03 - Sagittarius is Bleeding (31 page)

“Really.” Freya looked as if she were feigning interest and not doing a good
job of it. “Should that be of particular importance to me?”

“Considering it’s going to have a very direct impact on your own liberty, I’d
think it should.”

Freya laughed at that. Her laughter did not sit well with Adama, who
refrained from ordering the marines to shoot her in the leg in order to get her
full attention. But resisting the temptation was no easy chore. “My liberty?”
asked Freya when she’d sufficiently recovered herself. “Two of your soldiers got
themselves into some trouble on my father’s ship. How does that have anything to
do with my liberty?”

“They’re being held there on some trumped-up charges. Suspicion of stealing a
holy book of yours.”

“The Edda?” The amusement vanished from Freya’s face, although Adama was sure
it might be nothing more than a superb acting job. “They took the Edda?”

“They are suspected of doing so… except my own suspicion is that your
father knows perfectly well they didn’t. He’s doing this to force the issue of
your people, the Midguardians, becoming members of the Quorum.”

She shrugged. “That’s possible. I certainly wouldn’t rule it out. He tends to
come up with unorthodox solutions to achieve his goals. I still don’t see what
any of this has to do with me. Certainly you’re not intending to keep me
prisoner as some sort of retaliatory step.”

“That is exactly my intention.”

She laughed again, but this time it had a much more skeptical, even scolding
tone to it. She addressed him as if the matter were already resolved and she was
trying to guide him to the solution in the same way that a parent would ease a
child over the span of a brook lest they wet their feet. Adama’s face didn’t so
much as twitch. “Admiral,” she said when she’d composed herself, “Perhaps you
think that your feckless imprisonment of Lieutenant Valerii gives you the right
to lock up anyone and everyone you want. Hell, you tossed the president of the Colonies into jail
as part of a military coup. Some people believed that, since your…
unfortunate incident…”

“My assassination attempt by someone who looked just like your client, you
mean.”

“Yes,” she said dismissively as if the specifics were of no importance. “As I
was saying, some believed that you had changed in your attitudes and outlook
since then. It appears now that you’re… what’s the best way to put this…?”

“Not frakking around.” There was no trace of humor in his voice, no flicker
of pity in his eyes. The absence of both finally got through to Freya Gunnerson,
and she began to realize her extreme vulnerability.

However, she was almost as skilled as Adama in presenting an air of
conviction and certainty. “I was going to say ‘regressing’. You don’t seriously
think you can hold me here?”

“Unless you’re packing enough weaponry to shoot your way out, I seriously
think exactly that. Your father has my people. I have you. I’m thinking you
might be something I can trade.”

She squared her shoulders and faced him, not backing down in the slightest.
“I am not a commodity. However you may choose to view Sharon Valerii, Admiral…
I am human. I have committed no crime. I am not responsible for the actions my
father has taken. I knew nothing about the theft of the Edda until I heard it
from you just now. You have no grounds whatsoever upon which to hold me.”

“Arrest you,” he growled.

“The smartest thing you can do—frankly, the only thing you can do—is stand
aside so that I can return to my vessel. If you wish, I assure you that I will
talk to my father and convince him to release your people as soon as they turn
over the Edda. Considering our tribal law prescribes murder as the punishment for theft of
the book, I think that’s rather generous on my part. This offer has a limited
shelf-life, Admiral. I suggest you take me up on it.”

Suddenly Adama was distracted by a loud thumping from the cell. He glanced
over at Sharon. She was now holding the phone inside to her ear and was
gesturing for Adama to pick it up.

His first instinct was to ignore her. To just let the phone sit there in the
cradle where Freya had left it. But Adama had gradually come to the realization
that his first instinct was frequently unreliable when it came to Sharon
Valerii. Without looking back at Freya, he strode over and picked up the phone.

Her voice came through low and conspiratorial. There was demand in her tone,
but it was laced with pleading. “Take her outside. I want to talk to just you.”

He was tempted to ask why, but saw no reason to hurry it. He turned to the
marines and said, “Escort Miss Gunnerson outside and wait there for further
orders.”

“Admiral,” said Freya angrily, “she’s my client.”

“And this is my ship,” he reminded her grimly. “I win.” He nodded
confirmation of the order he’d just given, and the two marines removed Freya
from the room. They kept their weapons in plain sight, but it wasn’t as if she
offered huge amounts of resistance as she was ushered out. As combative as she
was, Freya knew better than to try and have it out with two heavily armed
marines.

The moment they were alone, Sharon said briskly, “She was lying. She knows
something.”

The flat assertion caught Adama by surprise, although naturally there was
nothing in his expression that would have confirmed that. “You were able to hear
us?”

“I can lip read.”

This admission startled Adama. Even more startling was that he’d never
thought of that before. “All right,” was all he said.

“So I wanted you to know… she was lying.” She hesitated and for a moment
even looked slightly confused. “I just… I wanted you to know that. I thought
it might help you.” Then, as if rallying from self-doubts, she said more
forcefully, “Because that’s what I do here. I help you. That’s
all
I do,”
she added pointedly… a point that did not elude Adama.

“How do you know she was lying?”

“Because I can tell.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Maybe,” she allowed, “but it’s the best one you’re going to get. I can tell.
We
can tell. There’s certain ways to determine when a hu—” She caught
herself and amended, “when someone… lies. We’re trained to see them, spot
them. Take advantage of them.”

“Trained?”

“Maybe that’s the wrong word. It’s… hardwired into us. One of the tools of
our trade, so to speak.”

“And I’m supposed to believe you?”

She smiled thinly. “You’re not ‘supposed’ to do anything, Admiral. You can do
whatever you want. I’m just telling you what I know.”

“In order to help.”

“That’s right.”

He considered that for a brief time. Then he said, “Let’s say… for the
sake of argument… that I believe you. What do you suggest I do with this
information?”

Sharon shrugged. “I don’t know. Get the truth from her, I suppose.”

This time the pause from Adama was far longer, his eyes studying her with calculated coldness. Two of his people were in trouble, and
the reason they were in trouble was because he had sent them into the situation
in the first place. So it was bad enough that he was dealing with the sense of
personal responsibility over having thrust them into harm’s way. He didn’t feel
guilty over it; putting soldiers of his, even beloved ones—hell, especially
beloved ones—into jeopardy was simply another day at the office for him. He
wasn’t second-guessing his decision. Given the same circumstances, he’d do the
exact same thing again. Nevertheless, his sense of personal involvement was even
sharper since difficulties had arisen from a specific mission upon which he had
dispatched two of his people, as opposed to ordering pilots into the air to
defend against an unexpected Cylon assault.

He had no hesitation, none, about sending in armed troops to get them back.
After all, he had been willing to throw his pilots against the
Pegasus
in
order to retrieve Helo and Chief Tyrol when Admiral Cain had been ready to have
them executed. But if there were ways in which to resolve the situation that
didn’t risk yet another incident that the press could transform into
Galactica
-against-the-fleet, he was more than willing to pursue them.

Adama was starting to think that Sharon Valerii was hinting she might serve
as that means of resolution.

“Are you suggesting,” he asked slowly, “that you would be capable of getting
that truth from her?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t suggesting that, no.”

“I see.”

The seconds of silence stretched out.

And finally, Sharon said, “But if I were… what’s in it for me?”

At that moment, things that Tigh had said to him came back to him. How it was that, despite everything that had happened, Adama still
looked at Sharon Valerii and saw Boomer, the eager, ready-to-please young
recruit and pilot whom Adama and Tigh couldn’t help but have a fatherly
enjoyment of and tolerance for. When she’d become inappropriately involved with
Chief Tyrol, the bulk of their anger about such a relationship had been focused
on Tyrol rather than Valerii, even though they were both equally responsible.

As insane as it sounded, despite the fact that his chest had been ripped open
by several shots delivered at point-blank range by a creature who was identical
to this one… a creature now dead, and yet here she was hale and hearty and
pregnant, of all things… despite the fact that he knew in his heart of hearts
that she was nothing more than a machine, an automaton, a damned frakking
toaster… despite all of that, he still couldn’t help but feel as if she were
still good ol’ Boomer, the utterly human Sharon Valerii.

But the individual who had just asked the question, “What’s in it for me?”
was not Sharon Valerii, nor was she Boomer. Right there, right then, was the
calculation and coldness of a Cylon agent: detached, unemotional, deliberating
as to what would be required in order to complete a mission that would
potentially bring misfortune to a human being… misfortune that didn’t
bother Sharon in the least, because she wasn’t remotely human.

He should have turned away. He should have been repulsed and revolted over
the slightest notion of embarking on any endeavor in league with this…
thing.

But he didn’t. Because instead of simply surrendering to the notion that this
was indeed some unemotional, calculating inhuman machine which feigned every
emotion in service of its greater goal of sabotage, Adama decided to say
something just to see how she would react.

“One of the people taken prisoner on the
Bifrost
is Starbuck.” He hesitated for a carefully timed moment and then said, “The other is
Helo.”

And there it was.

The coldness of the Cylon that she was at the moment instantly dissolved into
the Sharon Valerii that she once had been… back before Adama knew her to be
anything other than Sharon Valerii. Telling her that Starbuck was in trouble
gained her interest. Telling her that the father of her child was endangered
engaged her heart.

So apparently… she had one.

Her face paled, her eyes widened, and he saw a sharp little intake of breath.
Quickly she tried to cover it, but he’d seen it. More than that: She knew he’d
seen it.

“Does that change things at all?” he asked, knowing the answer before he
asked it.

“It… provides some incentive.” She considered the situation carefully,
obviously turning over all its aspects in her mind, and then said, “Are you
interested in a deal?”

“I don’t bargain with Cylons,” he replied. Then, before she could say
anything, he added, “But if I did… hypothetically… what sort of terms
are we talking about?”

Sharon Valerii had had a lousy night’s sleep.

She had been dreaming of Laura Roslin… and she didn’t know why.

She had seen herself lying flat on her back, tied down to a bed in sickbay.
Her stomach had been flat and taut, not at all the swelling lump it was now. She
had struggled to free her hands and feet, but they were too well secured. She
had tried shouting at the top of her lungs, but even though her mouth was wide
open and she was trying to scream, nothing was emerging from her throat.

And then Laura Roslin had walked in, and Sharon had gaped at her in complete
shock. Roslin’s belly was swelled with pregnancy, as far along as Sharon’s own.
More than that: She knew without the slightest doubt that it was hers—Sharon’s—
child within Laura Roslin’s body. She had no idea how it could possibly be that
she was no longer the mother of her own child, and yet that was what had
happened.

Laura had stood there, smiling, affectionately rubbing the child that she had
taken from Sharon, and she cooed, “Mine now. All mine. Alllllll mine.”

Give it back! Give me back my baby!
Sharon’s voice had echoed in her own
mind. She felt as if she were moving in slow motion, trying to swim through
heavy, viscous liquid, and Laura Roslin turned and waddled away, singing some
annoying human lullaby.

Sharon had woken up at that point, her clothes soaked in cold sweat, gasping
for air. A guard had charged in in response to her outcry, but he wasn’t
remotely concerned about her well-being. Instead it was abundantly clear that he
was wary of some sort of trick on her part. “What’s wrong?” he had demanded, the
business end of his rifle aimed—not directly at her—but certainly in her general
direction.

She had gasped out, “Nothing. Bad dream. It… was nothing,” and he’d glared
at her for a time and then turned and walked out.

As silly as it sounded, she’d actually jostled her stomach to make sure the
baby was still there. Despite the obvious distention of her belly, she wasn’t
taken anything for granted. That’s how disturbing and confusing the dream had
been. So she had shaken her stomach repeatedly until the baby—who’d presumably
been asleep—offered a kick in protest. It was at that point that she gave a
relieved sigh and settled back in her bunk.