Battlestar Galactica 2003 is a copyright of the Sci Fi Channel. Battlestar Galactica is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. Ron Moore re-imagined Glen A. Larson's original idea; but then again, most people who would be reading this already know that. My use is in no way intended to challenge or infringe upon any established copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.
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Author's Note: When I first started tossing around ideas for this trilogy in my mind, I had a definite theme in mind. But then I got in a short exchange with Brynn McK, who posed some of the questions that come out in Scene 2 of this chapter, thus helping me better focus my story. Additionally, Elentari2 made some comments during an amusing IM session, and that helped me realize I'd overlooked a few important matters in Scene 2, so her input also made that scene better. So thanks to both of them for their invaluable help, even though neither of them realized how they were helping when they did it. :)
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X – Questions of Identity"Who are you?" Dr. Drake asked Sharon as soon as Helo had settled himself in his chair.
"Sharon Valerii," she answered without missing a beat.
"No, that's just a name," Drake countered.
"That's who I am," she protested.
"No one is simply a name," Drake said. "Especially not a cylon. I want to know who you are."
"I already told you."
"You told me nothing."
"I don't know what you want."
"Wait a second," Helo interrupted. He had never seen Drake start off a session so aggressively, and it had taken him completely off-guard. He needed a moment to catch up, and the look on Sharon's face told him he wasn't alone.
"That's your one interruption," Drake snapped menacingly. "The next word out of you gets you removed from the room, Lieutenant. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Helo growled, half-hoping that Drake would dare use that one word as reason for calling in the guards. Four of them today, Helo noted, suddenly getting a bad feeling in his gut. To his disappointment, though, Drake simply nodded and turned back to Sharon.
"Approximately two years ago, Sharon Valerii arrived on the Galactica," Drake said. "She spent time here, apparently never realizing that she was a cylon. Eventually, the cylons attacked, and Lieutenant Agathon was stranded on Caprica. While there, he was joined by what he thought was Sharon Valerii."
"It was Sharon Valerii," she said. "I am Sharon Valerii."
"But Sharon Valerii was also still here on Galactica," Drake pointed out. "Were the two of you connected? Did she realize you were on Caprica?"
"No. She thought she was human."
"Were you aware that she was on Galactica?"
"Yes."
Helo was about to interrupt, but he saw a hungry gleam in Drake's eyes; he didn't dare say a word, knowing that Drake wouldn't hesitate to follow through on his threats this time. He's after something specific today, Helo realized. Something he's been building to. And I can't help Sharon if I get myself thrown out only a few minutes into the interrogation.
"You have all of the memories of the Sharon who was here on Galactica, even those she gained as you were playing her role on Caprica?" Drake asked.
"Yes," Sharon confirmed.
"And you possess all of the memories that that copy had of her early life, manufactured memories that helped her pass as human, that helped her even believe she was human."
"Yes."
"So who are you?" Drake asked again.
"Sharon Valerii."
"That's impossible." Dr. Drake leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and staring down the cylon. "Sharon Valerii is a human name, a human identity stolen by a cylon. Sharon Valerii is human, even if the cylon who assumed that name is anything but. As humans cannot combine memories of two separate bodies, you cannot be Sharon."
"You're splitting hairs," Sharon responded with a sneer.
"I don't believe I am," Drake replied. "The cylons have thousands of replacement bodies, don't they?"
"Yes."
"And some of them looked exactly like you?"
"Yes."
"How many?"
"Hundreds," Sharon said. "Thousands."
"But were they all Sharon?" Drake asked.
"Excuse me?"
"If activated, or whatever word you choose to use, would they all be just like you? Or might one or more of them be programmed with certain information missing? Could they take on completely different memories of other cylon personalities? What if there are more copies of you on Caprica? If such a copy were destroyed, would that consciousness be passed into a new body without knowledge of you here on Galactica?"
"No," Sharon said with certainty. "I'm not linked to the cylons like that anymore."
"But you were at one time?" Drake asked. "Is that something they could have done before?"
"Maybe."
"We've encountered several cylon agents within the fleet," Drake said, seemingly changing his approach. "One of them was Shelly Godfrey."
"Yes."
"And I would have to assume that other copies of that same cylon are out there somewhere."
"Yes."
"And do these other copies share the same consciousness?"
"I don't see what you--"
"It's simple," Drake sighed. "Are they the same person – the same personality – linked together and all acting for the benefit of that unifying consciousness, or are they several – dozens, hundreds, maybe even thousands – of distinct personalities who happened to be downloaded into identical bodies?"
Helo worked through Drake's words, trying to figure out exactly how the doctor could say that the concept was simple. Sharon didn't seem like she was having trouble following along, though.
"I don't know how we're constructed, really," Sharon admitted, "but I'd guess that they're all separate and distinct personalities. I was never aware of what every other Sharon was doing, and I sure as hell never behaved according to the orders of some external consciousness."
"So there are many personalities with your appearance…" Drake said, clearly considering the possibilities. "Could any of those other consciousnesses be downloaded into your body?"
Helo gasped at the question, and he saw Sharon start to look sick. He knew in his heart that she had never given that question any thought.
"What I want to know, Ms. Valerii," Drake clarified, "is whether one of those copies of you walking around back there on the Colonies could have had Shelly Godfrey's personality loaded into it. Furthermore, is it possible to download that personality into you?"
"You mean erase me and replace me with a different personality."
"I mean download into you a personality that may be less… ambiguous… in its support of either the human or cylon cause."
"You don't trust me."
"I don't even know who you are," Drake countered. "Are you the young woman who first came to Galactica? Are you the physically identical young woman who joined up with Helo on Caprica? Are you a combination of the two? Are you someone else, someone we haven't seen yet? Are you maybe a copy of Shelly Godfrey, at least in personality, but given Sharon's memories so that you can fit in? For that matter, Ms. Valerii, do you even know the answer to any of those questions?"
"I'm not Shelly Godfrey," Sharon spat, but Helo could see that as for anything else, she was at a complete loss.
"Perhaps you're simply toying with us," Drake suggested. "After all, it's not as if we can read your mind. But then again, perhaps you're every bit as sincere as you seem in your love for Helo and your child, though maybe you risk having your memory wiped and replaced by a personality that's more compliant in working toward the cylons' goals, whatever they may be."
"I am sincere."
"But we have no way of proving that, or even of knowing whether we can count on that continuing. We can only assume that there are thousands of cylon bodies, but only a handful of cylon consciousnesses – cylon models, so to speak," Drake said. "How many minds go with those bodies, Ms. Valerii?"
"I don't see why you keep asking the question," Sharon retorted angrily. "Ask as many ways as you want – I don't know the answer."
"Of course you do," Drake said in a terrifyingly calm tone that actually sent a shiver down Helo's spine. "And I think you know full well why I'm asking. Overwhelming thousands upon thousands of humaniform cylons – each of them capable of acting independently – is, perhaps, impossible to accomplish in a prolonged war of attrition. But somehow erasing only a comparative handful – hundreds rather than thousands, or maybe thousands rather than tens or hundreds of thousands – of consciousnesses might be a fairly attainable goal."
This time it was Sharon who gasped, and Helo practically roared as he sprang to his feet, his chair sliding across the room as he stared down at Drake. "Enough," he growled. "We're done here."
"Hardly," Drake answered, remaining seated and looking curiously up at the ECO.
Three powerful strides brought Helo around the table; without a word, he grabbed the front of Drake's shirt and hauled him to his feet. "We're done. You're done."
Drake didn't answer; his expression never changed, not even when the marine guards grabbed Helo from behind and pulled him away from the engineer. Instinct took over as Helo threw two powerful jabs, sending Private Carmody to the floor with blood flowing from his nose. Private Perth quickly joined him, and Helo whirled to face Seikly and Dacascos. The two remaining marines were too quick; Seikly caught Helo between the eyes with his baton, stunning him momentarily. After that, it only took the marines a few moments to beat Helo down to the floor, cuffing his hands behind his back and dragging him from the interrogation room.
"No!" Helo screamed, his legs flailing as he tried to kick the marines, struggling to regain his feet and force Drake from the room.
The last thing Helo saw before the door closed and he was hauled off to the brig was the hungry, feral smile of the engineer who was suddenly alone with his cylon subject.
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Standing by the entrance to the tent, the woman inhaled deeply, thrilled by the increasingly familiar combination of rich scents – leaves, flowers, fruits, spices, and even dirt. It smelled like youth, spring, and adventure, and she found herself feeling refreshed as she never had before.
"Have you enjoyed your time here?" a voice asked. It caught the woman by surprise, and she almost fell over as she whirled to face the man who had spent so much time speaking to her in the darkness. He circled around a tree trunk that supported the platform holding her tent.
"Yes," she answered, taking in his features.
He was old and slightly overweight, though as he approached her, he was noticeably light on his feet. "We will not be able to stay here much longer," he told her.
"I know," she admitted. She had suspected that much as soon as she saw the sad expression on his face. He seemed so familiar, but she could not place where she had seen him before. "Who are you?"
"Is that really the question you want to ask most?"
"No," she admitted. "Who am I?"
"Not yet," the old man told her. "Soon."
"Then where are we?" she asked, suddenly extremely frustrated with her visitor and the conversation. "How did I get here?"
"We're somewhere safe," the man assured her. "I know you'd probably like an answer that's more specific, but as to that question, there's no more to say – the simple fact is that the planet doesn't have a name. As for how you got here, that's simple – I brought you here. I knew this planet would be safe."
"It feels safe," the woman commented.
"And do you know why we can't stay?"
"I don't belong here," she answered without a moment's hesitation.
"You don't?"
"No. But I wish I did. It's… it's beautiful. It's peaceful."
"Does the peace bother you? Does it make you desire to be somewhere else?" the man asked, now smiling with amusement at the thought.
"No," she said. "I wish I could stay. But it feels… wrong. I belong somewhere else."
"Somewhere without peace." His words, spoken so softly, were a perfect, painful summation of her feelings on the subject.
"Yes," she agreed. "Do you know where I belong?"
"I know where you were, though I can't say if you belonged there," the man explained evasively, once more irritating the woman with what she increasingly felt were intentionally cryptic replies. "But you needed rest."
"I was injured."
"To put it mildly," the man said with a nod.
"Was it bad?" If she feared the question, she was absolutely terrified by the answer.
"You were dead."
"Dead." The woman took a few tentative steps backward, putting some space between her and her visitor. "You expect me to believe you brought me back from the dead?"
"I'm a very good doctor," the man replied with an indulgent smile. "When it comes to medicine, the great god Apollo has nothing on me."
"So you healed mortal wounds?" the woman said, trying to find some way of asking her question without admitting – either to him or herself – that she believed she'd been dead.
"Yes," the man sighed, as if the accomplishment were nothing of note. "Though in the end, I did little more than bring you here. It was your new friends who helped you regain your strength, who nursed you back to health."
"What are they?"
"They call themselves the parvulai."
"They're friendly."
"They don't know malice," the man explained. "They don't know fear. Or hatred. Or vengeance. When they saw you, they saw only a creature in need of aid; they responded without thought of reward or duty. It's simply in their nature to assist those in need."
"My people aren't like that."
"No." If there was any emotion in the word, it was disappointment.
The woman waited several minutes, thinking on what the man had said. "Why did you bring me here?"
"Humanity was driven from its home. Do you not remember?"
"There was a war," the woman said, images filling her mind as soon as the man asked the question.
"Yes," he agreed. "And you lost. You fled. The planet we're standing on – the home of the parvulai – is slightly more than ten light years from your home planet."
"My people are coming here?"
"No. The survivors are going in the opposite direction."
Again, the woman took several minutes to think over the situation. There's a reason he brought me here, something I need to see, or hear, or realize…
"The parvulai are in danger, aren't they?"
"Yes."
"Because of what we did?"
The man nodded, a grim expression on his face. "Your enemies will come here eventually."
"My enemies," she repeated. "The cylons." She didn't know how she knew the word – she wasn't even sure what a cylon was – but she knew they were her enemies.
"The cylons drove you from your homes, they ravaged your worlds. Humans created the cylons, and then ran away when their creations rose up and attacked them."
"We couldn't win," the woman objected. "The war was over."
"Humans created the cylons," the man repeated, now sounding irritated, even angry. "You tried to play god; you fashioned intelligent machines to serve you. Now your rebellious children have taken over your household, and your neighbors will suffer."
"The parvulai."
"They live simply and peacefully. They have no knowledge of humans or their mistakes. The parvulai will be lambs to the slaughter, butchered on the altar of human fear, shortsightedness, and irresponsibility."
"What can I do?" The woman knew the man wanted her to take action, to change the future he was warning would come to pass.
"What makes you believe you can do anything?"
"I'm still alive, aren't I?" she reasoned. "As long as I'm alive, I can do something. We can do something."
"And what would you do?" he challenged. "Humans are a dangerous species; they have a singular talent for destroying all that they touch. Your greatest advances come in times of war, when you're preoccupied with seeking news ways of destroying each other. Perhaps it's fitting that your greatest accomplishment – creation of a new, intelligent species – should be your undoing."
"You sound as if you'd prefer that we die."
"And you've failed to present a reason to feel otherwise," the man responded. "You've demonstrated a willingness to survive, but not a reason. Tell me – why does humanity deserve to survive?"
"Why are you asking me that question?"
"Because you are your people's representative," the man explained.
"You know who I am?"
"You're Laura Roslin, the President of the Colonies, the last surviving member of the old Colonial government."
"Laura," she muttered, feeling something fall into place in her mind. She couldn't remember anything else beyond that, but knowing her name meant a lot. She had a feeling of identity again.
"Your people are at war, struggling and dying as they flee," the man said. "You sacrifice your ideals here and there, all in the name of survival. But what does survival mean if you lose all that you are in the process?"
"What does retaining our identity and values mean if we end up dead because of it?" Roslin countered.
"A species' worth is not defined only by its values," the man explained. "It's also defined by its willingness to cling to those values when they're threatened. Look at the parvulai," he said, pointing to two young creatures carrying a third up toward the forest canopy.
"They help each other," Roslin said.
"Caring for each other is one of their values; it's a part of their identity, even part of their nature," the man said. His eyes bored into Roslin's as he spoke, and she found herself as troubled by his gaze as she did by his words. "When winter comes to this region, it will last a long time. And the strong will not abandon the weak, even if it means their own lives. Humans are not made of such stern stuff. When the cylons came, those who could run, did."
Roslin gasped as she was hit with a flash of forgotten memory. I abandoned the survivors who didn't have FTL drives, she remembered. In her heart, she stood by the decision – to have done otherwise would have gotten everyone killed. But she saw what the man meant. I can talk about how humans will care for each other, I can preach night and day about our values, but when faced with life or death, we will always cut our losses and sacrifice the weak so that the strongest will survive.
"You're beginning to understand," the man said with a nod, as if he could read her mind.
"Why does humanity deserve to survive?" Roslin asked, turning on her heel and looking out through the rustling leaves around her. It's not enough to go back to my people and lead them, she decided. I have to provide direction, and vision. And to do that, I have to be able to answer why we deserve, as a species, to survive.
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Helo took a deep breath when he heard approaching footsteps, leaning back against the wall of the alcove, listening carefully to make sure that only one person was approaching. It's only him, he decided, certain that his target didn't have any marines protecting him this time. When he guessed Doctor Drake was only a few feet away, Helo stepped from his hiding place, pistol in hand, eliciting a startled cry from the engineer.
"I won't let you hurt her," Helo growled, raising his pistol and pressing the barrel against Drake's forehead.
"There's an old fable I heard years ago that maybe you should keep in mind," Drake suggested, suddenly appearing eerily calm in his predicament.
"Really," Helo muttered sarcastically.
"Yes, really," Drake assured him. "You see, a man bought a goose, and the morning after he brought it home, he was amazed to find that the goose laid golden eggs. He kept his eye on that goose, and every morning the man found a new golden egg. The man knew that as long as the goose kept laying the eggs, it wouldn't take him long to lift himself out of his poverty; but the man grew impatient. Instead of waiting for the eggs, he decided to cut the goose open and take out the gold that was waiting for him inside. And do you know what happened?"
"Do tell," Helo grunted, still staring down the barrel of his pistol, refusing to be distracted by Drake's story.
"All he found inside was bits of goose."
"Bits of goose, huh?"
"There was no gold, no treasure, nothing special at all," Drake explained. "What was special about the goose was not what it was, but what it gave the man on a regular basis."
"What's your point?"
"We've conducted autopsies on cylons," Drake answered. "We've dissected them, run chemical and genetic analyses, and we've exposed their tissue to radiation. I dare say we've learned all we're likely to learn from cylon corpses, and I see no reason to repeat past experiments."
"So you're saying you're not going to kill her," Helo surmised.
"Correct."
"That still leaves a lot available to you," he pointed out, imagining all the horrors that could still be inflicted on Sharon while keeping her alive.
"There are some who've pointed that out," Drake admitted. "We could experiment with Ms. Valerii, maybe see how she responds to electric shocks, X-rays, magnetic fields, extremes of heat and cold, maybe find out if she's vulnerable to the same poisons humans are. And we might learn a great deal that could provide us with tactical knowledge of our enemy. Or we may inadvertently kill her by stumbling upon something that she's unexpectedly vulnerable to."
"I thought that was the whole point," Helo retorted. If he thinks I'm stupid, he's in for a surprise. "I thought you were in there looking for weaknesses."
"I am," Drake replied. "But let's imagine, for a moment, that I discover relatively low doses of X-rays render cylons completely inoperative. So what? We'd still have to figure out a way to adapt that knowledge into a technology that would be militarily useful – to weaponize the technology – and there's no guarantee we ever could. And even if we did, all that would do is help us destroy cylons."
"Once again – I thought that was the point."
"No," Drake said, shaking his head. "Destroy a cylon, and it just gets downloaded into a new body. Destroy that new body, and another is there to replace it. Over and over… We've destroyed cylons, Lieutenant. Individual cylons. We know we can do that. What we want to learn – what we need to learn – is how to destroy cylon civilization; not only how to destroy an individual cylon, but how to keep it dead, how to stop it from resurrecting. If we know how to do that, then I'd have to assume that we would then know how to hurt them not just individually, but as a species, as a civilization."
"Huh?"
"I work with Ms. Valerii not to learn how to hurt cylons, or damage cylons, or even destroy cylons… I work with her to learn how to make war against the cylons, how to destroy their civilization as they did to humans, how to eradicate them as a species the way they seem to want to do with humans. That's my goal. If we can show we can hurt them as terribly as they hurt us, then maybe…" Drake's voice trailed off as he suddenly appeared lost in his own thoughts.
"Maybe they'll leave us alone," Helo suggested.
"Perhaps. But to get to that point, I think we need Ms. Valerii's cooperation. I like having you in the room with me so that she feels comfortable, as if she has a choice to work with us instead of being a prisoner who's being interrogated." Drake seemed to relax as Helo finally lowered his weapon, sliding it into the holster on his hip. "But beneath that comfort, I need her to feel as if there's still the hint of danger, that if she stalls indefinitely there will be consequences. As Ares might say, you get farther with a kind word and a gun than you do with just a kind word. I need Ms. Valerii to believe that I'm capable of violence, that I'm capable of hurting her. Every time you protest, every time you challenge my authority, it weakens my position… it weakens humanity's position. Because remember, Lieutenant, she's not just the mother of your child; she's also the one and only prisoner we have, the sole source of intelligence that may help prevent humanity's extinction."
"So you want me to be quiet."
"That's what I wanted before," Drake replied with a shrug. "The quieter, more obedient, more uncharacteristically docile you were, the more Ms. Valerii might react to the tension in the room. I fear that maybe now that tension may be lessened somewhat."
"I could act like I--"
"No," Drake interrupted. "She knows you too well; she'd know you were faking. No, Ms. Valerii needs to fear me and what I'm capable of doing. She needs to see me at my worst."
"You swore you wouldn't hurt her," Helo reminded the doctor, his hand slowly inching back toward his hip.
"Yes, I did," Drake admitted.
Helo never even saw the punch coming. One moment he was staring Drake down, preparing himself to draw his sidearm if necessary; the next moment he was doubled over on the floor, feeling as if the punch had actually been a cannonball shot to his stomach. Helo gasped for air, doubled over on the floor, when he felt Drake pull the pistol from his holster. Oh, frak…
"I will not endanger my research by putting Ms. Valerii at risk," Drake assured Helo. "You have my word on that, Lieutenant, and I will not go back on my word. But as I said, Ms. Valerii must have at least a small degree of fear; she must understand what I'm capable of doing. She'll have that reminder every time she looks at you."
"I'm gonna frakking ki--" Helo's threat was cut off when Drake kicked him in the face. A heavy, coppery taste filled Helo's mouth, and his head was swimming. Spots clouded his vision, and he felt pieces of at least two teeth sloshing around in the blood in his mouth.
"Don't think I enjoy this, Lieutenant," Drake said, "because I truly don't. In fact, the only comfort I have is that I know full well you're more than willing to take this beating if it means the cylon and your baby will be safe."
Helo kept silent, but admitted to himself that about that much, at least, Drake was correct.
"Ms. Valerii is this fleet's golden goose, and I will not have her harmed or carved up. But you, Lieutenant… I have no qualms about making an example of you."
To be continued……………………………