03 - Sagittarius is Bleeding (18 page)

Behind her the building explodes in a fireball of sound and flame…

She woke up and found that the Cylon warrior’s face had been replaced with
that of Billy.

She started involuntarily and realized that she was sitting in her office
chair, which made perfect sense since she was in her office. For a heartbeat she
thought she was still dreaming—again—for how in the world had she gotten from
her bedroom to her office? Then, in that disorienting way that always occurs
when one wakes up in an unexpected place, she remembered that she had, in fact, already gotten up that morning, and had come to work.
She had leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for just a moment to rest
them…

… at least, she thought that was what she had done. What if she was wrong?
What if her memory was playing tricks on her and actually she really was still
asleep? Maybe she was even in a coma, and all that was going to happen now was
that she was going to keep dreaming about waking up and waking up—

“Madame President…”

Billy’s voice, filled with unmistakeable concern that was cloaked with a veil
of professionalism, said, “Your next appointment is here. Mr. Gunnerson…”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” She straightened her short jacket and sat forward in
as businesslike a manner as she could, doing her best to indicate that she was
raring to go. “Bring him in,” she said in her most no-nonsense voice.

Billy looked as if he were about to say something, but then thought better of
it and simply inclined his head. “Yes, Madame President.”

He went out and, moments later, came back in with what appeared to be a
walking land mass. Laura kept her face neutral as she rose to greet him, but
inwardly she was astounded at the size of the man. He had to bend over slightly
to pass through the door, and when he reached out to shake her hand, her hand
literally disappeared into his. “Wolf Gunnerson, Madame President. It’s an
honor.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said, gesturing toward the chair opposite
her. He sat, albeit not without effort, as she sat back down in her own chair.
She glanced behind him and saw only Billy. “For some reason I was under the
impression Councilman Zarek would be joining you to help make your case.”

“Councilman Zarek told me he thought it’d be better if I came in
on my own. He said”—and Gunnerson raised a bushy, quizzical
eyebrow—“that you would probably feel more at ease if he were not here.”

She smiled slightly. “Councilman Zarek overestimates his ability to
discomfort me. He would have been welcome to join you, but…” She shrugged as
if it were of little consequence. “So… I understand you feel your people
should be recognized as… what? A thirteenth colony?”

“A fourteenth,” he reminded her, “if we count the long-lost colony that may
or may not have wound up on our destination of Earth.”

“Fair enough.”

“For that matter, thirteen has never been the luckiest of numbers. Perhaps
increasing the number of colonies—here and gone—to fourteen will change some of
the luck we’ve been having lately.”

Laura allowed a small laugh. In spite of herself, she was actually finding
the fellow pleasant enough. She hadn’t known what she was going to be confronted
with: some sort of wild-eyed religious fanatic, perhaps. But this soft-spoken
behemoth didn’t match her preconceptions.

“I’ll take that under advisement,” she said evenly. “Somehow, though, I doubt
that that will be the sort of convincing argument the Quorum would consider.”

“Yes, I know that,” he laughed. It was a deep, rumbling laugh that sounded
like the beginnings of a ground quake. Then he grew serious and continued, “I’m
not naive, Madame President. I know the way things work. Most of the time, when
a decision is to be made about something, the consideration isn’t what is
right… or what’s just… or what’s fair. It’s ‘What’s in it for me?’”

“That’s a less-than-charitable view of the world.”

“But not less than realistic.”

“If you’re trying to focus on the realistic,” said Laura, “then certainly you
have to acknowledge that my voice is merely that: a voice. As I made clear to
the councilman, the question of statehood—which is really what you’re asking
for—is not something that lies within the province of this office. That’s in the
hands of the Quroum, and the Quorum doesn’t answer to me.”

“No. But they listen to you. And if you put forward our case, that would
carry weight.”

“And why would I…” She stopped and now they were both smiling. “All
right… I suppose, yes, I’m saying what’s in it for me? Or, more specifically,
for the members of the Quorum. I don’t dispute that the Midguardians have been
treated less than charitably in the past. But that persecution was a long time
ago…”

“A long time ago in the minds of you and yours. But a mere eye blink to me
and mine. And even now, my people remain marginalized because of our beliefs.
Dismissed as heretics and unbelievers. We’ve no active involvement or say in the
destiny of humanity. That’s not right.”

“I don’t dispute that,” said Laura. “But, despite what you may have read in
some of the more enthusiastic publications… I am not a god. I don’t get to
wave my hand and have everyone fall into line. There’s—dare I say it—politics
involved. And whether we like it or not, that aspect has to be addressed.”

“Have you heard,” he said, unexpectedly switching topics, “of the book of
Edda?”

“Yes. It’s your book of history.”

“Correct. History of the past… and the present… and the future. The
lifetime of mankind, covered in our verses, with greater accuracy and detail
than is to be found in any of your prophecies.”

“Well,” Laura said, not exactly convinced despite the obvious fervency of his
belief. “That’s easy for you to say. But having never read it myself, or had
access to it…”

“That’s because the leaders of the ‘accepted’ religion have done everything
within their ability to make certain no one does. After all,” and he leaned
back, the chair creaking beneath his weight, “if it’s learned that someone other
than the accepted oracles are able to know what’s to come, that would certainly
diminish the miracles that support the current belief system. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I would say,” she said slowly, “that it’s easy to complain of so-called
conspiracies where none was intended.”

“It is indeed… just as it’s difficult sometimes to convince others that
such conspiracies exist. That’s what the conspirators typically count upon:
disbelief. It’s the single greatest weapon at their command.”

“Mr. Gunnerson,” she said, striving to keep the fatigue from her voice, “with
all respect, I feel as if we’re going in circles here, and I don’t have the
time—”

Gunnerson reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a small leather
case. Placing it on her desk, he opened it with unmistakeable reverence. There
was a small book inside. He removed it, held it up, and said with a touch of
pride, “The Edda.” He flipped through it with the confidence of someone who knew
what was contained on every page and found what he was looking for. He turned to
a page toward the back. Then he cleared his throat and said to her, “Understand
that I’m not only translating on the fly, but it’s supposed to be sung. But I
figure you don’t need my abysmal attempts at vocalizing, particularly this early
in the morning, so…”

She gestured for him to proceed, intrigued in spite of herself.

He held up the book and began to read. Although he was, indeed, not singing
it, his voice still went up and down in places as if it were meant to be chanted
and he couldn’t help himself.

“The day would come, when the prodigal sons

A gleam in metal, crimson of eye

Would rain destruction down upon their fathers

From the tinted sky

The fathers would run, fleeing from the wrath

Of sons, accompanied by daughters

Their eyes would turn toward far-off home

With verdant land and chill blue waters

Two ships would guide them, one at first

The galaxy would be its name

Accompanied by flying horse

Very different, much the same…”

Her eyes widened, astonishment rippling through her. Gunnerson didn’t see it
since he was looking down at his book, and when he closed it she had already
managed to regain her composure. “There’s more,” he said quietly. “It describes
individuals in the grand scheme of things who match up rather closely to you,
Admiral Adama, some others.”

“It’s… impressive,” Laura Roslin admitted, but she was not about to simply
swallow everything that was being handed her. “On the other hand, hindsight is
always twenty-twenty.”

“Are you suggesting that these verses were written after the fact?” He
sounded amused rather than offended.

“I’m suggesting nothing, merely observing that it’s possible.”

He held up the book. “Our ancients,” he said, “received these words from Woten himself, the father of the gods. They have been part
of our people since our people
had
a people. It speaks of a twilight of
humanity, in great detail, and everything that is to happen to humanity when
that twilight falls. It speaks…” He paused, and then said, “Of how we
survive. It’s all here.” He placed the copy of the book back into the small
case, and closed it. “Understand… that it, and we, represent your salvation.”

“How so?” she asked, intrigued but trying not to show it.

“In the book of Edda,” he said, “it speaks of a bridge. A glittering bridge
that serves as a connector between those who wander… which I take to be us
… and Earth. The literal translation of the text is ‘Rainbow Bridge’. The name
the Edda accords it is ‘Bifrost’, which is where the name of our vessel comes
from. Our scholars believe, however, that the bridge is not necessarily a
literal rainbow. It could instead be a representation of that which we
understand now, but our ancestors could never have found words to frame: a
wormhole, or bridge through space. Something that, should we be able to find it,
would enable us to complete our journey in an instant.
Bifrost
is our way
to our sanctuary… in more ways than one. And the Edda… tells us how to
find it. It would bring us straight to it.”

Too good to be true. Most things that are too good to be true… aren’t.
An old warning that her mother used to voice came back to her unbidden, but it
was certainly good advice. “You’re saying that your book of… prophecies, for
lack of a better term… can get us to Earth?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes,” he assured her. “And you’ve no one to
blame for not knowing these verses but your own church elders from centuries
ago, who tried to burn all of our holy writings out of existence since they were
offended by their very presence. If we’d been accepted when we should have been, then all
our wise writings would be at your disposal. But we were not and, therefore,
they are not. An unfortunate circumstance for you, certainly, but there’s
nothing to do about it now. However, give us the equality that we deserve, and
you will be welcome to review all of our texts, past and future. To embrace us
is to embrace the end of our voyage so that we need not wander anymore.”

The offer was a fascinating one. Laura didn’t quite know what to say. That in
itself was irritating to her, for Laura Roslin had always prided herself on
knowing just what to say in any given situation. And then, as she pondered how
to respond to this startling offer, she saw something out of the corner of her
eye.

It was something just out the window—“viewing port”, she mentally corrected
herself. Even after all this time, she was still tripping over substituting the
appropriate space-going jargon for what had once been the mundane aspects of
life. A window was a viewing port, a room was quarters, a wall was a bulkhead;
it had taken some adjusting for her, since Laura had always regarded space
vessels as merely a mode of transportation from one point to the other, never
requiring more than a few hours travel time. Taking up residence in one, well,
that was another matter. All of which still left her wondering just what the
hell she had spotted out the window.

“Excuse me a moment,” she said to Wolf, and got up from behind her desk. Wolf
Gunnerson, as protocol dictated, automatically began to stand as well, but she
gestured for him to remain in his seat. She went over to the window and looked
out.

Sharon Valerii was looking back at her.

Laura staggered back, her mouth dropping open, her eyes wide. The sharp
intake of breath naturally caught Gunnerson’s attention, and Wolf stood once more, this time out of obvious concern. “Is
there a problem, Madame President?”

She didn’t hear him, or she heard him, but it didn’t really register that
someone was talking to her. It wasn’t that she was seeing Sharon floating out in
space. Rather, she saw her reflected in the window. The reflection exactly
matched her movements, and she stared at it long and hard to make certain it
wasn’t some trick of the light. Slowly she reached up, and Sharon’s reflection
did the same. She placed her hand flat against Sharon’s reflected hand, and
Laura spoke softly, so softly that Wolf—sitting not more than five feet
away—couldn’t hear her.

“Get out of my head,” she whispered, her mouth twisted into an
uncharacteristic snarl. “Get… out… of my head.”

Sharon’s mouth moved as well, and that was when Laura realized that Sharon
wasn’t mouthing the same words as she was. Instead, Sharon spoke very slowly,
the words she was forming easy to discern even if Laura hadn’t already had them
burned into her mind through what seemed endless repetition.

Sagittarius is bleeding,
Sharon said to her.

Laura backed up and banged into a chair. She might well have stumbled over it
and hit the floor, but Wolf was on his feet and righted her just before that
happened. “Madame President, are you quite all right?”