03 - Sagittarius is Bleeding (26 page)

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.”

“Has there been any change in her behavior?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“Has she been speaking to you about any difficulties?”

“I couldn’t say.”

Slowly Baltar nodded, easily reading between the lines of Adama’s vague
response. “Couldn’t say… or choose not to?”

Adama inclined his head slightly, acknowledging that the latter was a
distinct possibility. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. If, in your further
research, specific aspects of side effects occur to you, you will share them
with me, won’t you.”

“Of course. And you would share any share specifics of negative changes in
President Roslin’s condition, should any of them present themselves to you?”

“You may expect me to, yes.”

Baltar smiled in a way that didn’t give the least appearance of amusement.
“Very carefully worded. I suppose I may also expect Cylons to come flying out of
my ass. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.”

“Vice President Baltar,” said Adama, “in your case… I wouldn’t rule out a
single possibility.” With that he headed out the door.

His exit, although naturally he didn’t hear it, was accompanied by delighted
laughter from Number Six. Baltar gave her a sour look as she continued to laugh
and then applauded slowly and sarcastically. “Now there goes a funny, funny
man,” she said.

“He’s the height of hilarity.” He looked at her suspiciously. “What was he
talking about? What ‘side effects’?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Six, the picture of wide-eyed innocence.

“Why don’t I believe that?”

“Because, Gaius,” she replied, “you see the world as a vast web of lies and
deceit. You believe in nothing and no one.”

“I believe in myself.”

“You believe in yourself least of all,” said Six with a giggle that sounded
surprisingly girlish. “You second-guess yourself constantly and you live in
perpetual fear that you’re going to be found out. In so many ways, you wish you
were like her.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean,” she said, striding across the room on those legs that seemed to go
on forever, “that Laura Roslin was on the brink of death and she still never
showed one iota of fear. You envy her for that, because you jump at sounds and
shadows. You envy her her fearlessness. You saw her cancer as a chink in her
armor, and yet even staring oblivion in the face, she was unafraid. You could
never look death in the face and remain un-fazed.”

He stepped close to her, stared directly into her eyes, and said tightly, “Oh
really? I’m doing it right now.”

Then he turned his back to her and strode out of his lab, leaving her behind
to watch him go with her face a mask of thought.

What the frak did I do now?

Naturally that had been the first thing that had gone through Starbuck’s mind
when Tigh had approached her with a determined look on his face. Then the
perpetually sour executive officer had told her, as bluntly as he could, that
Adama wanted to see her in his quarters. Her initial sense of relief
(Oh,
good, Tigh hasn’t found some new excuse to toss me in the brig)
was
immediately replaced by a sense of vague dread
(What did I do to piss off the
Old Man?).

She knew it was ridiculous for her to feel that way. It wasn’t as if she had
a perpetually guilty conscience. Still, she couldn’t help but occasionally feel
a bit besieged, and although she was reasonably sure she hadn’t done anything
out of line lately, well… there was always the stuff she’d done in the past
that she’d never been caught out for. So… well, yes, maybe she
did
have a perpetually guilty conscience at that, always wondering when one of her
idiot pranks was going to catch up with her.

Or, for that matter, it might be something of more recent vintage…
literally. She’d been hitting the booze fairly hard lately, and had been hung
over well into duty hours. Thank gods it hadn’t happened during a toaster
attack. She had never been at anything less than her best when it had counted,
but even Kara had to admit that that was as much luck as anything else. There
was always the possibility that she might be forced to leap into a cockpit with
her head ringing and her vision impaired. She liked to tell herself that if such
a situation presented itself, she would automatically regain full sobriety and
be ready to launch an attack at a moment’s notice. But she didn’t know how much
of that was genuine and how much might just be wishful thinking.

She didn’t want to think that anyone in her squad would have ratted her out,
but she knew that was overly optimistic. It was entirely possible that someone
had indeed done just that, and if she was going to be pointing fingers at
anyone, it would probably be Kat. Kat had had it in for her for the longest
time, and if presented with an opportunity to make Starbuck look bad, well,
wouldn’t she grab it immediately?