Humans, she sighed to herself. It was a source of utter mystery to her that they could be simultaneously so strong and so weak all at the same time. It was that lack of consistency that would ultimately be their undoing, just as it was their total consistency that would assure the Cylons of their eventual triumph.
Just not today. Today, she had a story to cover. God knew it wasn’t the story she’d wanted, but as Wolf Gunneson was finding out, even the stories you thought you could count on the most didn’t always come out the way you were expecting them to.
CHAPTER
24
The botanical garden on Cloud Nine had been cleared out of civilians. Stern-faced soldiers had withstood the confused protests from various residents of the space-going garden who wanted to know why it was that—especially after enduring yet another harrowing encounter with the Cylons—they weren’t being given the opportunity to take some rest and relaxation in what was easily the most beautiful piece of territory still in existence. The colonial marines had offered no explanations, but instead had simply apologized for the inconvenience in a way that indicated they really weren’t all that sorry about it all.
None of the stragglers or complainers saw the slight woman who was whisked past, keeping her head low, wearing nondescript clothes and a wide-brimmed hat that covered her face. They were far too concerned with their own frustration.
So it was that Sharon Valerii walked through the gardens of Cloud Nine undisturbed and unobserved. Actually, “unobserved” might not have been the most accurate way to describe it, for there were sniper scopes aimed at her head if she engaged in the slightest untoward action. She was all too aware of the potentially fatal surveillance, and had no intention of trying any sort of stunt. If nothing else, she owed it to her baby to do everything she could to survive.
She had her shoes off, and was enjoying the sensation of grass under her bare feet. It was new for her. The time she’d spent on Caprica in Helo’s company had been mostly taken up with staying on the run—or at least putting up appearances of staying on the run—and she hadn’t had time to enjoy the simple pleasures that nature offered. Of all the crimes that the Cylons had committed against humanity, she had to think that banishing them from the embrace of nature had to be far greater than simply blowing them into oblivion. She was willing to allow for the notion that the humans might have disagreed on the matter.
Sharon sensed that someone was coming before she actually saw her. She stopped where she was in the vast open field and waited as the woman approached her. Even before the newcomer drew within range of her, Sharon knew that it was Laura Roslin. She felt a warning of alarm; she was concerned that this was some sort of trick and they were planning to gun her down while claiming that she was making an attempt on the life of the president. Because of that worry, she stood completely stock still, her arms at her sides, determined to make not the slightest gesture that could be misinterpreted. If they were going to shoot her down, then it wasn’t going to be for anything that anyone could claim was self-defense. It would be indisputably murder. Not that she thought they would be unwilling to resort to that, but that was going to be what was required of them.
Laura Roslin drew within about ten feet of her, well out of arm’s reach, and then stopped. It seemed odd to see someone dressed in such a stern suit standing there in such a natural environment.
The two of them faced each other silently for a time. Sharon knew perfectly well if she made the slightest movement toward Laura, that a sharpshooter would drop her before she covered a foot of the distance. But it wasn’t as if she would have made a move on Laura even if her every gesture weren’t being monitored by marksmen.
“Still having the dreams?” she asked finally.
“Not recently, no.”
Her hand rested unconsciously on her swollen stomach. “You still accusing my child of trying to get into your mind.”
“Actually,” Laura said slowly, “it appears it was . . . something else.”
“Really.”
“Toothpaste.”
Sharon stared at her, not getting it. “I’m sorry . . . what?”
Laura took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Several members of the command crew of the passenger ship Bifrost attempted to ram Colonial One.”
“Freya Gunnerson’s people? Midguardians?”
“Yes. They were shot and killed in the attempt. When shown pictures of the scene, I recognized one of them—a man named Tyr—as the maintenance man who had been called in to effect repairs to pipes in my bathroom. As soon as I did, security came in and removed everything from the bathroom and had it tested for potential hazards. It turned out that, according to Doctor Baltar, there was a powerful hallucinogen in the toothpaste. Every time I would brush my teeth, it seeped in through my gums and . . .”
“Made you imagine things?”
“So it would seem.”
“So all those accusations regarding my child . . . they were baseless . . . ?”
“I’m not sure,” admitted Laura. “I’ve been . . . under the influence . . . at other times, and had dreams that contained remarkably accurate visions of the future. This may be connected to that.”
“Or it may be that you simply imagined the whole thing,” said Sharon.
“Yes. It may be that.”
Laura walked in a slow circle around her, appearing to study her. Sharon continued to remain right where she was. “I understand you changed your mind about pursuing legal action.”
“I decided it wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t going to go anywhere.”
“Freya Gunnerson is dead.”
Sharon took in this news without the slightest reaction. “Guess I made the right decision,” she said finally.
“Her father was devastated. Man fell completely apart. He’s in the custody of the other Midguardians who swear that he and his close associates were acting without their knowledge. That they had extremist beliefs.”
“Of course they’d say that.”
“You think they’re lying?”
“I think it doesn’t matter what I think.”
Laura made a small hmm noise in the base of her throat. Then she said, “So . . . this was your deal with the admiral? Getting information from Freya Gunnerson in exchange for two hours in Cloud Nine.”
“I wanted my baby to experience this.”
“It’s not born yet.”
“I know. But I’m experiencing it, so the baby will as well. At least, that’s what I like to tell myself.”
“Was it worth it?” She looked at Sharon askance. “To torment a woman as you did . . . just for a few hours outside of a cell?”
“If you’d ever been stuck in a cell as long as I have, you wouldn’t ask that question.” She hesitated and then added, “But then again . . . there’s all kinds of prisons, aren’t there.”
“Yes. And all kinds of prisoners.”
Laura nodded and then turned and started to walk away. She paused and then, without looking back at Sharon, said, “By the way . . . it doesn’t change anything. I still think the baby presents a risk . . . as do you . . . I still think that . . .” She stopped, cleared her throat, and then said, “But I wanted to say . . . thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome,” Sharon said without hesitation.
She stood and watched in silence as Laura Roslin walked away, and when she was gone, Sharon went back to flexing her toes in the grass and smiling.
Starbuck walked slowly along the memorial wall, looking at the pictures of humans who had died in the Cylon attacks and pilots who had likewise died defending the remainder of humanity against further assaults. The pictures were tacked up in no order. When someone wanted to add a photo, they simply put it up there and it became one of the hundreds of pictures of loved ones.
Little pieces of their lives, caught and isolated and etched on paper. Lives unfulfilled, each filled with individual promise that would never be met. It was the single most depressing place on Ga
lactica. It was also the most filled with hope, because as long as there was anyone alive to remember the people up on the wall, then humanity continued to have a prayer.
She pulled out a very small picture from her pocket. She held it up and looked at it. It wasn’t an entire picture, exactly. It was a portion of one. It was considered bad luck to put the image of a still-living person up on the wall, so she’d had to take the time to do some serious trimming. But she’d managed it, and now she tacked the picture of Boxey up on the wall. She sighed, and she waited for her eyes to brim with tears. They didn’t. It made her think that maybe she just didn’t have any tears left.
“They’re all out? All the bugs?”
Seated in Adama’s quarters, Tigh nodded. Adama had a cup of coffee in his hand and was sipping it. “All of them,” confirmed Tigh. “Also we swept the extremities of everyone else in CIC. Gaeta was the only victim.”
“Do we have any idea when a Cylon agent might have slipped that under his skin, and how they did it?”
“According to Doctor Cottle, considering how miniaturized it was, it could have been anyone at any time. And Gaeta’s been off ship socializing any number of occasions, so it could have been any one of a number of places as well. There’s simply no way to be sure.”
“All right,” Adama said slowly. “We’ll be instituting regular security sweeps of personnel for potential listening devices.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Saul,” and he smiled just slightly, “good work.”
“Yeah. I know,” said Saul Tigh, feeling positive about himself for the first time in a good long while.
“Toothpaste?”
Number Six laughed out loud as Baltar leaned against one of his lab tables and smiled serenly. “Yes. Toothpaste,” he replied calmly. “I told her it was the toothpaste that was causing her . . . hallucinations. She seemed most grateful. Even apologized for our little scene in which she made some wild accusations.”
“Too wild. How the hell did she see me?”
“She didn’t,” Baltar replied easily.
“We don’t know that for sure, and we could have a serious problem. As much as you claim expertise about Cylons, there’s so much about us you don’t know. That you can barely begin to comprehend. We share thoughts, experiences. That which one of us knows, others learn of either directly or even through just sensing it, because we are connected and as one. By having a transfusion of blood from that baby, it’s not impossible that Roslin is starting to share in that knowledge. And knowledge is power. She claimed she saw me . . .”
“She doesn’t know what she saw,” Baltar said with complete confidence. “Everything’s scrambled up in her brain. Are you ready for this? She claimed she thought that Sharon Valerii’s unborn baby was playing tricks with her mind. Can you believe that?”
“Yes. I can, as I’ve already made clear. Furthermore, on some level, you believe it, too. Or at least you believe it’s possible, if you were willing to fabricate that nonsense about the toothpaste.”
“I said it because I wanted to throw her off the track, and I succeeded.”
“Did you?”
“Never underestimate the power of placebos. I gave her a reasonable explanation for her hallucinations. That alone will likely be enough for her to have night after night of blissful sleep. There’s nothing to worry about.”
Six shook her head. “The woman suspects you, Gaius. Suspects us. Perhaps you managed to get her to bury it for a short while . . . but it’s going to resurface. She is a danger to you . . . to us . . . for as long as she’s in power.”
“What would you suggest I do? Assassinate her? Or—even better,” he snickered, “I could run for president. Win the people’s love and force her out of office.”
He continued to snicker and then noticed she hadn’t joined him.
“It’s a thought,” she told him.
“It’s a stupid thought, and by the way . . . we had an arrangement.”
“Did we?” she said dryly, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, one that you’ve never fulfilled. You told me if I did as you asked regarding those listening devices, you’d tell me your real name.”
“Did I. Oh, yes. I did.”
Slowly she walked toward him, her long legs wildly alluring. She leaned in toward him and whispered something in his ear. Then she leaned back and smiled.
“Legion?” said Baltar skeptically. “What do you mean, your name is ‘Legion’?”
“Work on it, my dear,” she said, patting him on the cheek. “Work on it.”
Minerva Greenwald sat in the promenade of the Peacemaker and found herself missing Boxey.
The young lady—if a thief and gadabout such as she could possibly be called a lady—had very much enjoyed hanging around with Boxey. First, he was close to her in age. Second, he had learned extremely quickly from her, picking up the fine art of everything from cards to petty thievery. She’d found him an eager student and pleasant companion. But ever since he’d gone off to live on that stupid ship with that stupid woman, Freya . . .
“Hey.”
She looked up and gasped in surprise. “Hey!” she cried out. “Hey, what’re you doing here?!? I thought you were living over on, whattaya call it? The Bifrost?”
Boxey dropped down next to her and smiled readily at her. “I was. But I decided I didn’t want to stay there.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Well, for starters, Freya shot me.”
“She did?” gasped Minerva. “Wh—why aren’t you dead?”
“Had a piece of metal paneling. Shoved it under my shirt. Protected me. She didn’t know.”
“Frak! Why did she shoot you?”
“Because she was nuts. I mean, why else would anyone want to shoot me?”
“I should say so! And you’re going to stay here now?”
“Yup. Here with you.”
He draped an arm around her shoulder. He seemed to radiate a quiet confidence he didn’t have before. “I’m glad you came back,” she said. “It’d have been terrible if she’d killed you. Unless . . . y’know . . . you were one of those human-looking Cylons. There’s this rumor going around that if you kill them, it doesn’t matter, because there’s bunches of them.”
“Yeah. I heard that, too.”
“So maybe I should be worried that you’re one of them.”
Boxey laughed. “That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard.”
“I know. It was dumb. Mad at me?”
“Never.”
She nestled in closer to him, and he sat there with a distant look on his face that she didn’t see, thinking about Cylons, thinking about how they were all connected, and how things were often not what they seemed . . . and most of all, he wondered why he was having the strangest dreams about stone carvings that were bleeding . . .
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PETER DAVID is the author of dozens of works of fiction, including novels, comics, and screenplays. He has worked with both Marvel and DC comics, and has penned many bestselling Star Trek books. In addition, he has written for several television series, including Babylon 5 and Crusades, among others, and was the cocreator of Space Cases, which ran for two seasons on Nickelodeon. His novels include Knight Life, One Knight Only, Fall of Knight, Howling Mad, and the Sir Apropos of Nothing series. He lives on Long Island.
Peter David, Sagittarius Is Bleeding: Battlestar Galactica 3
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