coincidences on general principle,” said Tigh.
Standing up and coming around his desk, Adama said, “Let’s go have a chat with Doctor Baltar and find out what the hell is going on. Madame President, would you care to join us . . . ?”
“I think it would be better if I got back to my ship,” she said, rising as well.
“If I may ask, what are you going to do about the Midguardians?” asked Adama. “Are you seriously considering their request for statehood?”
“I’ve ruled out nothing,” said Roslin. “I generally try to keep my options open until I see how things pan out.”
Tigh scowled and said, “If you ask me—which you didn’t, but anyway—if you ask me, elevating those heathens to parity with the Twelve Colonies, you’re asking for trouble, with all respect.”
“That may be, Colonel,” replied Laura Roslin. “But I’ve noticed that trouble tends to show up, unasked for or not. So I might as well do what I feel is right and let the consequences fall as they may.”
Billy Keikeya looked as if he were about to go into shock when Laura Roslin told him the outcome of her discussion with Admiral Adama. He was literally trembling with indignation, and as she sat in her office and watched his mounting mortification, she never felt quite as badly for him as she did at that moment. Billy took his responsibility as her aide and—ultimately—confidant very seriously. It was at times such as this that she remembered just how young he truly was, because his face was stricken with an expression that would have been at home on one of her students who had just been informed he’d been caught cheating. Except in this case, of course, Billy was innocent of any criminal intent.
“They had her quarters bugged?” he asked in disbelief. When she nodded, he demanded, “Did Dee know about this?”
“Dee . . . ? Oh. Dualla. No, I’ve no reason to assume she did.”
“I’ve got to tell her . . .”
Billy started to stand but Roslin firmly gestured for him to sit. “You’re to tell her nothing. You’re not to tell any of them anything. You and I may find the concept repulsive, but Adama and Tigh make a convincing argument. These are difficult times, Billy, and difficult decisions have to be made to get us through them. These include decisions we don’t always agree with . . . but have to live with.”
“But Madame President, with all respect . . . it’s wrong,” he said, still looking upset but nevertheless sitting as she indicated him to do. “Shouldn’t we take stands on things for no other reason than that?”
“I’m not so sure it’s wrong.”
“How can it not be?”
“Because we can’t afford to be naïve, Billy,” she said firmly. “We’re dealing with an enemy that will stop at nothing to destroy us. So if extreme measures need to be taken to avoid being destroyed, then that’s what we do.”
Billy stared at her for a long moment, and she wasn’t sure what was going through his mind. “You have something to say, Billy?” she asked.
“It’s . . .” He paused, and then said, “It’s not my place. I’m sorry . . .”
“Billy, your place is where I say it is. If you have something to say, then let’s hear it.”
“Madame President, you’ve been through a lot . . . it really wouldn’t be fair of me to—”
Annoyance flashed across her eyes. “Billy, I don’t give a damn about fairness. Tell me what’s on your mind.”
He studied her for a long moment, and then he said, “You never used to be the type to back down, that’s all.”
She felt a brief flare of temper, and she had to remind herself that she had pushed Billy into saying what he was thinking. “I don’t believe I agree with your assessment.”
“Yes, Madame President.” He seemed suddenly anxious to get the hell out. “That . . . well, that’s fine. You’re right.” He started to stand once more, and a single imperious gesture from her caused him to plop down yet again. She didn’t say anything; she just stared at him, making no effort to prompt him, certain that the ongoing glacial look she was giving him would be more than enough to get him talking again. As it turned out, she was right. “Okay, look . . . with all respect . . . what you said just now. You ‘don’t believe’ that you agree. It sounded less definitive. You’ve been less definitive. Less sure of yourself.”
“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 sightly, “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 whether 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.”