03 - Sagittarius is Bleeding (23 page)

“We could drain the fetal blood. Keep it stored on an as-needed basis.”

“Would you embrace that idea?”

Adama’s face never changed, but he admitted, “It’s a bit… parasitic…for me.”

“Me too,” said Laura. She rubbed her eyes in a manner that emphasized the
lack of sleep she’d been lately experiencing. “Honestly, Admiral… I’m open
to suggestions.”

“There’s one avenue you haven’t pursued.”

“That being.”

“You could talk to Sharon Valerii.”

She stared at him with a level gaze for a time.

“I could indeed,” she finally said.

Sharon knew something major was happening when the marines came in to manacle
her to her place.

Ordinarily she only spoke to visitors through the phone unit. So when the
marines came in and bound her wrists, and fastened them in turn to a shackle on
the floor, she was aware that meant someone was actually going to be entering
her cell. Her guess was that it was Adama. Typically they made sure she couldn’t
move, and even then they kept guard with weapons that they would use if she made
the slightest gesture toward whomever was there. She had once considered making
a mocking comment such as, “Aren’t you worried I’ll shoot death rays out of my
eyes?” but then thought better of it once she realized they’d probably clamp a
metal blindfold around her just to play it safe.

She sat there with the stoic resolve of someone who was prepared to endure
whatever her captors put her through. There were days when she wondered how she
tolerated it, and she always kept coming around to the same answer: It wouldn’t
always be this way. She didn’t know why she believed that. From the evidence of
things, there was really no reason to. And yet she did, day after day. After all
that she had been through, and with the baby growing in her belly, she had to
believe that God had a greater purpose for her than to allow her to suffer and
die.

She just wished she knew what it was.

Perhaps at some point the humans would come to realize that she was not a
threat to them. Or perhaps the Cylons would take over
Galactica,
as
Sharon suspected was inevitable, and she would be set free. Or, hell, perhaps
the Cylons would wind up killing her themselves. It was always difficult to be
sure.

But she was certain she knew when she’d find out. It was whenever D’anna
Biers finally showed up at her cell.

She knew that if Adama ever asked her about other Cylon agents, she would
never tell. Not even if it meant her death. She would keep her silence because
she firmly believed that if she did betray them, then she would die of a
certainty. Not only that, but it would be D’anna Biers who would pull the
trigger. No one else. That was the sort of thing that D’anna would reserve for
herself.

Every time she thought of D’anna, a shiver ran down her spine. She was the
most formidable Cylon of all the models. The boldest, the most confident. To
hide in plain sight the way she did. Other Cylon agents insinuated themselves
quietly into positions where they could do damage, but not D’anna, no. She was a
journalist, putting her face out there to be seen by everyone, smiling and smug
and confident that none would see through her façade. Sharon envied her in many
ways. There was no reason for her to have suspected at any time during her
involvement with Helo, for instance, that he would have been able to determine
she was a Cylon. Yet she had always worried. Every time he’d looked at her and
seen only a human, she’d been concerned that somehow, against all reason, he would realize what she
was. For that matter, in her previous “existence” as Boomer, she had only been
able to function by being unaware of her true nature. Almost as soon as she had
learned she was a Cylon, she could no longer live with herself. She couldn’t
put a gun to her own head and pull the trigger; Cylons were hardwired against
such pointless suicide. So her subconscious needs had kicked in and she’d
settled for the next best thing: shooting Adama, thus guaranteeing herself a
death sentence. She wouldn’t have to live with the knowledge of what she was,
and wouldn’t have to deal with the way that her former friends would look at
her. She preferred death to the prospect of living a life that was a sham.

But Sharon’s solution simply became Sharon’s problem all over again.

The thing is, death would likely have held no fear for her if it weren’t for
the baby. But the life growing within her gave her incentive to live.

And so she remained silent. Silence might get her D’anna Biers, and D’anna
Biers would in turn get her freedom.

The marines finished manacling her into place and then they walked out of the
cell. She hadn’t even bothered to try and strike up a conversation with them.
She knew better. They never reacted to anything she said. If they glowered at
her, at least that would be something. But they didn’t. Instead they just sort
of stared at her with dead eyes, as if she wasn’t even there. As if she was a…

“A thing,” she finished the thought aloud.

One of the marines barely glanced at her just before he walked out. He didn’t
know what she was referring to, of course, and the chances were that even if he
had, it wouldn’t have made a damned bit of difference. Actually, he probably
would have agreed with her assessment.

She wondered if any of them could ever hope to understand.

“I’m not a thing,” she said, thumping her fist softly on her thigh. “I am
not… some sort… of thing.” The baby kicked as if responding in sympathy.
Sharon raised her fist and looked at it, turning it from side to side. Then she
opened it and very slowly placed her palm flat on her stomach. “Maybe,” she
whispered to the child within her, “you’re the symbol of this hand. Maybe you’re
going to take the fist of the Cylons and turn it into an open hand, which the
humans will take in turn. It’s possible. Anything’s possible, I g—”

There was a noise at the door and Sharon looked up. It opened and, not
entirely to her surprise, she saw Admiral Adama enter. He stared at her with
that look she’d come to know quite well: a mixture of suspicion, pity, and
forced detachment.

Then Sharon’s eyes widened in ill-concealed surprise as President Laura
Roslin stepped in behind him. There was no mixture of anything in Roslin’s
expression; rather there was nothing but deep, abiding resentment.

Well, that made perfect sense, didn’t it? Roslin resented her, or at least
“Sharon Valerii,” for the assassination attempt upon Adama. She resented the
child that was growing in her belly, since Roslin believed it represented a
threat to the fleet and wanted to kill it. She resented the fact that she had to
let it live because it had benefited her personally. And, obviously, she
resented showing up here, now, for whatever reason they’d come up with.

Nevertheless, despite the fact that she knew how much Laura Roslin despised
her, Sharon stood up. She noted with some amusement that Roslin took an
involuntary step back, although the look of resentment on her face never so much
as twitched. Adama stopped when Roslin did and glanced back at her.

Sharon bowed slightly at the waist in acknowledgment of Roslin’s presence,
and it was at that point that Roslin must have realized Sharon wasn’t standing
out of defensiveness or even a desire to attack. She was doing so out of
deference for the office of the presidency. Sharon smiled inwardly, knowing that
it probably annoyed the hell out of her. Nothing made someone who hated you more
insane than responding to that hatred with patience and respect.

Roslin never changed her expression. Sharon wondered if Roslin’s face would
crack should a smile ever stray across it. Sharon remained standing, although
she was slightly stooped thanks to the restraints of the chains on not only her
wrists and ankles, but also around her throat. Previously they’d also had a
strap around her waist, but her expanding belly had gone beyond the strap’s
capacity.

She waited to see if they’d pick up the phone, but they didn’t. Instead Adama
went around to the far door, tapped in the entry code, and opened it. Sharon
turned slightly to face them, but otherwise stayed right where she was and made
no sudden movement. Even if it had been possible for her to do so, she wouldn’t
have, because Adama had produced a sidearm and was aiming it directly at her
heart. No, not her heart—her belly.

Suddenly a terrible notion occurred to her, but she didn’t allow that to be
reflected in her voice, which remained flat and even. “If you’re here to execute
me,” she said, “I just want to tell you that I appreciate you handling it
yourself instead of dispatching a subordinate.”

“Sit down,” said Adama, the point of his gun never wavering.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because,” said Sharon, and she tilted her head toward Laura Roslin, “she’s
standing. It would be a breach of protocol.”

Roslin made a sound of disbelief, and then saw in Sharon’s steady gaze that
she was perfectly serious. “You have my permission to sit,” she said.

“Thank you.” Sharon did so. She gestured toward a chair that was some feet
away, out of the range of movement that Sharon’s short leash permitted her.
Laura’s gaze flickered from Sharon’s manacles to the chair and back to Sharon,
as if she were mentally judging the distance between Sharon and herself.
Answering Roslin’s unspoken question, Sharon said quietly, “It’s sufficient
distance for safety concerns.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Roslin replied, and her expression seemed confident
enough. Sharon suspected it was superb dissembling. Roslin sat in the chair,
smoothing the folds of her skirt.

Sharon’s gaze flickered back to Adama. “Are you going to keep that pointed on
me the entire time, Admiral?”

“Is that a problem?” The question sounded solicitous. The tone most
definitely was not.

She shrugged. “Not for me. But your arm’s going to get tired after a while.
And it could start to shake slightly from muscle tension. Which could result in
your accidentally shooting me. Unless that’s your intent all along, in which
case I suppose it’s all academic.”

“Your concern is appreciated,” said Adama.

“I’m sure it is,” replied Sharon, who was sure it wasn’t. She shifted her
attention to Roslin, who was watching her as if hoping that she, Sharon, would
keel over and die right then and there. “If you’re not here to kill me… are you here to say thank you?”

“Thank you?” Roslin echoed in mild confusion.

“You’re welcome.”

“I mean, why would I thank you?”

“Because I saved your life,” Sharon said evenly. “You’d be dead if it weren’t
for me.”

“If a doctor found a cure with the aid of a lab animal… would you thank the
animal?” Roslin said.

Sharon stared at her and then, very softly, chuckled deep in her chest. “I
appreciate you putting it that way… and letting me know where I stand.” She
could have asked what, then, Laura Roslin was doing there. Her mind raced, far
faster than a human mind could have. Just one of the perks that she possessed;
humans had no idea at all just how quickly she could think. It was obvious that
Adama was there to serve as guard to Laura Roslin. He was taking no chance that
Sharon might abruptly break her bonds and make a move on the president, try to
kill her where she sat. (Now Sharon was really relieved she hadn’t made the eye
beam comment.) The question, of course, was why was Adama doing that rather than
having a marine guard or guards on hand to serve the same function? Well, there
was only one answer to that, wasn’t there. Adama and Roslin wanted to discuss
something of a sensitive nature… a nature so sensitive that they didn’t even
want to chance marines standing there and hearing what was to be said.

It intrigued her to wonder what it might be.

She didn’t allow her expression to change or reflect the notions that were
running through her head. Instead she simply waited patiently, one hand in her
lap, the other resting gently on her stomach. She saw Laura Roslin notice her
hand’s placement. Inwardly, she smiled. Outwardly, she waited.

“Commander Adama,” she said, “has informed me that, whenever he has asked you
questions about anything, you’ve always answered them to the best of your
ability. I would appreciate it if you could provide me the same courtesy.”

“Of course,” she said neutrally.

“Very well.” She leaned forward, studying Sharon intently, looking like she
wanted to try and catch Valerii in a lie no matter what Adama might have said.
“I want to know if you’re doing it deliberately.”

Sharon stared at her and stared at her and then said, “In the name of my
people… in the name of the one God above all… I have absolutely no frakking
idea what you’re referring to.”

“The dreams.”

“The dreams,” Sharon repeated. “What dreams?”

“The dreams that aren’t letting me sleep. The dreams that are…” She
composed herself and said, “If you’re trying to get in my head, disrupt my life,
I’m here to tell you that it’s working. Congratulations. And I want you to stop
it or so help me I will ask Admiral Adama for his weapon and put a bullet in you
myself.”

“That’s your prerogative,” Sharon said, unfazed. “And I’ll die with no more
clue as to what you’re talking about than I have right now.”

“She doesn’t know.” It was Adama who had spoken. Laura Roslin looked up at
him and, although he still had no intention of lowering his gun, there was still
quiet conviction in his face. “She really doesn’t.”

“Would you bet your life on that? Or mine for that matter?” asked Laura.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation.

Laura considered that, and then nodded. “All right,” she said, apparently satisfied. “Which leads us to the next question of whether
this might be the baby’s doing.”

By this point, Sharon had a clear idea of what Laura Roslin was nattering
about. But a warning flashed through her consciousness. If she allowed her
deductions to color the things she said, it would make it appear as if she did,
in fact, have advance knowledge of what Roslin was talking to her about. Which
would mean she was “in on it” or some such. Sharon didn’t dare take that chance,
because she was still certain that Roslin was looking for an excuse—any
excuse—to stop her child from being born. She wasn’t about to hand it to her.
Continuing to keep her face as impassive as she possibly could, Sharon inquired,
“What is the ‘this’ to which you’re referring?”