WARNING: THIS CHAPTER HAS EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT
CHAPTER 38
THE HARBINGER OF DEATH
"Thought I'd find you here," Bierns mumbled. He sank slowly to the spongy floor, and leaned back to rest his head against the wall. It was warm and yielding, and when he closed his eyes he could sense the blood pulsing through its veins. He would have sworn that the wall was reconfiguring itself to make him more comfortable.
Or maybe that's just the champagne talking, he decided. He raised the bottle to his lips and took several short swallows before blindly holding it out to Kara.
The blond-haired hybrid frowned skeptically at the man she had come to think of as her older brother.
Are we really doing this?
Kara was tempted to pose the question because the only time anyone had ever seen John Bierns get falling down drunk was when he was recruiting the Six with no name, and that didn't count. Instead, she graciously accepted the offering and proposed the obligatory toast.
"To Ariadne," she said; "may her life be filled with joy and free of tears." Kara tipped the bottle and drank deeply, savoring every drop of the deliciously cold sparkling wine.
She tried to return the bottle, but John shooed her away. He rummaged around in the rucksack that he had been carrying, and then let out a triumphant cry. Cheese, crackers, and a second bottle suddenly materialized. "The trick," he said with great solemnity, "is to hold the cork steady and twist the bottle!" He got to work, and in a matter of seconds the cork popped with a loud bang. Kara offered it a mock salute as it went sailing out into the void.
"Goat cheese," she cried; the odor was unmistakable.
"Aerilon's finest," John smugly replied.
"My gods! Where did you find this stuff?"
"I'm afraid that our beloved Natalie Six is something of a pirate … and she has highly refined tastes. She can put the black market out of business any time she chooses."
"And she lets you help yourself to whatever you want?"
"Baby sister … let's just say that in my profession the ability to break and enter is highly prized. I have advanced degrees in thievery. Besides," John sniffed, "there aren't any locks on baseships."
Kara nibbled on the cheese, drank some more champagne, and let out a contented sigh. "So, how did you know where to find me?"
John surveyed the vast chamber that was spread out before him. Blood-red lava flowed continuously down the sides of the volcano-like structure at its center. If the cylon baseship had a beating heart, he knew that he was staring at it.
"The Loyal Order of Spooks sees all," he teased. "Kara, I even know how you brushed your teeth this morning. You never vary the pattern."
"Guilty as charged," she chuckled. "Come on, tell me: who's your spy? Is it Rachel or Miriam? It's got to be one or the other."
"Why not both," he countered.
"Yeah, true enough; welcome to life in the fishbowl! I don't know if you've figured it out yet, but the Sixes and Eights are gonna babysit us for the rest of our lives. Sonja says that we have no one to blame but ourselves. I'm a spoilt brat, and you scare everyone to death. Even the hybrids think you're weird."
"Gee, thanks, Kara; I just love being dressed down by someone who talks to baseships. By the way, say hi to your grandmother for me."
"Say hi yourself. She knows you're here, and she knows why. The centurions have already put up a 'DO NOT DISTURB' sign. No one gets in except Boomer, and our mechanical brothers won't even let her in unless she's bearing alcoholic gifts."
"Well, I'll be Poseidon's uncle … you were expecting me to show up!"
"This is a once in a lifetime moment, superspy; if you don't make a complete ass of yourself, then I really will start to worry. Cheers!"
The two hybrids saluted one another, and downed some more champagne.
"Speaking of grandparents," John said between swallows, "have you asked the ship about Anders? If he created the centurions, then he must predate the rest of us. I'm wondering if he's our maternal grandfather."
"She doesn't know," Kara admitted. "But that's hardly surprising. The first-generation basestars were human prototypes; the organic technology came later. Who knows? Maybe Anders introduced it. Maybe he'll turn out to be the cylon god."
"I'll drink to that," John sighed; "hell, at this point, I'll drink to anything!"
"Another rough day," Kara asked sympathetically. "Fatherhood not turning out quite the way you expected?"
"Kara, you don't know the half of it. After you left, things got a little … strange. Deirdre had a fit and refused to jump her baseship, so the Twos took to the stream en masse. Gods … it felt like they were crawling around inside my head, and I swear that Reun got hit just as hard. Seriously, we're talking jackhammers here. So, things were already going downhill fast when out of nowhere Deirdre decided to throw Sharon in my face … and Natalie … and Lydia. She was crying … Ariadne was crying. I did the only sensible thing …"
"You fled for your life!" Kara was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down her face.
"Yeah … only to find Sharon down on her knees puking her guts out. Morning sickness! I'd love to meet the idiot who came up with that phrase! Anyway, I'm now a charter member of the bucket and mop brigade, not to mention a veteran of the diaper wars."
"And meanwhile, back on the farm, Gina was using a holoband to scramble her brains. I don't know if you've heard the latest, but according to Simon we're talking real mush here …"
Kara whirled on John, her eyes wide. "Hey, wait a second! Holy frak! Don't tell me that you're bonking Natalie as well as Sharon!"
"I'm not," John protested. "Kara, I swear … I've never done anything to encourage Natalie! And Lydia and Sibyl are gonna have to look elsewhere for a sperm donor. You can laugh all you want, but I love Sharon and Deirdre. Where is it written in stone that we only get to love one person at a time?"
"It's not, but if you're smart, you'll talk to Helo about the Eights. He'd never cheat on Sharon, but the poor guy can't take a shower without one of her sisters trying to seduce him. John, the Eights love to poach. They're very competitive, they delight in stealing from one another, and men are the top prize. If you think I'm making any of this up, go check out Naomi. Watch the way she reacts when another Eight gets close to Galen. You're raw meat, superspy … and it's feeding time at the zoo."
"Wonderful," Bierns sighed. "Helo looks like death warmed over, and now you're telling me that I'm doomed to share his fate? Kara, you really know how to cheer a guy up!" John opened his mouth and let the champagne run down his throat. He had brought four bottles to the party, but he was beginning to suspect that four wouldn't be nearly enough.
"And where is dear Sharon," Kara softly queried.
"Sleeping." John's voice mellowed dramatically. "I cradled her until she settled in. I like to watch her sleep."
"Yeah, that sounds like true love," Kara admitted. She finished off the champagne in one long pull, let out an inelegant burp, and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Got any more?"
John handed her his own half-empty bottle before returning to the rucksack. "Two bottles left," he muttered; "when's Boomer due to arrive? We're gonna need reinforcements."
"Not to worry, superspy," she giggled; "high-proof help is on the horizon!"
"The way I hear it," John said with a frown, "the silicon chips in Gina's head melted. The relays all shorted out … gods, what a mess."
"Leoben checked out the holoband. He says that it's burnt to a crisp. John, we are talking about the ultimate in short-circuits here. Something in that band … the voltage … the magnetic field … something not only killed Gina but also interfered with her ability to download. If we can get a handle on this …"
"Then bang … you're dead … and no more second chances. The Cavils get theirs, we save the universe, and justice is served."
A haunted look suddenly stole across John's heavily lined features. "But what about the centurions and the Raiders," he whispered. "Gods, Kara … they don't deserve this, and I never signed on for genocide! I refuse to become the very thing I'm trying to destroy!"
Kara Thrace Six silently studied the crimson volcano through narrowed eyes. It reminded her of nothing quite as much as John's terrifying vision of a universe drowning in innocent blood. I am the Harbinger of Death, she repeatedly told herself as she drank deep of the suddenly tasteless champagne; the Harbinger of Death … the Harbinger of Death …
. . .
"Sharon, haven't we been in this corridor before?" Baltar stopped in his tracks, and stubbornly refused to take another step. The baseship was a labyrinth, the featureless monotony of its endless hallways a temptation to madness. "It feels like we've been going in circles. Where are you taking me?"
"Gaius, it's a surprise … but I promise that you'll like it!" The Eight paused as well, and then retreated to stand at his side. She leaned in to kiss him, but before the scientist could properly react, she had already danced away. Baltar hurried after his personal Siren, who slowed her pace just enough to allow the human to catch her.
"I promise," she whispered a second time. Eyes alive with devilry, Sharon wrapped her arms around Gaius' neck, and pulled him close. She kissed him again, radiating pheromones, the assault on her lover's senses never ending. Hands prowling up and down her back, Baltar kissed her passionately in return.
"I don't like surprises," he murmured. "The word 'nasty' too often accompanies them."
"Not this time," she teased; "you'll see." Sharon's voice was heavy with lust, the human's response equally programmed. He would have followed her to Hades; a tiny corner of his mind wondered if this was in fact their destination.
They approached the end of the corridor, a lone centurion guarding the entrance to the chamber that lay beyond. Gaius could hear a female voice emanating from within, a breathless monotone that nevertheless summoned to mind the lilt of long forgotten childhood songs:
"The Child of Six, the twice born Harbinger of Death, will lead All to Their Appointed End. End of line. Reduce barometric pressure by 0.03%. Repairs to the particle sequencer stand complete. Neutrinos dance in stately rhythm across the endless plain, the firmament a beating heart within the moth's hungering flame. End of line. The Second Born to Heaven soars on Angel's wings. The Guide leads the Chosen to Their Appointed End. End of line. . . .
"What in the name of the gods is that?" Baltar was staring into the tiny vat, his scientific brain visibly struggling to make sense of the torrent of data points that he could actually see flowing in and out of the tank.
"The source of the stream," the Eight breathed seductively. "Gaius, this is our hybrid. Come on," she beckoned; "I've never been able to understand it, but you're supremely intelligent. You may find meaning where the rest of us have failed." She knelt beside the tank, and gestured for him to do so as well.
"Uh … hello, there," he mumbled inanely.
"Intelligence dawning … the thought resides … a mind that burns like fire!" The hybrid did not so much look at Gaius Baltar as look through him.
"Your death sentence shall be quashed because of equal votes. Apollo will take the blame."
"What?"
The hybrid shifted her attention to the Eight.
"Eyes innocent, the Forever Child … how naked could you stand and long behold the blood oozing from your mother's dying womb? Synchronicity is its own reward. End of line. FTL systems check: all functions nominal."
"Uh, Sharon … do you remember what I said about nasty surprises? Listening to this … this thing … babble on about my death sentence is a bit upsetting," Baltar screeched.
"Oh, Gaius … why is it so hard for you to accept that I will always look after you?" The Eight's gaze pierced his soul, her eyes overflowing with innocence. She slid closer, her kiss at once tender and longing. Baltar's hands drifted mechanically to her breasts, and Sharon moaned beneath the practiced gentleness of his touch. She leaned back, but only to shed her sweater and toss it casually aside. Gaius now confirmed what his wandering hands had already come to suspect: he wouldn't have to do battle with Sharon's brassiere because she wasn't wearing one.
The Eight settled onto the deck, the raptly attentive and suddenly mute hybrid now within easy reach of her outstretched arms; silently, Sharon signaled for her lover to finish the job of disrobing her. The scientist hastened to comply.
Gaius threw off his coat, and all but ripped the shirt from his body. He leaned in, the aggressor about to claim his conquest, the chemically enhanced female scent unleashing the full potential of the dopamine receptors in his brain. Sharon fumbled with his trousers, somehow managed to lower them, and Gaius crawled between her legs. He was no longer gentle, no longer interested in taking his time. He bit down hard on the Eight's lower lip, a primate taking possession, before ramming his tongue deep into her waiting mouth. The Eight reached out in turn, one hand stroking his member, the other sliding through her own juices, five ghostly fingers bringing her closer and closer to the edge.
"Gaius," she moaned; he had moved on, leaving a trail of bites across her neck and shoulders. "Oh, Gaius …" She guided him inside, and wrapped her legs tightly around his frame, bidding him to take ever more violent possession of her body.
Sharon's head rolled lazily to the side, the expression on her face a perfect mix of agony and ecstasy. She made eye contact with the hybrid … and held it.
"Heat exchange is now functioning within parameters. Random variations are to be expected. The node requires no calibration. System performance is optimal. End of line."
The Eight used her cylon strength to flip Gaius on his back, in the process pinning his hands high above his head. Now she was the aggressor, Baltar the unwitting prey.
"Entropy defines the quantum state, yet the acorn always falls closest to the tree. Rhythmic fluctuations demonstrate the immutable law: somebody's cheating."
The wide-eyed hybrid continued to feed processed data into the stream, but only in fits and starts. Many decks above, the enraged Five withdrew his hand and clinched his fist. Emotion was not his strong suit, but he had now taken the full measure of jealousy. In his mind, the Eight with whom he had long hoped to share Louis Hoshi stood condemned, a rival to be eclipsed.
She was riding him now, but at her own pace. The mount had not yet fully accepted the harness, but she was methodical, everything rehearsed. She would break him … of this there could be no doubt. Gaius' eyes were tightly shut … her own filled with unbridled lust. She stole another glance at the creature that was half female and half machine, inviting its commentary, reveling in its judgments.
"The well-lubricated machine offers minimal resistance to the charging piston, but resistance is not futile … not futile … not futile … not futile …"
Indeed, she thought, as she once more flicked out her tongue. Indeed.
. . .
"Doc, pardon my Tauron, but you've got to be frakking kidding me! What do you mean … no booze for the next nine months? I'll go crazy!"
"Louanne …"
"Shut up, Leoben! This has nothing to do with you!"
"Cut the crap, Katraine." Cottle lit a fresh cigarette, and pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. Knowing that it would irritate Ishay no end, he blew it directly into Kat's face. "You're a Viper pilot, Captain, so it goes without saying that you're already certifiable. But you're also Galactica's resident stim jockey, which means that no one's gonna notice if you decide to go off and explore the deep end. So … no booze, no happy pills … and while I'm at it, stay off the caffeine. Let's give this kid a fighting chance!"
"Kat, it won't be so bad," Aphrodite soothed. "We have lots of fruit juice on the ship …"
"Fruit juice?" Louanne started to gag.
"Doctor Cottle, when can I expect the onset of morning sickness?" Inside Hurricane Katraine, the Six was an island of calm.
"I'd say a week … ten days at the outside?" Sherman turned to Creusa and Shelly for confirmation. The two pregnant Sixes both nodded in agreement. They had come along to boost Aphrodite's morale, but it was obvious that the Six couldn't wait for her condition to advance.
"Don't worry, sister; we still have lots of pickles and whipped cream." Creusa was well into her fourth month, but the cravings and morning sickness hadn't tapered off in the slightest. She stretched her spine, but the relief from her perpetual backache was only momentary. She badly missed Lee, and it wasn't just for the backrubs.
"What we don't have," Cottle grumbled, "are fetal monitors, incubators, and a dozen and one other things that are standard issue in any reasonably modern hospital. Battlestars don't have maternity wards, and the civilian fleet is no better equipped than we are. Shelly, if any of you go into premature labor, then we are in serious trouble. I pray to the gods that your sister has the good sense to track down medical equipment as well as stores. Right now, a good fetal monitor would be worth its weight in cubits around here."
"It's not on Natalie's 'to do' list, Doctor, but you should have faith. My sister is thorough."
Shelly's tone was confident, but Cottle didn't miss the slight hint of uncertainty that registered in her eyes.
"I would prefer to place my faith in a Heavy Raider," the elderly physician abrasively responded. "So, I'm going to recommend to the admiral that we dispatch a courier with fresh instructions. I have a shopping list that's as long as your arm."
Cottle looked around until he spotted his top nurse and favorite punching bag. "Ishay," he roared, "you know the drill, so walk these three through the rest of the grim details." He gestured towards Kat, Aphrodite, and Leoben.
"As for you two," he said as he glared at Stallion and Artemis, "we're going to have a little chat … in my office … right now!" Sherman stormed off, leaving the human and the Cylon to follow uncertainly in his wake.
"Right," he said when he had closed the hatch behind them, "what's the problem here? Why aren't you pregnant yet?"
"Doctor, I don't know," Artemis quavered. "My sister and I are on the exact same monthly cycle, and Hephaestus divides his time equally between us. I don't know what's wrong. I'm happy for my sister, but I want to have children too; the thought that I might not be able to conceive is devastating."
"I understand," Cottle kindly replied. He looked around for an ashtray. "This is one of the most common problems inside group marriages. Someone always has to go first and in your case it's Aphrodite, but the emotional consequences for the ones left behind can be serious, and they'll only worsen with time. However, if you're both willing there are ways to cheat around the margins here. I can't guarantee that you'll conceive, but we can certainly improve the odds a bit. Now, here's what you need to do . . ."
. . .
"Resistance is not futile," John murmured. He was semi-comatose. "Two protons expelled at each coupling site create the mode of force. The embryo becomes a fish that we won't enter until you buy this complete set of dinnerware. Hurry because this offer won't last long! And if you call within the next twenty minutes, we'll throw in a second complete set of dinner plates … that's a 499 cubit value for only 149 … that's right … for only 149 cubits plus interplanetary shipping and handling. Atrophy is available at no extra charge, but you must act now. . . ."
Kara shrieked with laughter, and slapped her unresisting brother's shoulder. "Gods, but you are so wasted!" Another wave of giggles carried her away.
"It sounds like a free-form delusion." Boomer handed Kara the bottle of ambrosia before gently flicking an unruly lock of hair out of John's eyes.
"Nah … not to worry; he's just rejoined the network … dragged his tail home between his legs." Kara took a large gulp of the aged and deceptively potent green liqueur.
"Kara, what the frak are you talking about?" Like every other Eight on the ship, Sharon Valerii was determined to protect the First Born, but she had not yet figured out how to protect him from himself.
"He's eavesdropping on one of the hybrids. It's probably Olivia. She likes to mess with the Twos; there's got to be a couple of them in her chamber right now, hanging on her every word. They're such frak-ups."
"Hey, it takes one to know one!"
"No doubt," Kara burped; "the difference is … I know that I'm a screw-up. They don't."
"Point well taken," Boomer conceded. The two women drank some more ambrosia.
"So here we are," Kara continued as she surveyed her crimson fiefdom; "the Admiral's two more or less adopted daughters. But you're suicidal and I'm descended from a chain saw. Think he'll disown us?"
"I used to worry about such things," Sharon conceded with a bittersweet smile. "I mean … I used to have these full-blown anxiety attacks. I'd freeze in the cockpit, and Galen … I wanted him to love me, but it was never about love. It was about need. The old Sharon craved affection, and she desperately needed validation because when you penetrated the mask there wasn't much there. It was mostly just manufactured feelings … leave a message because there's nobody home."
Boomer turned inward; she could do it now because when she peeked through the window and examined this earlier version of herself it no longer hurt.
"I was so angry, Kara, and I felt so betrayed. I kept committing suicide because I wanted them to box me, but my sisters wouldn't have it. It turned into a turf war, and none of it had much to do with me as a person. I didn't turn the corner until Caprica recruited me. Putting an end to the war, working to achieve a lasting peace … for the first time in my life, I had a constructive purpose … and it felt good."
"Yeah, I've gotta say … you seem so much calmer now, more centered. It's good to see. You and Helo … you're two of my closest friends; I just want you both to be happy."
"Genesis returns to its source, the serpent given voice. They drink, but their thirst is never slaked. Reduction occurs stepwise, the essence of the Makers entering the stream. Protoplasm spills, fallen flowers searching out the waiting vessel. Damp soil yearns for fertile seed; the essence is all one. End of line."
"It's getting harder and harder to understand him." Sharon's voice was troubled. "The distance that once separated him from the hybrids has become so diminished that we see him clearly now only in the stream. We're losing him, and we don't understand why."
"You love him, don't you?"
"Of course," Boomer said; Kara's question had taken her completely by surprise. "Kara, why don't you work with Leoben? Let him teach you how to navigate the stream so that you can experience the universe as we do. John's love for us is an absolute, and in the stream it has such clarity. You need to see this because it's important for you to grasp how his feelings are shattering the collective. He wants to believe that storming Pegasus was a cold-blooded, calculated decision to eliminate Cain, but it was about Gina. It was never about anything else. He was going to free her or die trying. We can't deal with this as a collective, but at the same time none of us can evade the question: are we capable of such sacrifice? The Twos and the Threes on this ship have found their answer, and so have the Eights. But the Sixes are being torn apart. Caprica and Gina would willingly lay down their lives for you, but Cynthia would waver, and many of the others would abandon you without hesitation. It's not a character flaw; they simply prize life above all other things."
"So, you're warning me to watch my back? That's really funny because John once cautioned me that the Sixes can be calculating and cruel. He didn't want me to dive off the deep end. And I've been telling him that the Eights are cunning and selfish, but I don't think that he's paying attention. Both of us apparently have to learn everything the hard way."
Boomer privately agreed, but there was little to be gained by piling on.
"My sisters were patient," she gently protested; "it took time, but they taught me how to deal with the anger. Now I follow an exercise routine that promotes serenity of mind, and I use projection to reinforce it. Our dream house … the one that Galen and I were going to build on Picon? Kara, we spent hours agonizing over every detail, even the tiniest … and I've built it in my mind. We're there right now, relaxing in the sun on our patio. John's inside, sleeping it off on the couch. It's so peaceful."
Kara impulsively reached out, made the connection, and forced her way into Sharon's private world. She scanned the surrounding forest, and immediately decided to add a few squirrels to the idyllic scene.
"Oh, my … my … gods," Boomer stuttered; "it's true! Leoben told us that you could do this, but I didn't really believe him!"
Kara laughed triumphantly, and continued to summon forth creatures from her imagination.
"Kara … no … don't you dare! I do not want to see a pink unicorn with green polka dots grazing in my yard!" Sharon was doubled over with laughter.
Kara walked in through the patio doors, and nodded approvingly. The ground floor was light and airy, and there were vases with freshly cut flowers scattered everywhere. She turned back to Boomer, who discovered that she was now wearing a heavily starched apron—and a feather duster had magically materialized in her right hand.
"Ah, domestic bliss," the irreverent hybrid exclaimed. She could hear John snoring heavily on the couch. "I think I'll move in."
"I'd like that," Boomer provocatively remarked.
Kara stared at her for a very long moment, and then performed more of her wizardry. Now Sharon found herself wearing an outrageously abbreviated baby doll nightie. It was sky blue, and totally transparent.
The lingerie hid nothing.
Sharon fingered the silken fabric, and pondered its meaning. She walked slowly forward, every step tentative, until she had closed the distance between them. Kara watched her come, but she was silent and still. She was running on instinct, not yet sure of what she was doing.
Boomer clasped the back of Kara's neck, and leaned in to kiss her softly on the lips. She was exquisitely tender.
"I love you, Kara, but there are so many layers. Family … friendship … and … and … please … what is it that you're trying to tell me?"
"I don't know," Kara honestly replied. "I don't know. Maybe tomorrow this will turn out to be a hideous mistake, but right here, right now … I want you." She cupped Sharon's breast, and kissed her lightly in return. With everyone but Zak, sex had never amounted to anything more than recreational sport. Kara couldn't understand why, therefore, she suddenly felt so shy.
. . .
"Thank you for coming, Polyxena. My wife thinks the world of you, so I thought it time for us to become better acquainted."
"Admiral, I am deeply honored, but also puzzled. Where is Mrs. Adama?"
"On Colonial One … another Quorum meeting. I regret to say that the President sees more of my wife these days than I do. Frankly, I was surprised to discover that you wouldn't be in attendance." Bill knew that Shelly liked to keep Polyxena close. He just didn't know why.
The raven-haired beauty smiled hugely. "I don't like politics, and I have no use for politicians. Mrs. Adama would never inflict such torture upon me!"
"Politicians," Adama grinned. "I can't stand the sight of them. As best I can tell, there's only one requirement for seeking public office … you have to be a self-absorbed moron."
Polyxena laughed, and gestured at the beautifully laid out dining table. "Was this dinner by any chance your wife's idea?"
"Young lady, everything around here is Shelly's idea." Ever polite, Bill pulled out a chair and invited his guest to be seated. Before taking his own seat, he poured wine for the both of them.
Polyxena took a tiny sip, and then looked him directly in the eye. "Admiral, may I ask you a personal question? If you choose not to answer, it's okay."
"You want to know how I could possibly have fallen in love with a Cylon."
Polyxena nodded. "She's very beautiful, so I can understand the physical attraction. But knowingly to fall in love with a machine … how is that possible?"
Bill absently swirled the wine in his glass while he thought about his response. There had been a time when his feelings for Shelly had filled him with enormous self-doubt.
"You're right about the physical attraction, but I'm far too old to allow lust to cloud my judgment. And besides," he smiled, "Shelly's first attempt at seduction failed rather miserably." Adama cherished the memory of that first, catastrophic kiss; it was now something that they could both laugh about.
"The worst day of Shelly's life," he continued, "was the day she defected. She was trying to come to terms with her actions, and the only explanation that made sense to her was that she was defective … a broken down machine. But our resident spook wouldn't have it. Where everybody else saw difference, Major Bierns saw similarity. He wanted Shelly to understand that we're all machines, and he wanted me to realize that the differences between us are largely a matter of semantics."
"Semantics," Polyxena curtly mouthed. "With all due respect, Admiral, there is a fundamental difference between us and the Cylons. We're born; they're … something else."
"Then let me ask you a question. It's deceptively simple, but you should think carefully before you answer. Who is the enemy in this war?"
"The Cylons, of course; who else could it be?" Polyxena didn't hesitate at all.
"Every Cylon is the enemy? Then it follows that we should try and kill every last one of them, including my wife. Are you prepared to go that far?"
"I see what you're doing," she glared. "You want me to admit that there's good and bad in both races."
"The alternative is to condemn an entire species out of hand—and I'm not prepared to surrender the moral high ground to the Cavils quite so easily. They slaughtered fifty billion innocent people, and that's the crime for which they should be punished. Ultimately, the fact that they're Cylons doesn't really matter one way or the other. Don't justify their actions by making it a crime to be different."
"You still haven't told me how you fell in love with one of them!" Polyxena didn't like being treated as a child, especially by someone old enough to be her grandfather.
"Actually, I have. I stopped seeing Shelly as a Cylon and started seeing her as a person. She's beautiful, intelligent … painfully honest … considerate and caring … and don't even get me started on the issue of integrity. She is quite simply the most humane person I've ever met. I trust her, and I respect her—and trust and respect are the cornerstones on which enduring relationships are built. Polyxena, you can't love a person whom you don't respect, and mistrust is corrosive. It consumes everything that it touches."
"So, what do you want from me, Admiral?" Polyxena stared blindly down at her plate, which she still had not touched. "Do you want me to forgive the skin jobs for what they did to me? Is that what you want?"
"The Fours and Sixes who assaulted you are in the brig. At some point, you may want to talk with them for your own peace of mind, but only you can decide whether or not to forgive them. Shelly doesn't require your forgiveness … but I do hope that someday she'll earn your respect."
Adama decided that it was time to change the topic. The young woman had aroused his curiosity, and now he wanted to test her mettle.
"Polyxena, I have a mission for you, but you're not military, so I can't simply make this an order. Doctor Cottle wants me to send a team back to the Colonies to collect medical equipment that is not exactly standard issue on battlestars. I've agreed to send a Heavy Raider, which means Sixes or Eights, but I want a human to accompany them. I'd like you to volunteer, but it would mean working with Doctor O'Neill … one of the Fours."
"I see," the girl brusquely remarked. "And is this also one of Shelly's ideas … part of my rehabilitation?"
Bill laughed out loud. She's quick, he decided, and a pretty astute judge of character.
"Let's just say," he replied diplomatically, "that my wife takes a keen interest in your welfare, and that she will not object to you undertaking this assignment."
"Do I get to pick the pilots?"
"No."
Polyxena grimaced. It would be just like Shelly to force her to work with a couple of the Sixes. Part of my ongoing rehabilitation, she sarcastically concluded.
"All right, Admiral; I volunteer."
. . .
The Six was furious. She backhanded the human across the jaw, and she didn't hold back. She had been in this cage for almost two months now, and she poured all of her pent-up frustration and rage into the punch. Specialist Derek Vireem's head whipped to the side as he went flying through the air. He landed on the deck with a hard thud, and slid several feet before finally coming to rest.
"Frakkin' humans," she said in disgust. The Six was overseer class, one of the elite who had been in charge of the breeding project on the surface of post-apocalyptic Caprica. It had been her misfortune to be on Hippolyte at the moment of its capture, for her mere presence had been enough to convict her of something called "crimes against humanity." She had no idea what the humans were talking about, but she understood well enough that Natalie had cut her loose. Her sister had abandoned the Sixes taken on Eurykleia and Hippolyte to their collective fate, which at the moment meant sharing a cell with vermin like Derek Vireem. Over the past couple of weeks she had learned a great deal about the four Pegasus "brig rats," as their jailors mockingly called them, but one fact stood out above all the rest. Gage, Vireem, Horvett, and Hobbes liked to rape and torture Cylon prisoners.
"But I'm starving," the Specialist whined. "It's been two days now!"
"You know the drill," another of the platinum haired Sixes spat. She was standing with her hands on her hips, staring contemptuously at Vireem's companions, who were cowering in a distant corner of the cell. She ached to put her fist through one of their mouths, and there was really nothing to stop her. They all knew the rules—they had been made transparently clear on the first day. "Payback's such a bitch," the female sergeant had maliciously commented before exiting the brig. She had told the Sixes all about their new cellmates before adding that the guards would be away from their stations for the next hour. The video monitoring system had mysteriously shorted out, and it would take them at least that long to find and fix the problem. The seven Sixes had taken efficient advantage of the opportunity to sort the four unwanted humans out.
"We eat first, and you get the scraps," she sneered. "But only if you ask politely … only if you beg."
A third Six walked up and sat a tray of half-eaten food on the deck, but she had pocketed the plastic knife, fork, and spoon. "Are you hungry, Michael," she asked in a deceptively sweet voice. She had left the soup untouched, knowing that Gage would have to lap it up with his tongue. "Well, here's your dinner. If you crawl over here and beg nicely, I promise that this time I won't dump it in your face."
The specialist hastened to comply, and up in the observation booth the Six with no name grinned malevolently. Sibyl Janks was rumored to have a strap-on dildo in her cabin, and the captain of the Virgon Express owed the Six a few favors. Since her sisters were as creative as they were cruel, Hiris was confident that they would be able to put the toy to good use.
. . .
"Sharon, I really don't think that this is such a good idea," Philista nervously remarked.
"I know," the Eight sadly replied. "It may make an already difficult situation even worse. But my sisters have tried everything. Philista, it's been seven years. He freely admits that he crossed the Armistice Line, but for seven years Lieutenant Novacek has otherwise done nothing but lie to us. He continues to peddle this ridiculous story about being shot down by renegade Tauron miners. He claims that his Stealthstar was spinning out of control, and that we fired the missile that ultimately destroyed his craft. Does that make sense to you? Why would we have destroyed so advanced a ship when we could easily have captured it for further study?"
"Sharon … sweetheart … this is hard … really, really hard! You're asking me to believe that we started the war … that it's our fault. And now you want me to trick a fellow officer into admitting it!"
"No, that's not what I want! The war's over, but he won't let go. Even after talking with Doctor Baltar, in Daniel's eyes we're still the enemy—and he still regards us as nothing more than a bunch of unfeeling machines. That's not fair, and I want him to apologize because my sisters have brought him his meals every day for the past seven years. The other models would have abandoned him to the centurions, but the Eights saw to it that he was properly clothed … allowed to bathe regularly. We have treated him with kindness, even offered him companionship, but not once has he ever said 'thank you'—because it would never occur to a human to thank their coffee pot or … their toaster."
Philista wrapped her arm around Sharon's waist and held her tight. The young lieutenant appreciated just how sensitive the Eight could be on this particular subject.
"Humans can be rude and inconsiderate," she acknowledged. "Some people seem to be constitutionally incapable of saying 'please' or 'thank you'. We call them assholes … or lawyers. There's not much to choose between the two."
"So," Sharon smiled, "you think that Lieutenant Novacek may simply be an asshole?"
"He's a pilot; that's pretty much the same thing as a lawyer."
"I'm glad that you're not a pilot, Philista … or a lawyer." The Eight happily melted into her lover's arms.
"And I'm glad that you're not a toaster," Philista murmured in reply. She kissed Sharon, tenderness quickly morphing into passion.
"Come on," Sharon urged … "let's show the asshole what he's missing!"
. . .
"That frakking Cylon bitch," Zarek roared. Impulsively, he reached down and sent everything on the table flying. Two coffee mugs shattered on the deck, the steaming hot liquid narrowly missing James Meier.
"Easy, Tom … just take it easy," Meier urged. He was Zarek's closest friend as well as his chief political operative. The two men went back a long way, their friendship forged in the barren yard of a Sagittaron high security prison. "There's really no evidence that this was a set-up," he added.
"Oh, you didn't see the look on Roslin's face," Zarek pointed out; "the way she was smirking. She wanted me to know that Adama's mechanical whore had set me up! She must have loved watching me squirm in front of the press … having to claim victory when everyone in the room knew that I had just taken it on the chin. The sadistic bitch …"
"… is going to get hers right along with the rest of them," Meier calmly continued. "Tom, you've got to bluff it out. Roslin lost the vote … nobody's gonna be forced to relocate to one of the baseships against their will. You've got to keep hammering away at the idea that Roslin is a puppet, and that it's the Cylons who are pulling her strings. Every time you go there, we move the polls."
"My old friend," Zarek sighed, "you just don't get it. I needed Roslin to push this proposal through. I've spent the last two months painting her as a power mad Caprican dictator, and this vote was supposed to demonstrate just how far she's prepared to go. It should have put the crowning touch to my whole campaign, but what happens instead? A bunch of grimy Sixes and Eights show up to argue against forced transfers. Their performance was so rehearsed that they should have been wearing sackcloth and ashes! When the curtain finally came crashing down on this absurd piece of theater, Adama's whore and her pet centurion had become the voices of reason, Roslin the voice of moderation … and me? I'm left with egg on my face that won't wash off anytime soon. No, this was a set-up … from start to finish. And I fell for it … hook, line, and sinker!"
"We underestimated Roslin," Meier thoughtfully concluded.
"It wasn't Roslin," Zarek spat. "No … this little stunt has the Sixes' fingerprints all over it—Shelly Adama for sure, and maybe others."
"Damn you, Cain," Zarek suddenly shrieked as he slammed his hand viciously down on the table; "may you spend eternity rotting in the lowest reaches of whatever the Cylons call Hell!"
"Tom …"
"Jim, damn it, it's true! I had Sesha Abinell and the rest of the Demand Peace crazies on a tight leash until Pegasus showed up. Cain … that frakking idiot screwed up everything! We didn't just lose thousands of lives in the uprising … we lost thousands of votes—votes that may very well turn out to be the difference in this election. Take Cain out of the equation …"
"Yeah … you're right. So, what are we gonna do now?"
"We have to keep hitting the Sixes on their flanks, so I'll continue to work the Twos and Threes … the obvious promises."
"And Roslin?"
"Realistically, we've got no choice but to play a waiting game. There aren't all that many people in the fleet who'd shed a tear if the Cylons crawled back into whatever hole they came from, but no one's got the stomach for a fight anymore. Natalie's played her cards well; in fact," Zarek laughed admiringly, "you could literally say that she's got the fleet eating out of her hand!"
The one-time terrorist drummed his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. "Anti-cylon sentiment might buy us a few points in the polls," he observed, "but it's not going to win the election. I'll try and shore up the damage by playing the religious card next- Roslin's addiction to the chamalla inspired ramblings of Pythia makes a lot of people nervous- but let's not kid ourselves. We need a game changer, my friend … an issue that puts Roslin squarely at odds with the people. A lot can happen in the next seven weeks, but as it stands right now … all she's got to do is run out the clock."
. . .
"I'm surprised," Bierns remarked with a straight face.
Gina looked at him expectantly.
"That you don't look like I feel," he added. He was vaguely disappointed that the Six hadn't risen to the bait, but when it came to humor the Cylons were still slow on the uptake.
"Here's to shiny new bodies," she said affectionately. She tipped an imaginary cocktail glass in John's direction.
"Ah, so you've heard about my latest misadventure!"
"Cylons love to gossip, John; you should know that by now. Besides, you talk in your sleep."
"The Spy Who Talked in His Sleep," he laughed. "It sounds like the title of a cheap paperback thriller. Don't tell Kara; her opinion of me is low enough as it is."
"Boomer says that you also talk when you're passed out. She's quite concerned because you apparently made about as much sense as the hybrid in one of her less lucid moments."
"Drunks are rarely lucid, Gina … but enough about me. What happened?"
"I'm not really sure. The Blessed Mother adjusted the holoband so that it would fit snugly, and I turned it on. It was set to deposit me inside your house on Galatea Bay, but instead an intensely white light exploded inside my brain. It was nothing like downloading; one moment I was here, and the next I was gone. I have no awareness of what happened."
"Simon told us that every synaptic relay in your brain shorted out. Since they function to some extent like circuit breakers, you were exposed to so much current that your silicon chips actually melted. We can't pinpoint the emission. The holoband may look simple but it's really a pretty complicated device; when it shorted out, it took the evidence with it."
"You're thinking about military applications, aren't you?"
"Kara came up with the idea," John said with a nod. "Gina, I could blow your head off with an explosive round and it would have absolutely no effect on the resurrection process. But this is a whole different animal. What came out of the download wasn't you, sweetheart—it was a drooling idiot."
"And you want to do this to my brothers." It was an accusation, not a question.
"The Ones are insane," John shrugged uneasily; "and in the case of the Fives … who'd know the difference?"
Gina didn't bother responding. It was a feeble attempt at humor, and she treated it with the contempt that it deserved.
"We're in the middle of a war, Gina." John decided to stop pretending. "Cavil would do this to you in a Caprican minute …"
"That's your excuse? A crime against humanity is morally justified as long as the target is a Cylon?" Gina couldn't keep the disappointment out of her voice. "Child, I thought that you were better than this. I thought that you possessed this moral compass that the humans are constantly bragging about. I guess I was wrong."
"I won't let Cavil win, Gina; there's too much at stake. The weapon would have to be refined so that it wouldn't harm the Raiders or the centurions, but the Cavils are fair game. I'll do whatever it takes to stop them."
"And if you can't keep the centurions and the Raiders out of harm's way … what then? How much of your family are you willing to sacrifice to claim your victory?"
John steadily held Gina's gaze, but he kept his peace. The question was obvious … but the answer far less so.
"At least tell me that you will only do this as a last resort," she pleaded.
"I can't beat resurrection, Gina; this war can only be won at its source. And we can't afford a long, drawn-out war of attrition because the Cavils will only grow stronger with the passage of time. They control the Hub and the Colony. If we don't move quickly, they'll bleed us to death."
"So, you really will do whatever it takes. Well," she said with a resigned sigh, "I'm glad that I won't be there to witness your moment of triumph. I have decided to remain on Gemenon and rededicate myself to God. I want to become a better Cylon, and the Blessed Mother has agreed to help me learn the true meaning of our faith. This is where I belong."
"Are you sure?" For one of the few times in his life, Bierns was caught so completely off guard that he didn't know what to say.
"The Church of the Monad will shelter human and Cylon alike." Gina's eyes had taken on the glow of true belief. "Here we can build a unique society, and possibly one that is free of strife. John, you should know that many of the Twos and Threes have also decided to stay … and more than half of the refugees from Caprica. Some of the Sixes and Eights will join us as well …not many, but some."
"Gina, the Capricans are hard-core polytheists!" John would never have imagined that a Six … any Six … could be this naïve.
"Yes, they are. But the Blessed Mother teaches tolerance for other points of view, and this is a message that Cylons desperately need to hear. We are too sure of ourselves … too smug. We need to learn humility, and respect for others. I will examine the polytheistic beliefs, and perhaps find a way to reconcile them with my own."
The First Born remained at a loss for words, but he instinctively reached out to hug Gina close. Only now, when he had lost her, could John Bierns finally acknowledge how much he loved Gina Inviere, and he silently vowed to find some way to heal the rift that had opened between them.
. . .
Danny Novacek continued blindly to pound on the bars of his cage. His knuckles were already bruised and bleeding, but he was oblivious to the pain. This was the only outlet for the towering rage that now consumed him.
Seven years … seven gods damned frakking years … and for what? For nothing! I did my duty … name, rank, serial number and not one gods damned thing more … I did my duty and what's my reward? I get to watch a slut in a Colonial uniform go down on a toaster! I get to watch them suck each other's tits. Seven gods damned frakking years sleeping on a cold deck and shitting in a bucket while some cunt from the Pegasus slips into a nice, warm bed and puts it out for her toaster girlfriend. Yeah, Bulldog, you're a real hero, and when you rejoin the fleet Bill Adama will probably pin a medal on your chest … if he can tear himself away from his toaster wife long enough to get out of bed. What's another word for a hero, Bulldog? How about fool? Yeah, that sounds about right … Lieutenant Daniel Novacek, patriot … hero … fool!
. . .
Sharon looked at him with genuine admiration. "A mind that burns like fire," she repeated; "Gaius, the hybrid thinks that you're a genius!"
"And?" Baltar didn't mind compliments, but he preferred them to be less self-evident.
"It really likes you!" They were back in the corridor, where the Eight currently had the human scientist pinned, his back literally against the wall. She kissed him hungrily.
"Sharon," he wailed in protest, "please! I need time to recover!" There was only one way out, and Gaius took it: he ordered his body to slide down the wall.
The Eight relentlessly pursued him to the floor. She crouched on all fours, and then leaned forward to kiss him again. Her eyes were alight with mischief and lust.
"Sharon, please … I'm not ready!" Baltar turned his head to the side and scanned the corridor, desperately seeking a means of escape.
"Hello," he said … "what's this?"
"What's what," she asked in a whisper. The Eight was busily exploring the innermost reaches of Gaius Baltar's ear with her tongue.
"It looks like blood! Sharon, please … behave!"
"Oh, Gaius …"
"Look, there's a trail. It's faint, but it's unmistakable!"
Sharon reluctantly turned her head, and then her eyes went wide.
"Cylon blood," she exclaimed. The copper tint was too dark to be human.
"The way it's smeared … somebody tried to wipe it up … oh, my gods!" Baltar pointed excitedly to a spot low on the wall a couple of meters ahead of them. "Is that fingerprints … bloody fingerprints?"
Sharon nodded in agreement, her eyes narrowing. They were still on the floor, but she had reached out blindly to grasp Baltar's shoulder. The scientist squealed with pain, but the Eight ignored him. "One of us was injured here," she surmised, "and tried to crawl away."
Sharon stood up, and walked slowly down the corridor, leaving Baltar to follow at his own pace. She soon stopped in front of what appeared to be a featureless section of the wall. "In here," she said tersely.
Gaius nervously slid up beside her, and then he looked at the wall in puzzlement.
"It's a storage closet," the Eight impatiently remarked. She pushed against the all but invisible door with the palm of her hand, and it opened to her touch.
Baltar started to retch; the stench was overwhelming. Even Gina Inviere's cell on the Pegasus hadn't smelled this bad.
"Gaius," Sharon wailed.
A blond haired Six in a white trench coat was on the floor, with her back slouched against the wall. Her head was lolling awkwardly to the left, her sightless eyes staring into infinity. Dried blood was caked everywhere.
Baltar pulled out a handkerchief and held it over his nose and mouth. The dispassionate scientist took control, and knelt at the Six's side. He tried to curl her fingers, but the rigor mortis was too advanced. "She's been dead for a long time," he clinically observed; "possibly a matter of weeks."
Gaius studied the deep wounds that ran across the Six's chest. He had seen the pattern before, in Galactica's morgue. There were no mysteries, he thought, surrounding the cause of death.
"A centurion raked her with its talons," he quietly noted, "and she bled to death. You can see the three, equally spaced gashes here … here … and here."
"Gaius, what does it mean?" Sharon's voice radiated terror, and the scientist stood up to block her view, instinctively trying to shield her from the sight of sudden, violent death. He felt at that moment as if a heavy fog was parting deep in his mind, and he suddenly realized that he had never encountered a Two, Three, Four, or Six in all of his time on the ship.
This is all wrong, his brain was screaming; everything about this ship is wrong!
Baltar unceremoniously shoved the terror-stricken Eight back into the corridor, and brusquely ordered her to close the door. Then he grabbed her by the shoulders, and forced her to meet his gaze.
"Sharon, we have to get out of here and warn the others! We are in deep, deep trouble; if we don't do something quick, the Cavils will have the centurions kill us all!"
"My sisters," Sharon screamed; "we have to warn my sisters!"
Together, the human and the Cylon hurriedly set off down the corridor. They both knew that they were in a race against time—and, in this race, there was no prize for finishing second.
. . .
"Sam, can you recall anything? A single image that seems otherwise misplaced … a fragment of memory that you can't account for?"
"No," Anders admitted miserably. "John, I keep trying … but there's nothing there!"
Bierns swore in frustration, and abruptly shifted tactics. "The hybrid called you 'Papa Sam'; it has to mean something."
"Sure … but what? I don't remember hybrids or resurrection ships … I don't remember any of this!"
Sam Anders and John Bierns were alone, deep in the interior of the cylon resurrection ship above Gemenon. They were standing in a tiny chamber near the forward bulkhead, with an entire squad of centurions stationed in the entryway to guarantee their privacy. The former Pyramid professional was staring into the five tanks—or rather he was trying hard not to stare. The sight of a pale and lifeless copy of one Samuel T. Anders lying in a vat of slimy goo was something that he could well do without.
"Saul Tigh and Tory Foster … do the names mean anything to you?"
"Nothing," Sam whispered in response.
"Ellen Tigh? Sam, for the love of the gods, you've met Galen Tyrol!"
"And I swear that I've never seen him before! Major, what do you want from me?"
"I'll talk to Circe … it's possible that I mentioned you when I was drunk, or even in my sleep. She doesn't seem to know anything."
Bierns laughed harshly, and ran his fingers through his hair. "Gods, Sam, can you believe it? I talk in my sleep! Who the hell ever heard of a secret agent who talks in his sleep?" The First Born was growing increasingly desperate; Gina Inviere's blunt criticism of his questionable morality had in fact touched a very sensitive nerve.
"Well," Anders said with a sheepish grin, "it sure doesn't sound like something that Rex Caesar would do."
"Frakking Rex Caesar," John laughed. "Every time that little Jemma O'Neill looks at me, I'd swear that she's seeing Rex frakking Caesar!"
"Shaken, not stirred," Sam mocked. The Cylon didn't know a damned thing about the sinister world of espionage, but he was reasonably certain that spies weren't that well-dressed or that well-mannered.
"You've got a conscience, John … that's why you talk in your sleep. It's obvious that you've done things of which you're not very proud."
"Yeah … and I'm about to do another one."
Anders looked at him curiously; he had no idea where this was going.
"There's some kind of block on your memories, and I can think of only one way to beat it. But I'll be honest with you … I'm not sure it'll work."
"What do you have in mind?"
"I want you to order one of the centurions to shoot you in the head. I'd give the command myself, but it would be pointless … they may be my brothers, but they're your kids. You'll resurrect, and it's possible that you'll recover your original memories in the process."
"John, you can't be serious!"
"Not to worry, Sam; Cylons do this sort of thing all the time. I'm told that it's one hell of a rush."
"Gods, John …"
"I need answers, Sam, and not simply for my own peace of mind. If you've got a better idea, let's hear it."
"I don't," he conceded. "But, gods …"
The spook remained silent, waiting while Anders worked it out for himself. He knew how Sam would decide- the man was anything but a coward- but he also understood that it would take time. Anders was good-natured and selfless, and he genuinely cared about others, the centurions most of all. And in truth Bierns wasn't proud of himself … because what he was doing amounted to blackmail in its most crude and brutal form. Whatever had killed Gina Inviere was equally a threat to the centurions, and he had made certain that Anders knew it. The Pyramid star had also been introduced to the ugly rumors that swirled around the ruthless persona of the Lord High Executioner. Only a monster would sacrifice his own brothers to get at the Cavils, but if this was the price, John badly wanted Sam to believe that he was capable of paying it. The First Born wasn't sure, one way or the other; he could only pray that the Cylon knew something … anything … that would get him off the hook.
. . .
Sam Anders stared at the lone centurion. He appeared calm, but inside an emotional storm was raging.
"After you execute this command," he instructed, "you'll delete the order from your logs and then overwrite the corresponding memory locations." Sam was worried that the centurion might be permanently traumatized by his death, however temporary.
He closed his eyes. He was so frightened that he could barely breathe.
"Execute."