CHAPTER 11

IN THE WELL OF THE SOUL

"This had better be good," Cavil growled. "You've disturbed a delicate experiment right at the point where it was starting to get interesting."

"Well, sorry to ruin your day, brother, but something's come up, and we need to talk about it sooner rather than later." In truth, John Cavil wasn't sorry at all, but this copy was notoriously temperamental, and there was nothing to be gained by alienating him unnecessarily.

"Besides, your Eight will keep," a third Cavil added. He didn't object to his brother's single-minded pursuit of all things pornographic, but there was a war on, and it did occasionally require their collective attention.

"All right … fine … what's gone wrong this time?" Cavil knew that Cavil never called a meeting to report good news. These little sessions were reserved exclusively for surprises and screw-ups.

"Some surprising information has come to light." John drummed his fingers lightly on the tabletop. "One of our scouting parties stumbled upon a lone colonial ship in a system two hundred and sixty light years coreward of the nebula we've been skirting. At least, we think it's colonial. The configuration is unknown, but there was a lot of interference, and the Raiders were unable to obtain a clean silhouette. We have to make allowances."

"But it wasn't Galactica, or one of the baseships?"

"No … that much we're sure of …"

"And the hybrid is non-responsive," another Cavil said as he breezed in and took a seat. "Sorry to be late," he apologized, "but I wanted to be sure." This Cavil was always late and invariably apologetic—although his apologies just as invariably reeked of insincerity.

"If there's another hybrid in the neighborhood," he explained, "ours hasn't detected it. The stream is awash with the usual data points, but there's nothing exciting in the mix."

"This makes no sense," John frowned. "The Raiders tell us that the system in question has heavy metals in abundance, so it's understandable that Adama would pause there to conduct mining operations, but why would he leave a civilian ship without a military escort? He's never done this before."

"It must be a trap," still another Cavil commented.

"Well, it's not very well set," the pornographically inclined Cavil dyspeptically remarked. He was anxious to get back to his pet Eight. Her erotic talents had repeatedly taken him to places where no One had ever gone before.

"What bothers me is the hybrid," he added. "The damned machine has an orgasm every time her precious brother comes sniffing around her imaginary crotch … and he's halfway across the galaxy. If there's another baseship a lousy couple of hundred light years away, shouldn't we know about it?"

"Amen to that, brother. And that brings us to the second item on the agenda. There's been an incident in NCD 382."

"Oh, frak."

"You took the words right out of my mouth. Natalie's been a very naughty girl. She nuked the entire facility … turned the whole place into so much radioactive glass. I think we should seriously consider the possibility that she has a much larger force at her disposal than we have previously estimated. This would explain why we've heard nary a peep out of the hybrid."

"But … Natalie doesn't know about the warehouse. Surely, this is just a really ugly coincidence."

"Does it matter? If the Sixes and Eights have stumbled across the Delos, they are going to be well and truly pissed. Even the Threes might get upset."

"So we have to come to a decision," John summarized. "Do we ignore Natalie and concentrate on pursuing Adama? Alternatively, do we abandon the chase in order to eliminate the threat that the Six poses in our rear? Or do we continue to divide our forces and go after them both simultaneously, although we know nothing of their true strength?"

"What a mess," Cavil bitterly concluded. "I'd like to strangle Caprica Six and all of her do-gooder friends. 'The slaughter of humanity was a mistake', he sneered. 'We have an obligation to bring the word of God to the humans'. Frakking Sixes."

"Delusional machines," another Cavil scoffed; "what's the universe gonna come up with next?"

"You said it, brother—but all of this moaning and groaning is getting us exactly nowhere." John wanted to get back to the business at hand. "Our communications are tied up in knots, and our lines of supply are badly overextended. We have eleven baseships in play, but we appear to be sandwiched in between two enemy forces that are operating more than two thousand light years apart. Our tactical situation is not optimal."

"There's really nothing to discuss," the Cavil who was always the last to arrive sniffed. "At least, I assume that none of us have decided to spice up our lives by courting permanent death. The fact that we only have one resurrection ship on hand dictates our strategy for us."

"Two," Cavil demurred; "you're forgetting the Hub."

"What? You want to bring the Hub onto the battlefield?" Cavil made a herculean effort to calm down. "Brother, you need to run a diagnostic. That kind of thinking could get you boxed."

"And just how safe do you think it is now? The Six knows it's out there, and you'd better believe that the Abomination can find it. The Hub … the Colony … the hybrids are the central nervous system of the entire collective, and Bierns can hack the whole grid. We need to ramp up our defenses, but we don't have the resources to protect the servers and fight a two-front war. We have to reconfigure our assets so that we can protect them and fight at the same time."

"So what is it that you're proposing? Do you want to split the fleet, and assign one resurrection vessel to each element?"

"Does anybody have a better plan?" John looked around the gathering. "I'll take five of the older baseships, as well as the Hub, and I'll go after Galactica. You take the rest of the fleet, including the resurrection ship and the three new hulls. Put the Six out of her misery—and don't worry about the Hub. The hybrids will keep it near the outer limit of its operational range. Adama will never find it."

"What about the Abomination?"

"Take D'Anna and Mara along for the ride." In the soft light, John Cavil's eyes were on fire. "The Six is right … we have to blackmail the bastard."

"That reminds me," one of the others asked, "where is Six? She's become a fixture at these little strategy sessions of ours."

"Enjoying the fruits of her labor," Cavil mocked. He had been personally coaching the sadistic blond in the erotic arts, and in turn the Six had been tutoring Mara Andreotis—tutoring her the hard way.

"Mara's mouth is shaping up nicely," he amplified, "but if any of you still detect flaws in her technique, just mention them to Six. When it comes to correcting mistakes, she really knows how to apply herself."

The Cavils looked at one another with smug satisfaction. The Ones loathed the proud and arrogant blonds, and as the first Six to turn against the plan, Mara Andreotis had richly earned the endless humiliations that she was now being forced to suffer. One day, perhaps, Natalie and Caprica would share her fate.

. . .

"This operation was costly … far too costly."

Natalie studied the Cylons and humans sitting around the conference table closely. She knew how to read her brothers and sisters, and she thought that she was getting better at interpreting human body language, but she was not at all sure how this meeting was going to go. For a brief moment, she wondered if the centurions, with their sophisticated electronic packages, had a better sense of the mood in the room than she did.

"Until now, our casualties have been few in number, and restricted to novice pilots who were making beginner's mistakes. But yesterday, Captain Katraine lost one-third of her Raptor force in a matter of seconds. Four veteran pilots are gone forever, and a fifth may never fly again. If the Eights have their way, Mr. Dalton most certainly will never fly again."

Natalie paused, once again trying to take the measure of her audience. The Cylons were composed. Still and quiet, they were obviously waiting for her argument to run its inevitable course. But the humans were shuffling uncomfortably in their chairs, and she could tell from the way they were glancing at one another that they were silently trying to figure out which of their number would take the lead in opposing her.

So, my brothers and sisters agree that we cannot allow the humans to go on running unnecessary risks. Their numbers are too few, and we cannot afford to lose their contributions to the gene pool. But the humans want to fight, regardless of the cost. Their thirst for vengeance may never be slaked. They refuse to understand that they are playing right into Cavil's hands …

"I believe that it is time for us to reconsider our tactics. We should assign the Raiders a greater role in aerial combat, and fill the gaps with Cylon pilots. For the time being at least, the Raiders lack the specialized skills that people like Angela Eight bring to the table."

"With all due respect, Commander …"

Natalie smiled inwardly. Rumor had it that Kevin Riley had faced down Kendra Shaw, forcing her at gunpoint to order the evacuation of Pegasus. Natalie was not surprised, therefore, that the young officer would take the lead in this meeting. She had asked the admiral to appoint Riley as Cynthia's XO in the hope that, in these strategy sessions, he would balance her own tendency to act first and think later. Leoben had lectured her more than once on the subject of impulsiveness, which she readily conceded to be a character flaw of the Six subset in operational command of the baseships.

"None of us signed up for the privilege of sitting on our asses. We came out here to do a job, and that's to take it to the bastards who murdered our people and destroyed our civilization. If the Raiders want a piece of the action … well, fine … but not at our expense."

"Besides," Kat cut in, "having machines do our fighting for us … isn't that how we got into this mess in the first place? Uh-uh … we're not gonna make that mistake twice. This time, we fight together. We've just got to get better, that's all … better training, better tactical analysis … we've got to do everything better."

"Kat, we appreciate your thirst for revenge," Simon gently countered, "but it does not serve our purpose well. The Raiders we lost in this battle have all downloaded, but your Raptor pilots are dead. Their knowledge, their potential … the children they might one day have given us …"

"My brother regrets the loss of Lieutenant Daniels," the Six who commanded Kat's baseship volunteered. "He was quite fond of Carousel."

A shocked look swept across Kat's face. "I'm … I'm sorry," she stuttered; "I didn't know."

"It doesn't matter," Simon said with his usual deadpan expression. "My sister is correct. The Ones would like nothing more than a long, drawn-out war with steadily mounting human casualties. Your species will be rendered extinct, but your pain and suffering will accord with their sense of justice. They win if you do not survive."

"So, what are we supposed to do," Riley heatedly countered. "Live out the rest of our lives in padded rooms, doling out our sperm on a daily basis so that you can have more of your precious hybrid babies?"

"Kevin, that's enough!" Louis Hoshi was the senior human officer present, and he wanted to nip this particular discussion in the bud. The question of cylon intent had caused bitter divisions to erupt within the ranks of the former Pegasus crew. Riley was one of the many who worshipped at Cain's altar, and the late admiral had been firmly convinced that the rebel Cylons regarded humanity as little more than breeding stock. None of this sat well with the eighty odd crewmen who had so far built relationships with Eights. There had been no repeat of the mess hall brawl that several months earlier had pitted Peter Kelso against Ray Wang, but Hoshi wasn't about to kid himself. There was plenty of bad blood brewing between the two factions. Kelso had once been Riley's best friend, but now that Peter was living with one of the Sharons and talking openly about trying to start a family, the two officers were barely on speaking terms. Tensions were running high on all three baseships, and Hoshi was desperate to find some way to defuse the situation.

"No, Colonel," Natalie interjected. "Let Mr. Riley speak. It is better to clear the air than to allow resentments to fester."

"We're at war," Kevin growled; "and in a war, people die. The only thing wrong with this campaign is that Galactica's pilots are out there taking their shots, while our people have been largely relegated to support roles. We could put four full Viper squadrons in the air, and there wouldn't be a single nugget in the cockpit. It should tell you something that the one squadron we've deployed hasn't taken a single casualty. And as for the Raptors … hell, I don't even want to go there."

"By 'we' and 'our people'," Margaret sighed … "I suppose that you mean the Pegasus."

"Exactly," Riley acknowledged. "Let's face facts. Our pilots can fly circles around yours. It's simply a question of greater combat experience. The Four's right." Kevin nodded in Simon's direction. "We're losing people that we don't have to lose … nuggets who have no business being in the cockpit in the first place."

"May I ask," Gaeta inquired in a studiously bland tone, "how many of your pilots have volunteered to train on Heavy Raiders? How many are willing to share the cockpit with a Six or an Eight?"

Riley gave Felix a dirty look. "Less than a dozen," he grudgingly admitted.

"And how many hours have your people spent training for joint operations with Raiders under Sonja Six's less than tender tutelage?" Kat favored Kevin Riley with a dirty look of her own. "I mean, Sonja's a first class bitch …"

"Amen to that," Racetrack muttered under her breath.

"But she taught us to take our egos out of the equation. We don't keep track of our kills, and we sure as hell don't paint them on the sides of our birds. We're not in this for the glory, and we lost our taste for vengeance when we realized that the centurions and the Raiders on the other side are all slaves. We fight as a team, so if you want to get into the arena, the first thing you've got to do is join the team. 'Less than a dozen' just doesn't cut it."

"Perhaps Admiral Adama didn't make it clear to you," Natalie added in her usual blunt fashion, "but you're on probation out here. Too many of your people openly idolize an officer who was little more than a pirate—and such flawed judgment does not inspire confidence. You want to engage in all-out war in order to avenge our attack on your home worlds—hence your refusal to come to terms with the fact that this is a precise surgical operation with very limited objectives. Most importantly, however, you have shown nothing but contempt for those among your friends who are cohabiting with Cylons. Frankly, Mr. Riley, we hesitate to assign you a larger role in this struggle because we're not sure whether you can tell your friends from your enemies."

"So," the former Pegasus officer summarized, "all we have to do to get back into this war is roll over on our backs and let the Sixes and Eights scratch our tummies. If that's the price we have to pay …"

"In the aftermath of our victory, we opened dozens of breeding farms on Caprica and Picon," Cynthia said in disgust. She had been in the courtroom when Polyxena testified, and the young human's warring emotions had shamed her to the core. "Mercifully, very little came of it."

"Kevin, there is no quid pro quo here." The Six had paused to gather her thoughts, but now she was looking at her XO, silently pleading for his understanding. "This is not about sexual blackmail. We are simply asking you to get your own house in order. The division within your ranks is a problem that has to be addressed; once it is behind us, we can reevaluate your contribution to the war effort."

"Now, let's get back to the problem at hand," Natalie urged. "How can we reduce our losses … and what are we going to do about the Delos?" In unison, the half dozen Cylons at the table turned expectantly to John Bierns. Their child had yet to say a word, but he rarely spoke at these gatherings, and they had gradually become more comfortable with his silences. He was, after all, a seasoned professional spy—and the cloak and dagger crowd were not famous for their conversation.

"We don't do anything," Bierns softly answered. "The Delos and Diana form up on the resurrection ship, and they travel in convoy with us. L-7 and L-8 remain sealed for the duration. When we return to New Caprica, we honor our people with a public funeral, and we give them a proper burial. Everyone deserves that much."

The Cylons glanced around the table, seeking an unspoken consensus. A bare nodding of heads sufficed.

"We agree," Boomer concluded. She was also speaking up for the first time. "Even Cylons need closure." She carefully avoided looking in Cynthia's direction. Before the war, the Sixes on the baseships had all been unquestionably loyal, but Cynthia's hatred of humanity and all that it stood for had bordered on fanaticism. Her subsequent fall from grace had been swift and dramatic—and there had been no soft landing.

"What about our casualties," Boomer prompted. "Do you have any suggestions?"

Bierns pursed his lips, and quietly shook his head. He had a faraway look in his eyes, and Sharon suddenly realized that his attention was … elsewhere.

"I agree with everything that's been said," the First Born enigmatically remarked. "Beyond that, I have nothing to add."

. . .

"Admiral, are you sure that you've done this before?" The smile on Polyxena's face was dazzling.

"It's been a while," Adama conceded. His expression gave nothing away.

"Well, this goes here … and that goes there … like so. But the trick is not to use your daughter as a pin cushion!"

"Xena's right, Bill … and you're starting to worry me." Shelly looked reproachfully at her husband. "Lee has always said that you were a terrible father, but I've never taken him seriously. I concluded that he was parroting his mother, and her opinion doesn't count. But if you can't change a diaper without drawing blood, what else can't you do?"

Under Polyxena's watchful eye, the two Adamas were practicing basic baby care on a pair of life-size dolls that Layne Ishay had sent up from the surface. At the advanced age of seventeen, and with nine years of babysitting experience behind her, the raven haired beauty had already come to the conclusion that both Adamas were going to need her help for the foreseeable future. The admiral was all thumbs, and while Shelly's copy of Dr. Stork's Guide to Infant and Child Care was well creased, Polyxena was acutely aware of just how much the book left out. No pediatrician had ever written a guide with cylon mothers in mind.

So, let's be honest here … this is a disaster in the making. There's nothing in the stream about looking after babies, and that's where Sixes go to learn whatever they need to know. Leaving Callista alone with her mother would amount to reckless endangerment. I wonder how Lee and Creusa are getting ready … and who's helping D'Anna look after little Samuel when Doc Cottle isn't around? There's just no way that a Three could be a fit mother. There's more warmth in an ice cube …

"A little blood is one thing," Bill shot back, "but plopping a baby into her bath and splashing water in her face takes us where not even the Adama male has gone before!"

"Shelly, the admiral has a point," Polyxena giggled. "You had better let me give Callista her first bath, or your daughter may end up with hydrophobia!"

Shelly's face went momentarily blank while she processed the term, which she had never encountered before. Her onboard dictionary offered up a number of contrasting definitions, but she quickly discounted the references to rabies.

We must be talking about an abnormal fear of water.

"All right," Shelly sighed, "tell me what I did wrong."

"Polyxena, give her the abridged version," Adama maliciously urged. "I have to be in the CIC in less than an hour."

Shelly gave her husband a dirty look, but held her tongue. She turned expectantly to her adopted daughter.

"Well, you did put a towel at the bottom of the tub, just like the book recommends …"

Polyxena was making a noble effort to sound encouraging.

"But you're supposed to dip her toes in the water," Bill interrupted, "not just throw her in headfirst …"

"I did no such thing," Shelly protested.

"And you're supposed to laugh and sing her a song while you gently splash water on her legs." Adama chose to ignore his wife's objections. "Do you know any songs," he asked pointedly.

A defeated look swept across Shelly Adama's face. The answer to that particular question was all too obvious.

"I can teach you the words to Baby Bath Time," Polyxena suggested.

"And that is my cue to leave," Adama said triumphantly.

"Admiral, you will do no such thing!"

Polyxena looked back and forth between her two charges, but she had already made up her mind how this lesson was going to go.

"I'll teach both of you how to sing Baby Bath Time," she glared.

A defeated look swept across Bill Adama's aged features. He had been neatly painted into a corner, and he was man enough to admit it. But he refused to glance in his wife's direction. If the two women who ran his life from one minute to the next had concocted this bit of theater for his benefit, he didn't want to know about it.

. . .

"Creusa, you can't go on hiding from reality. Sure, Lee's a good guy and very well intentioned, but when it comes to children … he's an idiot."

Shevon placed a fresh cup of tea on the end table, where the heavily pregnant Cylon could reach it without trying to get up. Privately, the worldly wise prostitute didn't think that Creusa was capable of getting to her feet without assistance from the omnipresent centurion. She couldn't remember ever seeing anyone quite this pregnant.

"I mean … did I ever tell you about the time that good-hearted Lee scared Paya half to death? He gave her an old rag doll with one eye, and my daughter freaked out. People were seeing centurions in their sleep, and Lee gives my little girl a one-eyed doll. To this day, he still doesn't get it."

The two women had forged the most unlikely of friendships—one that went back to the night that the Sixes had intervened to save prostitutes and their children throughout the settlement from the Sons of Ares. Anthia Six had been brutally beaten to death by Enzo Carlotti's henchmen, creating a debt that Shevon and the other working girls were determined to erase. Schooling Creusa in the intricacies of child rearing had started out as a way to balance the ledger, but Shevon had quickly come to the conclusion that the Cylon was in many ways little more than a child herself. She had accordingly decided to take Creusa under her wing, and their relationship had evolved to the point where she thought of the Six as a younger sister—a younger sister who was in way over her head.

"Lee would never hurt Cyrene," Creusa protested. "He's going to be a great father."

"Oh, I have no doubt that Lee is looking forward to fatherhood … but leaving him alone with your daughter is an invitation to disaster. He'll probably drop her, or do something else that causes lasting damage. No, there's no two ways about it: you're going to need a full-time nanny."

Creusa's face went momentarily blank while she processed the term, which she had never encountered before. Her onboard dictionary offered up a number of contrasting definitions, but she quickly discounted the references to goats, both male and female.

We must be talking about professional child minders.

"I know that we're going to need help," Creusa conceded, "but most of my sisters have already volunteered. I really don't want to disappoint them."

Shevon rolled her eyes in mock disgust. It was obvious that younger sister just didn't get it.

"Uh, Creusa … have you ever heard a human talk about the blind leading the blind? I can sum up what the average Six knows about child care in one word: nothing."

"But you're teaching us … you're teaching me! And I've already learned so much! Besides, how hard can it really be? No one's helping Sharon, and Hera is doing fine!"

"Creusa, don't you get it? Sharon's husband is the oldest of four children, and for years he helped out in the way that the oldest child in a tightly knit family always does. Karl Agathon is generous, emotionally untroubled, and blindly devoted to his wife and child. He has no need of our services, but socialators thrive on men like Lee Adama. His family was a train wreck, and like his father before him, Lee will never have any trouble persuading himself that duty to others takes precedence over duty to family. That," Shevon emphasized by lightly clasping the Cylon's arm, "is how we met. Remember?"

"Oh, frak," the young Six softly swore. She looked at Shevon with imploring eyes. "What am I going to do? The admiral and I talked about this just a couple of hours after I found out I was pregnant … how I'd end up raising two babies. It seemed funny at the time."

"And where is Lee … right this minute?"

Creusa blinked with surprise. "He left this morning on an inspection tour. He wants to make sure that our military outposts are ready to fight back if the Cavils take us by surprise."

"Didn't he make the rounds just last week?"

Creusa nodded silently in agreement. She was beginning to feel as miserable emotionally as she did physically.

"Your due date is only a couple of weeks away." Shevon had decided to take the gloves off; she was pressing hard. "If you went into labor right now, could Lee be easily reached? Could he get back in time to help you?"

"No," the Six quietly conceded. "In an emergency, I will have to rely on the centurion."

"And after the baby is born, is Lee going to take paternity leave for a month or two? Will he delegate some of his duties to others?"

"We haven't talked about it," Creusa confessed. "I guess … there are a lot of things that we haven't talked about."

"Then it's time," Shevon announced. She looked sympathetically at the Cylon while she tried to recall if she had ever been quite this naïve. "The two of you need to have a frank conversation, and you need to lay out some ground rules that Lee can agree to follow. If you don't, he will simply put you and the baby on his daily 'to do' list. He'll go off every morning to save the world, leaving you to fend for yourself. He'll be unswervingly faithful, and when he's around, you'll have no doubt that he loves you both. But he won't be around all that much, and you'll become more and more miserable. When you finally do work up the courage to complain, he'll deliver a learned talk on the subject of postpartum depression—which is how the sophisticated male tells his wife to stop whining and instead show some appreciation for how hard he works to support his family. Only in Lee's case, we're talking about the noble and selfless hero who goes out that door every single day for the sole and explicit purpose of safeguarding the future for all our children. It's the ultimate form of selfishness, and you have to combat it. You won't win a clean-cut victory, and you shouldn't even try. Your goal should be to get your husband to strike a rough balance between his public and private lives."

"But Lee swears that he's not his father … that he would never put his career ahead of his family."

"And he's telling the truth—at least as he sees it. The problem is that he doesn't see public service as a career. You have to open his eyes … but Lee's fundamentally honest, and that gives you a big advantage here. Once you draw the problem to his attention, he'll attack it in his usual grim and systematic way."

"You're right," Creusa laughed. "Lee is so … cylon. He's as dependable as a Four or a Five, but much better looking, and far more inventive—especially in bed!"

"Too much information," Shevon groaned. She wasn't about to tell the love struck Six that Lee Adama had been one of her less creative clients. "Now, with regard to the nanny … here's what I suggest. When Lee gets home, broach the topic. Initially, he'll be shocked, but he'll quickly acknowledge that you need help. It shouldn't be hard to convince him that you need his help most of all. Let him think that you're out of your depth, and he'll rearrange his priorities in the blink of an eye."

"I do want him to be here for the delivery," Creusa admitted. The centurion never left her side, and some of the other Sixes came by every day, but it wasn't the same thing. She felt neglected, and she didn't understand how Lee could so callously abandon her every morning. She wanted him to stay home, where he belonged. She wanted Lee to love her and Cyrene, and leave it to someone else to save the world. Family came first: why couldn't Lee Adama see what every Six and Eight knew instinctively?

. . .

"D'Anna, you're nodding off again. Why don't you let me feed the baby?"

D'Anna Cottle wearily shook her head, and looked over her husband's shoulder. The clock on the wall said that it was the middle of the afternoon, but during the past month the once confident Cylon had gradually lost all sense of time.

"Sherman, will it always be like this? Does it ever get any easier?"

Cottle's eyes narrowed while he assessed his wife's condition and debated his answer. He had to tell her the truth, there was no question of that, but whether or not to sugar coat it was another question altogether.

"It'll get worse … a lot worse," he finally admitted. "There'll come a day when he'll bitch and moan that his parents are a couple of idiots … two fools who can't do a gods damned thing right. Eventually, you'll question whether the two of you are even speaking the same language."

"It can't get that bad," D'Anna argued, but there was a hint of desperation in her voice. "Surely, it can't get that bad?"

"Worse," the elderly physician replied. "You do everything you can for them. You set a good example … you teach them the best way you can … but there are no guarantees. Your average serial killer had loving parents."

"I'm just so tired," D'Anna confessed.

"When's the last time you slept through the night," he asked.

"Not since Samuel was born. Every night, I get up to feed him around two, and then around five. I'm cylon … I should be able to do this. Why am I such a failure?"

"You're not," Cottle rejoined. "You're a good mother; in my book, you're a damned good mother. But five weeks without a break is too much, even for a Cylon. Let me take care of Samuel. Doctor's orders: I want you to get some rest."

Sherman reached out and gently prized the child from its mother's arms. Anyone could give the baby its bottle, but D'Anna had become so desperately possessive that he suspected there was a fundamental flaw in the cylon psyche. Tensions were rising throughout the settlement. The food crisis wasn't getting any better, the Sagittarons were as uncooperative as ever, and he could still count the number of cylon pregnancies on two hands, despite the fact that well in excess of a thousand human and cylon pairings were in place. He had pressured Ellen Tigh more than once for answers, but she had fobbed him off every time with the same tired explanation: the safeguards were in place for a reason, and in any event the fabulous Final Five could only generate the antidote to their own convoluted programming by simultaneously entering the stream on the Colony. The latter's location, of course, was unknown …

The Eights are getting desperate. They know that they're supposed to be in the vanguard of this brave new world of ours, but for some reason it's not happening. How long will it be before they start insisting that we download more Ones and start torturing them for the answer? Should we even try to stop them?

"Ishay, please put D'Anna to bed for me. I'm free for the next couple of hours, and I don't get to spend near enough time with my son."

Cottle looked up at his nurse and long-time confidante, the message clear in his eyes. The lieutenant shared both his frustration and his worry, and she nodded brusquely to indicate that they were on the same page. She wrapped her arms around D'Anna, and gently eased the Three to her feet.

"D'Anna, you have a hospital to run, and tonight you're giving a service. A lot of people are depending on you, so you need to get some rest. Have you even thought about your sermon?"

Layne Ishay was still devoted to the gods of her parents, but she knew that humans had been converting to the cylon faith in growing numbers, and not simply those who had taken cylon partners. There was a wonderful simplicity to the cylon belief system that powerfully appealed to those who wanted a single divinity to hear their many pleas. The One True God required faith without sacrifice, and He sanctified principles that echoed the best of humanity's values. In a community with finite resources, prayer that did not need to be reinforced with tangible offerings was seductive in the extreme.

D'Anna stared at Ishay, her confusion plainly written on her face. "That's right," she murmured in a barely audible voice; "we're gathering tonight … along the riverbank … an open-air ministry. God calls upon us to worship Him in His own surroundings."

"That's right," Ishay echoed; the veteran nurse kept her voice low and calm. "But you won't be at your best unless you get some rest. Don't worry about Samuel; your husband will take good care of him."

"Raising a baby is so difficult," D'Anna opined. "I would never have believed that something so small and helpless could take such complete control of our lives."

"It's the hardest job in the universe," Ishay agreed. "Being President of the Colonies is child's play by comparison. Poor Gaius—three babies on the way, and not a clue to what it's all about!"

. . .

Karl Agathon scooped up his tiny daughter, and lifted her high over his head. He spun around … once … twice; he refused to stop even when he started to become dizzy.

"Whirligig, whirligig," he roared; "Hera's the Queen of Heaven … the goddess in the sky!"

"Helo, put Hera down before you drop her!" Sharon was intently studying the pile of medical records, trying to see a pattern that now seemed just beyond her reach. But Karl's laughter was contagious, and her concentration was ruined.

"Let's run, Hera! We don't want mommy to catch us when we're having such a good time!" Lowering the three month old to his shoulder, Helo dashed out of the tent, knowing that Sharon would be close behind.

"You can't escape," Sharon laughed. She jumped to her feet and ran outside, eager to join in the game.

Karl slowed down to circle a pair of startled Eights, but also to give his wife time to catch up. They were putting on a show, but it was all for Hera's benefit.

"You're mine," Sharon yelled as she wrapped her arms around Helo's waist. "I've got you both!"

"What do you think, Hera?" Karl twirled around so that his daughter could see the merriment written all over her mother's face. "Do you want to laugh at mommy, or should we have a good cry?"

Hera stared pensively at her mother, and Sharon would have sworn that her daughter was thinking about it: should I laugh, or should I cry? Sharon and Karl had been playing variations on this game for over a week, trying to coax a laugh out of their little girl. This was the fun part of parenting.

Hera's eyes suddenly lit with joy, and she gurgled out something that was a cross between a cough and a cry. Frowning, she raised her tiny fist to her mouth, and tried to gnaw on a knuckle. But she was still watching her mother, and Sharon knew with absolute certainty that Hera would try again, and that this time she would get it right.

Hera wrinkled her nose, and her eyes narrowed. Her hand flew away, and she coughed. It was a tentative sound, but she kept at it … and it quickly turned into a full-throated laugh.

Watching from a discreet distance, Dr. Amelie Fordyce added another mental note to her already thick file on Hera Agathon. It was obvious that the infant had extraordinary powers of observation, and learning skills that placed her at the high end of the developmental curve. Clinically, of course, it remained to be seen whether Hera would prove the exception or the rule among hybrid children—but in her gut Amelie already knew the answer. Genetics was the most dispassionate of sciences, and the cylon gene would give these children decisive advantages over their human counterparts. If the Cylons ever started producing children in numbers, in a few generations the human race as she knew it would be rendered extinct.

. . .

The Next Morning

Day 357 ACH

Somewhere on the Outskirts of New Caprica City

Marc Jacobs whistled softly under his breath while he continued to make breakfast for his two beautiful wives. He found the rattle of pots and pans curiously calming, and for reasons perhaps best left unexplored, few things in life brought him as much pleasure as the simple act of washing dishes. Once they had taken the measure of these rather harmless fetishes, Sharon and Philista had cheerfully agreed that, henceforth, the kitchen should be their man's dominion.

Eggs … venison steak—the aroma of frying food drifted across the well-equipped kitchen in their new home. Marc had called in a lot of old IOU's, and issued numerous new ones, in order to get his friends in the 3654th to pitch in and help erect the stylishly rustic structure that now stood on a bluff at the forest's edge. The site had been chosen to support Sharon's forays into the surrounding woods. They were now feasting on the buck that she had brought down the previous week—brought down with a bow and arrow. Sharon's hunting skills took the young engineer's breath away. In the forest, she moved in absolute silence. A twig never snapped beneath her feet, and no leaf rustled at her passing. She could remain unmoving for long minutes at a time, and she had an uncanny ability to hide her scent from the whispering breezes that occasionally parted the patchy ground fog. She was never lost or confused, and rarely came home empty-handed. She was the ultimate ground fighter, and Philista was busily trading Sharon's bounty and Marc's skills to make their home one of the most comfortable in the entire settlement. There was a reason why he was setting out breakfast dishes on a table that would easily seat twelve.

Without turning around, Marc sensed Philista Liu walk into the kitchen. He knew that she would be rumpled and still half asleep, her body fully relaxed from the lovemaking in which she and Sharon began every day. The Cylon, in contrast, would be wide awake and fully alert, ready for whatever challenges the day might hold in store for her.

Philista halted abruptly in the middle of the kitchen, and tasted the heavy odors that wafted through the air. She paled instantaneously, bent over involuntarily, and clapped her hand to her mouth. She dashed awkwardly to the sink, and began violently to heave. She vomited up phlegm and bile in small amounts, but there was so little food in her digestive system that her struggles were largely ineffectual.

Sharon rubbed her back in tight circles, seeking to calm her down, while Marc poured a small glass of water … just enough to rinse the foul taste out of Philista's mouth.

"Phi," he whispered, "I know it's hard, but even if you can't keep anything down, you still have to try and eat. You need the nourishment and … this will pass. It always does."

"Morning sickness," Philista weakly laughed; "what a bitch." She blindly reached out to clasp Sharon's arm, to give her reassurance. "Is it selfish of me, standing here wishing that yours had been the privilege of going first? This really sucks!"

Sharon looked at her wife with open warmth and sympathy, but in the shadowy orbs of her eyes the emotions in play were far more complex. Regret lingered in their depths, because it was like this now all over the settlement. Every day brought another dozen joyous announcements from the tribe of human women, and another round of wondering silence from their cylon sisters. In the well of Sharon Liu's soul, there were layers hidden away beneath regret—untapped lodes of jealousy and resentment that stood now on perpetual watch. It would take but one flick of an unseen switch, and the resulting explosion would be terrible to behold.