03 - Sagittarius is Bleeding (37 page)

“Then why did you run?”

“Because you think I’m a Cylon!”

“How do you know that?”

“Because why else would you be here! You don’t like me! You never liked me!”

Starbuck looked taken aback by the ferocity of his accusations. Automatically
she said, “That’s not true.”

“You know it is! You know it’s true! I tell you something and Baltar tells
you something, and you believe him instead of me! Why?!”

“Because…” Starbuck started to reply, and then stopped. She and Helo looked
at each other.

Helo shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I just go where they tell me.”

“Look, Boxey,” she began again.

“Give me one good reason that I should listen to you!”

“Because,” she said patiently but firmly, “I’m bigger than you. I have a
couple of guys who are bigger than you, and they’re making sure you don’t go
anywhere. So now’s the time to come to terms with the fact that you’re going
back to
Galactica,
and yeah, you’re gonna be checked out, but that’s the
way it goes because I have my orders and there’s not a single frakking thing you
can do about it.”

As it happened, she could not have been more wrong.

She received her first inkling of her fundamental wrongness, however, the
moment that alarms started going off all over the ship.

They were practically deafening, so much so that Boxey had to put his hands
to his ears, and even the hardened marines were wincing.

“The two of you, stay here with him,” Kara snapped at them, “and Helo, you’re
with me,” and she bolted down the main corridor before any further conversation
could be had. Helo promptly took off after her, leaving the two bewildered marines staring at their captive and waiting for someone to tell them what
they were supposed to do.

Starbuck and Helo, meantime, were running as fast as they could. They passed
frightened Midguardians who were certain that the alarm bells could only mean
one thing: another Cylon attack. The same thing had occurred to Starbuck, and
she was desperately looking for a viewing port to get a sense of what was going
on outside.

“There!” shouted Helo, pointing ahead of them. “A viewing bay! Up there!”

She saw that he was right. A large round port window was set into the
bulkhead ahead of them, which would give them a decent—if not enhanced—view of
what was in front of them. Starbuck got to the port with Helo directly behind
her, looking over her shoulder.

Starbuck gulped deeply when she saw what was heading their way.

“You’ve gotta be frakkin’ kidding me,” she said, her mind numb.

In
Galactica
’s CIC, Tigh drifted over to Adama and muttered to him in
a low voice, “I’ll be right back.”

This alone was unusual: Adama wasn’t going to care if Tigh walked off CIC
unannounced. This wasn’t grade school. If nothing else, he would have assumed
Tigh was going to the head, and that hardly was worth a separate declaration.
The fact that Tigh was taking the time to say something to Adama about his
departure spoke volumes. Adama instantly knew that something was up. He met
Tigh’s gaze, but saw the look in his XO’s eyes, and all he said in response was,
“Okay.”

Tigh walked out of CIC like a man on a mission. When he returned a few
minutes later, he was carrying several sheets of paper and a small wandlike
device. Adama recognized it immediately for what it was, but he said nothing.
Tigh’s movement had caught Dualla’s eye and a couple of other officers’. Like
Adama, however, they simply watched in mute curiosity.

Gaeta looked up, bewildered, frowning. He stared uncomprehendingly as Tigh
held up a piece of paper that read, “Don’t say a word.” Slowly, still not
understanding but not about to do anything contrary to Tigh’s explicit
order—even if it was unspoken—Gaeta nodded.

He held up a second sign. It read, “Hold out your right hand.”

Gaeta did so, wondering obliquely if Tigh was about to slap it or something.

Instead Tigh extended the wand device. Naturally Gaeta recognized it as a bug
detector. On two previous occasions he had stepped back from his station as Tigh
had run the wand over the entire area to make certain there was no eavesdropping
device hidden anywhere. Tigh had even had every member of CIC stand with arms
extended to either side and run the wand up and down and around their bodies to
make sure their uniforms weren’t bugged. Everything had come up clean. This
time, though, Tigh ran it over the back of Gaeta’s hand, right where he had been
scratching. Tigh had turned the volume on the wand down to almost nothing, but
there was still a detector light on the handle, and the light instantly went
off.

Gaeta’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Everyone on CIC, their attention
completely engaged, also saw it, and their responses were similar. Adama’s jaw
simply twitched which, for him, was the equivalent of his eyes leaping out of
their sockets in astonishment.

“Mr. Gaeta,” Tigh said in a careful, measured, easy-to-hear voice, “verify
the current emergency Jump point.
Pegasus
is reporting some uncertainty.”
But as he spoke, he held up yet another sign, and it read: “Plot a new Jump
point and
keep your mouth shut as you’re doing it.”

Slowly Gaeta nodded and said, “Aye, sir.”

Tigh nodded in approval and then turned his gaze toward Adama in
unmistakeable triumph. He held up yet another sign. It read, “Not bad for an old
guy, huh.”

Not bad at all,
mouthed Adama.

Even as he made new calculations, Gaeta spoke clearly—perhaps
too
clearly, but there was nothing they could do about this sudden
self-consciousness—to the
Pegasus,
reverifying the Jump coordinates that
were no longer relevant. He did so speaking into a dead phone, because naturally
the
Pegasus
wasn’t going to know what the hell he was talking about if
he’d been speaking directly to them. But if someone was listening in via a
subcutaneous listening device in Gaeta’s hand—as Tigh obviously suspected was
the case—they weren’t going to know that.

And just as Adama was starting to think that perhaps maybe, just maybe, the
current crisis was nearly behind them, it all went straight to hell.

“Admiral!” Dualla suddenly called out. “The
Bifrost
!”

The ship had been up on a monitor, being watched carefully, ever since Adama
had sent Starbuck and Helo over there. Now he, Tigh, and everyone else looked up
to see what it was that Dualla was alerting them to.

“You gotta be frakking kidding me,” said Tigh.

And just when matters didn’t seem as if they could possibly get worse, space
exploded around them.

* * *

D’anna Biers was one of a dozen reporters crowded into the conference room on
Colonial One,
watching with great interest as Wolf Gunnerson entered.
Already seated at a large round conference table were the members of the Quorum
of Twelve, with President Roslin at the table’s head.

Biers looked over the faces of the Quorum members when Gunnerson came in.
They did not look to be an especially sympathetic bunch. Their expressions could
best be described as “hardened disinterest,” although several of them were
unable to contain their surprise at Gunnerson’s sheer mass. Even D’anna had to
admit that, damn, for a human, he was pretty impressive.

For more ceremonial gatherings the Quorum convened on
Cloud Nine,
but
this was a more “down and dirty” gathering, as Tom Zarek had referred to it. A
handful of reporters were being permitted to attend in the interest of full
disclosure; on the other hand, subsequent deliberations would likely be held in
closed-door sessions. It simply wasn’t
Cloud-Nine
appropriate, again as
Zarek had put it.

The meeting had already been chaired to order, and some preliminary business
had been attended to. Now there was nothing on the docket but to deal with the
matter of Wolf Gunnerson. Laura Roslin, as president, was charged with
overseeing the running of the meeting, and she did so now with her customary
brisk efficiency. D’anna ruminated on the fact that Roslin was a non-voting
member except in times of a tie vote, at which point she would cast the deciding
ballot. That meant that, should the Quorum split on the issue of the
Midguardians, then she, Laura Roslin, would be the one who held their fate in
her hands. And as far as D’anna was concerned, it was a toss-up as to which way
she would fall.

She smiled with the inner amusement of a scientist watching rats hustle through a maze, knowing that in the long run, it was all
fruitless because—in the end—they were still just rats, not destined to be long
for this world.

She glanced over toward Gunnerson. He did not look back.

“Madame President,” Tom Zarek was saying, rising, from his chair.

“We recognize Tom Zarek, representative of Sagittaron.”

He nodded slightly in acknowledgment of her recognition, fiddled with the
lower button of his jacket for a moment, and then said, “Mr. Gunnerson first
approached me about the issue of recognition for the Midguardians, so naturally
I feel some responsibility in this matter. Consider this my personal request,”
and he gave a smile that looked forced, “that the recent unpleasantness
regarding the misunderstanding of the stolen religious relic… not color the
feelings of this Quorum in considering the request of his people.”

“It is difficult to ignore it, Councilman,” Robin Wenutu of Canceron replied.
“It’s a hell of a first impression to make.”

“I can understand your trepidation,” Zarek said. “Because, to be candid, it
wasn’t all that long ago that I had to face down the looks of distrust on all of
you.”

“Councilman Zarek,” said Eladio Puasha of Scorpia. “I don’t think that’s a
fair assessment of our earliest experiences…”

“I think it’s a perfectly fair assessment,” Zarek told her with a fixed
expression. “One moment I’m a terrorist; the next I’m a coworker.”

“You underestimate our ability to adapt, Tom,” replied Puasha. “If there’s
one thing we’ve become accustomed to in months past… it’s a constantly
fluctuating status quo.”

This drew nods of rueful disagreement, and surprisingly, Zarek’s smile turned
genuine. “Fair enough, Eladio.” Then he grew serious once more. “I suppose all I’m saying is that, from my point of
view—I fully understand the situation that would have driven Wolf Gunnerson to
do what he did. And if Council-woman Puasha’s attitude is truly reflective of
the rest of you… then I assume I can count on all of you to give him the
fair hearing that he deserves.” Zarek paused a moment for what he had said to
sink in, and then sat back down in his chair.

During the entire exchange, Wolf Gunnerson had never taken a seat, even
though there was an available one near him. Laura Roslin gestured for him to
take it, and he calmly shook his head. “I think it more respectful to remain on
my feet,” he said.

“Very well,” said Laura. “Then, Mr. Gunnerson, you have the fl—”

She stopped. Stopped and stared, and looked ashen, and she seemed to be
whispering something. D’anna looked carefully, and Laura was apparently saying,
“Not now… not now…”

Sarah, who was seated at the president’s right hand, leaned forward, looking
concerned. “Madame President…?” she said cautiously.

“Headache… just…” Her voice sounded strangled. She looked as if she were
having some sort of attack, and was fighting it off with Herculean effort that
was only partly succeeding.

“Madame President?” asked Sarah again. And then, with the sort of intuition
that only someone who sought religious meaning in every aspect of life could
display, Sarah said with greater urgency, “Are you… are you having some sort
of vision?”

D’anna leaned forward as well, eyebrow cocked. This was suddenly getting very
interesting. She just hoped that it wouldn’t take too long to play out, since
time was not something the humans had in abundance.

* * *

She couldn’t believe how smoothly everything was going. Here was Zarek, whose
very presence continued to make her feel cold inside (and that had nothing to do
with the fact that he was going to be her likeliest competition for the
presidency; gods help the colonies if that happened), actually interacting like
a grown-up with the other members of the Quorum. Gunnerson was patiently waiting
for his moment to speak. When that moment came, Roslin started to tell him that
he had the floor…

And Sharon Valerii was there.

She was everywhere.

No longer was she standing at one point in the room, drawing Laura’s
attention. Instead every member of the Quorum of Twelve had disappeared, and in
their respective places was an identical Sharon Valerii. Each one pregnant, each
one with an expression of dispassionate placidity. Each one looking directly at
her. They were shaking their heads sadly, and they genuinely looked apologetic.

Laura knew she had to be dreaming. She absolutely had to be. But she felt
awake, and this was going beyond the simple hallucinations that she’d
experienced earlier. This was borderline dementia, and it was the tipping point.
She couldn’t take it anymore. To hell with the rest of the human race, to hell
with her responsibilities. Laura Roslin was as much a fighter as any human being
left alive, but it was ultimately too much, just… just too much. If Sharon
Valerii’s unborn child had somehow insinuated itself into her mind, then…
then…

Yes, that was it. That was the problem. All right, fine. I’ll show that
unborn saboteur who’s boss. And I wouldn’t leave it to Doc Cottle to do it,
because who knows, he might be a Cylon as well. I’ll just… I’ll just go over
there myself and cut the child out with a knife, or… or put a bullet in
Shawn’s brain, that’s it, that’s all, just done with it, just…

Sharon Valerii was speaking to her. The voice didn’t emerge from her mouth but instead went directly into Roslin’s mind, and what it said
was,
Now. Now. It’s about to happen now. Do something. Save us. Save us
all…