WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS SEXUAL CONTENT
CHAPTER 3
MOTHER AND CHILD
"Captain Apollo, it's a pleasure to meet you at last." Sharon Baltar got up from her desk, and walked around to offer Lee her hand.
"Thank you, Madam … um … Mrs. Baltar." The two of them shook hands.
"Don't be embarrassed, Lee," Tory Foster said with a grin. "We get that a lot around here. Old habits do indeed die hard."
Sharon gestured toward the chair, and then returned to her side of the desk. Colonial One was now parked on the surface of New Caprica, and everyone expected it to serve as the presidential residence for the foreseeable future.
"And how is my sister," Sharon asked as she returned to her seat.
"Big," Apollo laughed, "and she's getting bigger all the time. We still have about three months to go, but Creusa swears that she's on the verge of exploding!"
"Is that why you resigned your commission … so that you could stay home and take care of her?"
"Actually, Madam Pres …"
"Lee, why don't you just call me Sharon? It might simplify things."
"Uh … thank you," he gratefully replied. "I suppose you know that's how people refer to you out there … out in the streets, I mean."
"Yes, Lee, I do," Sharon said in an amused tone. "What makes it so funny is that I was programmed to be a lowly maintenance worker. Changing a light bulb was supposed to be the biggest challenge I would ever face."
"Well, you're a gifted politician." It was a compliment, but Apollo meant it. "You have what's known as 'the common touch'. Maybe we need to put more maintenance workers in charge around here."
"Amen," Tory muttered under her breath.
"Your resignation, Captain," Sharon prompted.
Lee grinned sheepishly. "I wish that my motives were so noble, but the truth is … I need to get some sleep."
"So, Creusa hasn't … settled down?"
"That depends strictly on your point of view," the exhausted CAG freely confessed. "Three or four months ago, when we weren't making love, she wanted to rearrange various parts of my anatomy. Now, she just wants to make love … more or less continuously. I honestly don't know how Karl managed to hold up. Sorry, Sharon," Lee blushed; "if I wasn't so tired, I would have phrased that differently."
"That's all right, Lee." Sharon swiveled her chair so that she could glance out a nearby porthole. "Poor Gaius," she mused. "He's far too polite to ask, but he must be terrified. He has to be wondering whether an Eight who's carrying twins will prove to be twice as … insatiable."
"She mates, and then she kills," Tory snickered knowingly. It had been more than two weeks since their new President had first shared his steadily mounting sense of frustration with his Chief of Staff. Gaius had complained that Sharon no longer seemed interested in sex, and that he was beginning to climb the walls. Tory had jumped at the opportunity to become Baltar's piece of extra-marital ass, but she knew that it wouldn't last. There would come a time when Sharon wouldn't simply frak her husband—she'd devour him.
"Where is the President," Lee asked. He didn't really care, but he figured that it would be impolite not to inquire.
"He's up on Galactica, attending to another matter. You know, Captain, the presidency is an extremely demanding position. Gaius and I are in over our heads, and we are not shy about asking for help. We rely heavily upon Tory and Billy, and now I want to impose upon you as well."
"Me?" Apollo couldn't contain his surprise.
"Yes, Captain. It's my understanding that you served as Laura Roslin's military advisor. I would like you to assist me in the same capacity."
"I'll be happy to help in any way that I can, but you would be better off with a liaison officer who's still on active duty."
"No, Lee; for what I have in mind, you are the perfect choice. I need an experienced pilot who grasps strategy as well as tactics. You work comfortably with Cylons and centurions, and you have been deeply involved in the integration of our forces. The fact that you are married to a Cylon, and that the two of you will soon be devoting your time in a quite single-minded fashion to raising your daughter, also supplies you with perfect cover."
"Cover? Cover for what?" Apollo's confusion was evident on his face.
"Lee, all the Cylons in this fleet … all of us … are people of deep faith. We believe … all of us … that our scriptures are the word of God. And our scriptures tell us that Kara Thrace will guide us to our new home. Since Kara did not discover this planet, it therefore follows that one day we shall leave this place. But will we go peacefully and of our own volition, or will we be fleeing the Cavils and their servants? Gaius and I are planning for the worst; it would be irresponsible of us to do otherwise. If the Cavils find us, they may simply nuke the settlement from orbit. We cannot prevent them from destroying us, but we can draw up plans to defend ourselves against every other contingency, the most likely of which would be an outright military occupation. We are now in the process of doing so. My husband and I have initiated certain projects that are meant to see us through such a crisis, and it would not surprise me to learn that John and the Admiral are doing a little planning of their own. However, I haven't asked because I don't want to know."
"Captain, 'Madam President' is choosing her words here very, very carefully," Tory emphasized. The expression on her face was deadly serious. "We both know in broad strokes what the President is trying to accomplish on Galactica this afternoon, but we know none of the details. Sharon has initiated a number of projects about which Gaius knows nothing, and to which we have denied ourselves access. We believe that the key to our survival is keeping everything compartmentalized. People can't give up what they don't know."
"So how do I fit in, and what am I supposed to tell Creusa?" Lee was close to being physically sick. It suddenly hit him that the bill for having fallen in love was now coming due. His anxiety level was going off the charts, and it was all because of the implied threat to his wife and daughter.
"No one's been paying much attention," Sharon noted, "but the centurions on our manufacturing platforms are working around the clock. We are still quietly generating fifty-six Raiders and twelve Heavy Raiders every week, and the production schedule won't slow down when Natalie leaves. Lee, what I want you to do is take charge of the inventory. Scour the planet, and find places where you can hide our assets—under forest canopies, inside caves … whatever you deem appropriate."
"You'll need to set up fuel and ammo dumps," Tory intervened, "communications … and you should give some thought to maintenance … not only equipment and supplies but also personnel. Cylons and centurions can operate outside the temperate zone, but do keep in mind that creating a blended society is the highest purpose of this government. So, our only stipulation is that you draw upon both humans and Cylons to achieve your objectives. The rest is up to you. Design a defense for us, and requisition anything you need from Colonel Phillips, including personnel; he's expecting to hear from you."
"My gods," Lee gulped, "you've really thought about this! But what am I supposed to tell Creusa?"
"That you've taken a government job— National Security Advisor to the president's office." Tory frowned thoughtfully. "Roslin never had an independent civilian advisor in this area, which condemned her to an unhealthy reliance upon your father that at times did not serve her well. Everyone will see this as further evidence of our distrust for the military, and most will conclude that you are finally trying to step away from your father's shadow. You'll be able to hide what you're doing in plain sight."
"Lee, Tom Zarek will never assume the presidency." Sharon had decided to lay all of her cards down on this particular Triad table. "It is far too early to say whether Gaius will seek re-election, but I can say with certainty that you will be the next president of the Colonies. The office will remain in human hands, but whoever succeeds us must be married to a Cylon, and must have at least one hybrid child. Human and cylon can never retreat from the commitments that we have made to each other, so I will groom you for the job because you share our convictions, and you will never waver from them."
Apollo was so stunned that he literally did not know what to say.
And Sharon went for the kill.
"Creusa is the finest warrior in the collective, but there's something about her that you probably don't know."
"What," he managed to gasp.
"After the attacks, she went down to hunt survivors in the jungles of Scorpia. The centurions were useless there, and the conditions so harsh that most of our people quickly lost their enthusiasm for the fight. Creusa was the exception. She flourished in an environment that drove everyone else away. Your wife is a predator, Lee, and a superb guerilla fighter. If we are attacked, she will insist upon leading the resistance, and I don't want you to get in her way. I'll be dead …"
Sharon stole a quick glance at the centurion standing, a silent sentinel, in the corner of her office. She had given her personal guardian a string of orders, any one of which could be activated with a simple codeword.
"And Gaius will be in hiding, directing the government from a secret location. We will be relying upon you and Creusa to coordinate our defense. Lee, I hope that none of this ever comes to pass, but if it does … get our people off this planet alive, Captain Apollo, and they will probably insist on naming you President for life."
Sharon stood up, signaling that the meeting was over. "We will see a great deal of each other in the days to come, Mr. Adama, but we will never again speak of these things. Do whatever you have to do, but spare us the details."
. . .
"Is everybody comfy," Cavil smugly asked. It had been a wonderful day, and it was about to get better. He had decided not to box his two prisoners, but to bring them along for the ride. They were heavily chained, but it was the collars that put him firmly in control.
"Pardon my display of bad manners," he added once the centurions had strapped the two women into their seats. "D'Anna, this is Aspasia, the first Six of the brief-lived second generation. Aspasia, this particular copy is the first Three— papa Sam's personal favorite. You two have so much in common. For the longest time, in fact, the two of you were the only copies in the collective to have conceived a child."
"There were others, One, but you slaughtered them all." The raw hatred to be heard in Aspasia's voice was surpassed only by the fire in her eyes. Given the chance, she would have killed her brother on the spot.
"Ah, that's true," Cavil sighed. "You'll have to forgive me, sister; my memory isn't what it used to be."
"There's nothing wrong with your memory," D'Anna observed; "it's all the glitches in your programming that worry us."
"True," he conceded; "that's all too true. For example, I almost forgot to test this little device of mine and make sure that it works on both of you." Cavil turned the knob on the controller, and D'Anna screamed in pain.
"Now, in theory, if I flick this switch here …"
Aspasia began to spasm, the pain so overwhelming that she couldn't take in enough oxygen to voice it. A pitiful mewling sound escaped her lips, followed by a small trickle of blood.
"And on this setting …"
The two Cylon females both screamed in unison, and they didn't stop until Cavil reluctantly chose to disarm the controller.
"Let's see," he added as he began to tick off points on his fingers. "Corrupt the genetic formula for the Twos and Threes, and put all of the genetic material into an airlock. Check. Put all of the CPU's housing boxed Twos and Threes into said airlock. Check. Vent everything into space. Check. Hmmm … I think we're done here."
But D'Anna and Aspasia refused to play Cavil's game. "What's wrong with this Eight," Aspasia asked instead.
A nude Eight was crouched against the opposite wall of the Heavy Raider. She was staring fixedly at her two sisters, but hadn't reacted to their screams in any way.
"Oh, she has needs," Cavil smirked, "and I'm afraid that neither of you can fulfill them. Now, if you were male, and your hormones were acting up, I can assure you that she wouldn't be quite this docile. You see, she now has one thing, and only one thing, on the brain. We've switched her on, and she'll stay switched on until she gets pregnant. That's the only thing that will shut her down …"
"You son of a bitch," Aspasia snarled. "You did this to your own sisters?"
"Hey, Ellen wanted the Eights to serve as the vanguard that would lead us all into her brave new world! Well, we've come to the conclusion that she had the right idea all along, but these days we're in a bit of a hurry, so we've slimmed the program down a bit. We won't have to endure all those time-consuming courtship and bonding rituals, and love is no longer a part of the equation. The new baseline is sex, in its purest, most unadulterated form. Of course, in the end the Eights' many hybrid whelps will serve our purposes … not Ellen's."
"Still planning on conquering the universe," Aspasia mocked.
"Yes, my dear … and we've made a lot of progress while you've been away. Our new baseships are state-of-the-art, but the hybrids simply haven't been able to keep up. Your daughter was supposed to rectify that little problem for us, but alas, her older brother's interference has caused her to slip through our fingers. Think of the Eight as plan B."
"All of this scheming will come to nothing, brother." D'Anna's voice rang with assurance. "God has other plans, and our children will bring them to pass."
"Our parents are many things," Cavil snapped, "but god isn't one of them."
As he engaged the controls and pulled away from the Colony, Cavil looked malevolently at his two younger sisters.
"We have to make a detour before rejoining the fleet," he said in a voice dripping with malice. "I need to contaminate the amniotic fluid in which the husks of the Twos and Threes are being matured, and we're going to pick up a third passenger. You'll quite like this particular Six, D'Anna. She was one of the first three to infiltrate the Colonies, and damned if she didn't go and fall in love with your son. I promise you, we're going to do everything we can to arrange a family reunion—a tearful, family reunion."
Cavil punched in the first set of coordinates, and the Heavy Raider jumped away.
. . .
"Well, well … well," Romo exclaimed. "It's President Gaius Baltar, and the chief spy!" He peered at the new arrivals over the top of his dark glasses. "To what do my clients and I owe this singular honor?"
Lampkin and the three Simons had been cooling their heels in the interrogation room for the last fifty minutes. Romo presumed that Bierns and the President were trying to get under his skin, but the wily attorney had wasted far too much time in courthouse corridors to be upset by so obvious a ruse. Still, Romo could not help but admire the spook's professionalism: a less subtle man would have allowed a full hour to pass before forcing this confrontation.
Bierns looked directly into the mirror and drew an imaginary knife across his throat. In the observation booth, the two marines currently on duty instantly turned off the audio and visual feeds. Although it violated posted regulations, this wasn't the first time that they had been ordered to shut down their equipment, and neither man expected it to be the last.
"Mr. Lampkin, this meeting is off the grid." Bierns didn't bother with introductions.
"Major, for those of us who don't speak spy, would you care to translate?"
"We're here to offer your clients a choice between two unpalatable alternatives, and we don't want witnesses."
"We would very much like them to work for us on a classified project that falls a bit outside my areas of expertise, and in any event will require more time than I can set aside," Baltar volunteered. "If they agree to cooperate, their lives will be spared. If they achieve concrete and independently verifiable results, they'll receive a full pardon." Gaius reached into one of his jacket pockets and pulled out three unsigned copies of the official document. He passed them over to the lawyer for his inspection.
"If they turn us down," Bierns said in a dangerously flat tone, "they will be taken directly from this chamber to a Heavy Raider, which will immediately jump to a point well outside resurrection range. There each of them will have an opportunity to discover how long a Cylon can survive in space without a protective suit. Rumor has it that the answer is … not very long."
"Major, surely you're aware of the fact that my clients haven't been formally charged with a crime. It pains me to say it, but they are entitled to a trial."
"Don't be silly, Mr. Lampkin. You know as well as I do that justice is a figment of the imagination. We live in a world of expedient outcomes."
"What is it that you want us to do," one of the Simons asked.
"We want you to develop a biological weapon," Baltar answered. "We require an airborne contaminant that can stay dormant in the vacuum of space for a very long time. The ideal pathogen would be fatal to any Cylon who comes in contact with it, but we need the carrier to be asymptomatic. In the best of all possible worlds, Raiders and centurions would be fully immune."
"You want us to exterminate our own people?" Bierns thought that he detected a note of outrage in the Simon's voice, but with Fours it was hard to be sure.
"We have no intention of unleashing such a weapon against the cylon species," Baltar said in a huff. "As a last resort, it will be targeted against the Ones, but we will go to elaborate lengths to insure that it does not infect the Cylons in this fleet. Genocide is not at issue here."
"Fours don't have a problem with genocide, Mr. President. As counsel for the defense so eloquently phrased it yesterday in court, they are morally incompetent. They just want assurances that they won't become the victims of their own bug."
Baltar noticed that one of the Simons had started to sweat, which he found highly amusing.
"Well, then, I suppose that they should take care not to break anything in the lab," he chortled.
"You raise a good point, Major." Romo chose to ignore Gaius Baltar; the hybrid CSS agent was clearly a nasty piece of work, which made him endlessly fascinating. "How far are you prepared to take this? What happens if my clients succeed, and it becomes necessary to test the pathogen on living tissue?"
"We have plenty of Ones stored away on the resurrection ship. We'll use them as guinea pigs."
"Medical experiments on prisoners of war?" Romo arched his eyebrows. "Isn't this the very act for which my clients have been sent to the brig?"
"Yes, it is, Mr. Lampkin. But frankly, I'm surprised that you have yet to grasp the obvious."
"Pray tell, Major: what is it that I'm missing?"
"We're not the ones on trial here."
A very nasty piece of work, Romo decided.
"I'll do it," one of the Simons suddenly blurted out.
"Excellent," Baltar stated. He was extremely pleased with the way this meeting had played out. "You'll stay on Galactica, and I'll arrange to have a laboratory set up for you. Security will be tight, we'll incorporate the usual safety features, and I'll personally walk you through the necessary protocols and procedures. Every battlestar has samples of some really interesting viruses tucked safely away … human, avian, animal … you name it, we've got it. I'll see to it that you have access to everything except the strains that would wipe us out. We wouldn't," the President laughed, "want to put temptation squarely in your path!"
Bierns twirled his finger high over his head, and in moments a full squad of marines arrived to escort the Fours back to their cell. But Baltar gestured for Lampkin to remain in his seat.
"Let's talk about the Sixes," the President suggested. "They're such lovely creatures, but in this case … would it be fair to say that your clients really are clueless?"
"They are guilty of serious crimes, Mr. President, but the very concept is meaningless to them. However the panel of judges decides, justice will not be served here."
"I tend to agree, which is why I am inclined to look for a solution that simultaneously acknowledges both their guilt and their innocence. The major and I have come up with what we hope is an acceptable compromise—and, a reasonably just one. Unfortunately, I have to get back to the surface to chair a Quorum meeting, but please carry on in my absence. I will honor the specifics of whatever agreement the two of you hammer out." With that, Gaius excused himself and left the room.
The two men looked warily at one another. Bierns had already developed a healthy respect for his opponent, but he also knew that he held the winning hand. Only a fool believed that trials were decided on the basis of the evidence, or that Triad pots always flowed to the best hand. Romo Lampkin was no fool.
"You're very good in the courtroom." Bierns decided to open with a heartfelt compliment. "Your cross-examination of Polyxena Atreides dovetailed beautifully with your opening statement. You've transformed your clients into well-meaning victims of their own ignorance so convincingly that I doubt if you'll even have to present the defense. Right now, I'd say that the judges will vote 4-1 for acquittal."
"That's an interesting assessment, Major—coming as it does from a man who hasn't spent one minute in the courtroom. Of course, that's why we're having this conversation, isn't it? The sheer brilliance of my legal maneuvering notwithstanding, in the end the judges will vote exactly the way that you and the President want them to vote. From the outset, I have gone on the presumption that this farce is strictly for public consumption."
"Ah, so you do have a keen grasp of reality after all," Bierns conceded with a grudging smile. John thought it over, and decided that he liked Romo Lampkin. The man reminded him of General Berriman.
"Obviously, neither you nor the President wants to see the Sixes go to the gallows." Romo was drumming his fingers on the tabletop. "Just out of curiosity, Major: did you script Miss Cassidy's lines for her? She's a defense lawyer's dream come true. Every third word out of her mouth creates another opening for me to exploit."
"No, Mr. Lampkin; we've left her very much to her own devices. The President has enormous faith in you. He is convinced that your rhetorical skills are up to any and every challenge."
"So, when the curtain falls, Major, how will the drama end?"
"Everyone lives more or less happily ever after. In your closing statement, you will argue that your clients are misguided and therefore deserve leniency. But you will also acknowledge that a great wrong was committed here, and that the victims deserve justice no less than the defendants. You will ask the court not to punish these Sixes so much as to educate them in the meaning of right and wrong. They'll each receive a two year sentence, to be served in the New Caprica City jail, but five thousand hours of community service will keep them busy. They'll spend fifty hours a week washing out bed pans, digging ditches … whatever the needs of the moment require. When it's over, they enter our gloriously blended society with a clean slate."
A less seasoned attorney would have been hard pressed to mask his surprise, but Romo Lampkin had learned a lot more from Joe Adama than the intricacies of the law. The deal being offered him was far better than the one that he had been prepared to accept. For a fleeting moment, he wondered why his adversaries were being so generous.
Bierns got up to leave. "Oh," he added; "one last thing. In my absence, some of my friends will be keeping a close eye on your clients. If they cause any trouble … any trouble at all? They will be terminated and boxed, and when I return I will personally see to it that the CPU's are dumped into the nearest sun."
. . .
Kara was holding her breath, and trying desperately not to move. Every pass of Boomer's tongue grazed the spot, and sent another wave of pleasure coursing through her. The muscles in her thighs were on fire, the warmth spreading outward, her body coming increasingly alive with anticipation.
"Gods," she finally moaned, "where did you learn to do this?" The second born of the hybrid children would have sworn that her brain was melting, a lava flow destined sooner rather than later to enter the sea between her legs.
Sharon tasted her juices, and noted in passing that Kara's flow was much heavier than it had been when they first started making love. And Sharon knew why, for in this as in so many things, she knew Kara much better than Kara knew herself. Boomer understood that Kara could never completely surrender herself to a man, for she confused surrender with submission. With Lee … even with Zak … she had always held back, kept the edge that allowed her to maintain control. Sensing no threat from this direction, Kara had opened herself completely to her cylon lover, the need to balance passion with anger finally banished.
"Do you love me," Sharon paused just long enough to whisper.
"Yes," Kara hissed; "oh, gods … yes … yes … yes!"
Kara screamed as the orgasm started to build inside her, and desperately she reached out to grasp Boomer's head and hold it rigidly in place. Kara's body morphed into a living and very taut bow, and the cylon slipped her hands beneath her in order to get a firm grip on her shapely buttocks. Now Kara truly could not move. She was pinned by Boomer's hands and transfixed by Boomer's tongue. She screamed and screamed and screamed. . . .
"Do you think that anybody heard us," Boomer teased. It was a rhetorical question because they were in her bed on Olivia's baseship, and all Cylons had very keen hearing.
"Let's make sure," Kara replied. She kissed Boomer passionately, and then she reared back and screamed at the ceiling.
"Kara Thrace Six loves Sharon Valerii Eight! Do you hear me? I said … Kara Thrace Six loves Sharon Valerii Eight!"
"And Sharon Valerii Eight loves Kara Thrace Six," Boomer yelled in turn.
The two of them started to giggle helplessly, and in the surrounding chambers a surprisingly large number of Cylons smiled proudly. Their daughter was happy. She was finally happy.
And in a matter of days, it would all come crashing down.
They had confronted Adama in his quarters, the admiral's two surrogate daughters, each of them certain that they would get what they wanted. Kara would captain the Adriatic on the long journey to the cylon Earth, but she wanted Boomer to manage the ship so that she could concentrate on planetary surveys and somehow fulfill the destiny that cylon scripture had preordained for the second born child, the Guide.
But Adama had refused, and he had been adamant. When the Tighs had let it be known that they wanted to move down to the planet to be with their children and grandchildren, Bill had decided that Sonja Six would take Saul's place in the CIC while continuing to serve as Galactica's CAG. It was brutal duty, but he was confident that the Cylon could handle it. Apollo's abrupt resignation from the Colonial military had, however, created a gaping hole in Natalie's command structure. Kat would take over Kara's administrative duties, but her pregnancy would leave her desk bound on Pelea's baseship. Bill had leapt at Natalie's suggestion that they promote Racetrack to replace Lee, but Margaret had never exercised command, and it would take her time to learn the ropes. The admiral had patiently explained that he therefore needed Boomer to remain as CAG on Olivia's baseship. The two young women had been furious, and Bill had only managed to calm them down by confiding some of the highly classified details of John Bierns' strategic plan. Outnumbered and outgunned, he was planning on waging an asymmetric campaign that, in its initial phases, would rely heavily upon hit and run tactics that would severely challenge cylon air wings that had historically relied upon sheer weight of numbers to dominate the battlefield. John needed Boomer, and Adama had eventually worn them both down by appealing to their sense of duty.
"When this is all over," Kara sighed.
"Don't," Boomer admonished. She put her fingers on Kara's lips. "Don't jinx us. You go find Earth, or some other habitable rock, and hurry home. I'm gonna go kick Cavil's ass, and put a permanent dent in his maniacal plans for galactic conquest. Who knows? By the time I get back, I may even have my own baseship."
"Just come back in one piece," Kara pleaded.
"Hey, I'm a Cylon! There's a resurrection ship parked out there that has my name on it!"
"But it won't be there to support you the whole time … that's not the way John's laid it out. I love you, Sharon; please … be careful!"
. . .
"Maybe," Helo finally managed to gasp. He was bent over, clutching his sides. He was sure that he had never laughed this hard in his entire life.
"Go on," Sharon urged. Hera was screaming so loudly that she wasn't sure that Karl could hear her.
"We ought to put up a sign," he finished. "EIGHTS … ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!"
"One of us needs to change her," Sharon warned.
"I'll do it," Karl volunteered. "I'm used to sticky situations."
Helo picked up his tiny daughter, and carried her over to the changing table. Although they were at the very top of the list to receive an apartment once the population of the Adriatic had been settled, the Agathon family was still living in a tent. It was packed with Hera's things, and not all of them had come back from the Colonies with Natalie's expedition. Sharon had been enormously touched when human women, total strangers, had begun to drop by with gifts for the baby. Knitted booties, homemade sweaters … one of Galactica's deck crew had even manufactured a harness that would leave her hands free when she was carrying the baby against her chest. She was careful never to go out in public without first dressing Hera in one or more of the many gifts that they had received.
"Hey, Hera, did you have to hit her with one of your patented stink bombs?" Helo nuzzled his nose against her chest, and quickly ran through his catalog of funny sounds. Hera instantly stopped crying, and Karl looked up into her unnaturally large eyes. He saw the wisdom of the ages there. Indeed, he would have sworn on a stack of scriptures as high as Mount Peleon that his daughter knew everything that was to be known in the universe. He saw this frightening wisdom in the eyes of every newborn child, and as always, he now found himself asking how at some point it would all slip away.
"I've never seen one of my sisters run like that," Sharon laughed. "The look of sheer, unmitigated terror on her face … was Hera actually spitting at her?"
"I don't know," Karl answered; "but I do know that our little girl has an impeccable sense of timing. Don't you, Hera? You don't like your aunts very much, do you sweetheart? You scream your little head off just about every time one of them picks you up."
"Poor Eight," Sharon lamented. "It's one thing to have Hera kick up a fuss, but to poop like that … and it was so loud!" She caught Helo's eye, and they both started laughing again. Hera, for her part, began to gurgle contentedly.
"The thing that gets me," Karl observed, "is how she can always tell that they're not you. I mean, she never misses, and yet the other Eights are identical to you in every way."
"No, they're not," Sharon countered. "For one thing, they're not lactating."
"So, what … you smell different to her?"
"Helo, don't I smell different to you?" Sharon's tone was very soft, and something in it made the lanky pilot look up. Sharon had drifted close, and she was staring up at him with that inviting yet quizzical way of hers that always made him go weak in the knees.
"You know what today is, don't you?" Devils were dancing in Sharon's eyes, and Karl felt himself start to harden.
"It's been six weeks," Karl breathed; "six weeks and two days." His body was coming alive with long suppressed desire.
"Been counting, have you," Sharon breathed into his ear.
"Weeks … days … hours … minutes," Helo conceded, his voice one deep ache. Cottle had firmly instructed them to avoid sex for the first six weeks after Hera's delivery, and they had scrupulously followed his advice. Sharon wasn't sure that she was ready physically, and she was damned certain that she wasn't ready emotionally, but she understood that Helo's love for her needed a physical outlet.
"I've arranged for Sharon Bierns to come by and take Hera for a walk … a long walk." Sharon wrapped her arms around Helo's neck, and pulled him down so that she could kiss him. "Do you think that you can take a couple of hours away from your investigation?"
Since Hera's birth, they had spent hours cuddling, and Sharon discovered that she had never loved her man as much as she did now, when the true depth of his consideration and caring had become so obvious. He was a wonderful husband, and a wonderful father. . . .
"It's the oxytocin," Ishay had explained to her. "Breast feeding is causing it to flood your body, and it's suppressing your sex drive. But you're exhausted, Sharon; anybody can see that. Even a Cylon needs rest, and you're not getting nearly enough. It may be months before you're ready to enjoy sex again."
"No, sweetheart," Ellen had patiently explained, "we did not design you to 'switch off' after the birth of your first child. Don't you want more children? Haven't you and Helo already decided to have another child? There are no hidden protocols. We gave you free will … never forget that. You are far more human than you realize, and you and Karl will have to work out the postpartum blues just like any human couple would."
"I'll give Hera her bath," Helo said, "and then I'll dress her. Why don't you get some rest?"
"I'll have to feed her; otherwise, she'll be cranky."
"I know." Karl loved to watch his wife nurse their child. Each time, he was certain that he was witnessing the most beautiful sight in all of creation. . . .
After her sister had come and gone, Sharon hung a prominent DO NOT DISTURB sign on their tent flap. Helo was already in bed, waiting for her. When she joined him, he took her in his arms and gently kissed her.
"Let's take this slow," he suggested. "And if it starts to hurt, you tell me, and we'll do something else. I want this to be good for you, Sharon."
"I love you, Helo. I wish there were better words, something I could say that has never been said before, but it's true. I love you with all my heart."
Karl Agathon was deeply, deeply touched, and it suddenly came to him that he had never loved Sharon as much as he did now. He had sought out Larissa Karanis, and the nurse had counseled him on the signs to which he should be alert in the uncharted territory of a postpartum cylon universe. But it was all guesswork. Ishay would keep a close eye on Sharon's hormonal activity, but she had stressed that Helo would have to rely on his instincts to guide him through the wilderness.
Be patient," she had advised. "Don't rush things, and follow Sharon's lead. When she's ready, she'll let you know."
Helo pulled Sharon close and kissed her again. His free hand began to wander across her body. For the moment, he was happy just to touch her … to feel the warmth of her breath and skin against his own. He would follow her forever, he realized, wherever she wanted to go.
. . .
"All right … take a deep breath, please … good … and … exhale slowly."
Dr. Michael Robert listened to the elderly Sagittaron's breathing, but he didn't need a stethoscope to determine that fluid had already begun to build up in his lungs. The telltale wheezing sound reminded the Caprican physician of a bellows that had sprung a leak. New Caprica was a damp planet, and the entire medical staff was anticipating an outbreak of respiratory infections, particularly among the very young and the very old.
While his patient dressed, Robert sat at his desk and hastily scribbled a short note to add to his file. Sagittarons didn't trust doctors, and they regarded medicine as an affront to the gods. The doctor knew that he would have to tread carefully.
"Mr. Calloney, you have a mild case of pneumonia—what lay people sometimes refer to as 'walking pneumonia'. In a younger person, I would not regard it as life threatening, but you're 71 and this is a wet climate. So, I don't want to let this go untreated because it could progress to the point where it would overwhelm your immune system's natural ability to fight back."
Dr. Robert stood up, and walked over to a tall metal cabinet. He poked around inside, found what he was searching for, and returned to his desk with a vial of pills in his hand.
"I'm giving you a ten day supply of hydroxicillin. It's an antibiotic, and it should clear out the congestion in your lungs. Take three pills a day, preferably with food, and don't stop until you've completed the full course. That's important … even if you begin to feel better in two or three days, don't stop taking the medicine. Now, this drug has been known to make people nauseous, so if you find that you can't keep it down, come back to see me as quickly as you can. I'll leave a standing order with the admissions staff for an antiemetic … that's a drug that combats nausea and vomiting. You would take it at the start of a meal … about twenty minutes before swallowing the antiviral."
Mike Robert had been practicing medicine for more than thirty years. He knew exactly what to say, and he had an entire arsenal of expressions at his disposal, all of them designed to reassure frightened patients.
"You'll be fine, Duncan … and there's nothing in hydroxicillin that violates your traditions. It's a natural product, with no artificial or chemical additives. You'll be fine." A calming voice … a sympathetic and caring demeanor—this was Mike Robert's best bedside manner. Duncan Calloney would never suspect that the expiry date on the antibiotic had long since come and gone, or that more than half the pills in the bottle were placebos. The physician had covered his tracks well. An autopsy would show trace amounts of hydroxicillin in the patient's blood stream, and everyone would assume that the Sagitttaron had stubbornly refused to follow his doctor's instructions to the letter. It would be just one more death that the authorities would chalk up to Sagittaron stupidity and superstition.
. . .
"One of you really knows her way around the kitchen," Marc Jacobs remarked with a contented sigh. He pushed his chair away from the table, and stretched his legs. "I haven't eaten this well since the last time that I was home on leave … and my mother was a very good cook."
"Philista is very talented," Sharon bragged; "and not just in the kitchen."
"I think that's my cue to leave," Philista blushed. "I've found that the best time to bargain with our neighbors is when their stomachs are full." She picked up a hamper that she had packed before Marc's arrival, and hastened from the tent.
"I'm sorry that I can't offer you anything stronger than wine," Sharon apologized. "Philista and I don't drink very much, so we sell our allotment of ambrosia and brandy on the black market. We are both content to make do with tea."
"That's all right," the young lieutenant said with a smile. "After so many months of going without, I've lost my taste for alcohol anyway."
"Marc, can I ask you a question … and demand an honest answer?"
"Sure." He knew exactly what was on Sharon's mind.
"Do you hate Cylons?"
"Six months ago," he responded truthfully, "I would have said yes. I would have condemned the lot of you without a hearing. But not anymore," he conceded. "Like everything else in life, you've become … complicated."
"And yet, my sisters tell me that after you came up from Picon to live on the baseship, you rejected everyone who approached you. I wonder: do you simply find us to be unattractive, or is it the case that you still see us as machines?"
"Neither," the lieutenant instantly protested. "On the baseship, everything happened so fast. One day you were the enemy, and the next day you became our friends and allies. It takes time to adjust to something like that. Threes, Sixes, Eights … you're all incredibly beautiful. I was flattered, and I was tempted—but I wasn't ready. And besides," he added defensively, "we were all working sixteen hours a day, every day. Most nights, I didn't even have enough energy left to get undressed. I just fell into bed, dirty clothes and all."
"So, you don't consider yourself prejudiced against us? You're open to a relationship with a Cylon?"
"I think so," he hesitantly responded. "In fact, I'm sure of it."
Sharon dropped to her knees in front of him, and steadily held his gaze. "Prove it," she softly suggested.
The young engineer visibly hesitated. He gulped, but then he leaned forward, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her deeply. Sharon welcomed the kiss, and reciprocated in kind. The moment lingered.
"Does that answer your question," he eventually whispered.
Sharon smiled, ran her fingers through his hair, and kissed him again. Her intent was transparently clear.
"But you're married … a manus ceremony," Marc said in a shocked voice.
"And my wife has very thoughtfully absented herself so that you and I might become … much better acquainted," Sharon murmured. She rose up, took the lieutenant by the hand, and led him gently to her marriage bed. "Philista believes that you are without prejudice, but she wants to be sure …"
Sharon's hands began to wander, and she kissed the lieutenant much more hungrily.
"About what," Jacobs finally managed to say. His hands had also taken on a life of their own.
"If you are truly able to accept me as a person, Philista wants me to invite you to join our household."
"A group marriage …"
"A trinity … we desire no larger number."
Sharon unbuttoned Marc's shirt, and rushed to plant kisses on his chest. Her fingers drifted below his waist; she could feel the taut muscles in his thighs.
Marc rolled Sharon onto her back, and beneath her sweater he quickly discovered that she was wearing neither blouse nor bra. His fingers lightly swept across her nipples; Sharon's whole body tensed, and she started to moan with pleasure. . . .
When Marc Jacobs awoke the following morning, he found himself sandwiched in between the beautiful young human, and her equally beautiful Cylon partner. If there was a better way to start the day, he couldn't begin to imagine what it might possibly be.
. . .
The young officer stood rigidly to attention, and held his salute. "Sir, I'm Lieutenant Kevin Riley, the first watch tactical officer on Pegasus; thank you for seeing me."
Adama looked up from the mass of paperwork that was littering his desk, and casually returned the lieutenant's salute. "At ease," he ordered. Bill returned to the fuel consumption report that was the source of his current headache. The fleet was awash in tylium, but the cylon tanker would be heading out with Natalie's baseships, and it would be carrying every drop of processed fuel that its enormous nacelles could hold. The Adriatic was being outfitted with auxiliary pods that would dramatically extend its range, while the rest of the fleet was continuously burning off fuel just to maintain its geosynchronous orbit over the settlement. All of the scouting missions that the admiral had dispatched to date had failed to locate additional resources within the nebula, and he took it for granted that the Cavils had located and were presently mining every source of tylium rimward of New Caprica.
Adama came to a decision, and reached for the phone.
"XO," Sonja Six answered in the CIC.
"Colonel, this is the Admiral." Sonja had taken the oath and formally joined the Colonial fleet on Founder's Day. The Six was now officially second in command of the battlestar Galactica, which was becoming increasingly top heavy with female personnel. Threes, Sixes, and Eights held down more than a third of the jobs in the CIC, and they made up roughly a quarter of the battlestar's entire complement.
"I want to begin relocating the civilian ships that are atmosphere worthy to the surface. Contact the captains of the ships in question, and ask them to draw up a list of their maintenance requirements. We might as well use this down time to overhaul the fleet, and that includes craft like the Zephyr that have to remain in space. Have Chief Laird divide the knuckledraggers into two work details, but tell him that I want our people to rotate weekly between Galactica and the planet. Fresh air will boost morale, and make the shifts in hard vacuum easier to bear."
"Consider it done, sir. Do you want me to transfer Chief Tyrol's crew back from the baseship to take up the slack in the hangar bay?"
"No, I don't think so. They have their hands full over there on the stealth Raider project. But keep the training sessions up and running until the day Kara ships out. Tell Chief Tyrol and Specialist Seelix that they can expect to pull double shifts from this point on. Our Sixes and Eights have to master every aspect of Raptor and Viper maintenance, and that includes the avionics package."
Adama hung up the phone, and finally brought his attention to bear on Kevin Riley. "You asked for this meeting," he said sternly. "What's on your mind, Lieutenant?"
"Sir, I'm here formally to request reassignment to one of the baseships that you're sending out to tackle the Cavils. And I'm not the only one who wants a transfer." Riley reached into his jacket, and pulled out a plain, white envelope. He laid it on top of the clutter on the admiral's desk. "Every man and woman on this list is a Pegasus officer or rating. We're all tired of sitting on our duffs, sir. We want to get back in the fight."
Adama slit open the envelope, and glanced curiously at its contents. There were several pages, and he estimated that he was looking at more than three hundred names.
"Three hundred and twelve of us are on the list, Admiral … and there's another fifty-two names here." Riley dropped a second envelope on the pile. "These men would also like to volunteer, but they want to bring their … uh… their Cylon sweethearts along with them. The Eights in questions have talked it over among themselves, and they're all keen to fight right alongside us."
"Mr. Riley, are you and your shipmates aware of the fact that this will be a cylon operation from start to finish? Natalie Six will be in overall command of the task force, but every unit in her fleet will be led by one of her sisters. Are you prepared to take orders from the Cylons, Mr. Riley? Are you prepared to follow their orders without question?"
"Yes, sir; I am. We all are." Riley hesitated for a long moment, and Adama courteously gave him time to collect his thoughts. "Sir, it's not my job to identify the enemy—my job's to fight them. We all know how unpredictable war can be. This one … the way it's playing out … it reminds me a lot of the Second Sagittaron War. Do you remember your history, sir? Caprica and Sagittaron were bitter enemies in the beginning, but then the Sagittaron alliance with Leonis and Tauron collapsed, and Caprica and Sagittaron ended up fighting on the same side. Sir … I … I just want to do my job."
"Very well, Mr. Riley; I will take your request for transfer under advisement, and I will communicate it to Commander Six at our next scheduled briefing. That's at 08:00 hours the day after tomorrow."
Adama dropped the rosters into a desk drawer, and slammed it shut. He grabbed a fresh report from the stack atop his desk, this one having to do with an outbreak of something called Mellorak sickness among the Sagittaron population down on the surface.
"In the interim, if you're serious about this, I suggest that you find some pens and paper and get to it. Come back in twenty-four hours with something more substantial than a list of names. Education and training … work histories … on a case by case basis, give Commander Six something to work with. That's all, Lieutenant; you're dismissed."
"Thank you, sir." Kevin Riley came to attention, and then about-faced and walked out of the admiral's quarters.
Mellorak looks nasty, Bill thought. But we're catching a couple of breaks here. It's not airborne, and there's a drug that will kill it off if it's administered in time. I'd better have Cottle check our stock of bittamucin, and let's see if we can get out in front of it by inoculating the pilots …
Zeus Almighty … what about the Cylons? Are they immune? Gods! Creusa's downstairs right this frakking minute—and Shelly mingled with half the population on Founder's Day!
Adama picked up the phone, and ordered a Raptor to be readied for his immediate departure. He needed to talk with Doc Cottle, and he needed to do it right now.
. . .
In the privacy of his own Raptor, John Bierns finished reading the same report that had sent Bill Adama scurrying down to the surface. He leaned back in the ECO's chair, and reviewed the passages that he had underlined:
Mellorak originates in the kidneys …
It aggressively attacks both the respiratory and immune systems …
Transmission occurs through skin contact, sexual intercourse, and the exchange of other bodily fluids …
Coughing, a general feeling of lassitude, and other flulike symptoms invite misdiagnosis in the early stages of the infection …
Curable if correctly diagnosed within 48 hours of onset of symptoms; otherwise, fatal within the following three to five days …
This is definitely worth pursuing, the CSS agent cold-bloodedly concluded. I'll need a sample of the virus, and an isolation chamber where I can warehouse a One and a Five. Let's see … we can try injecting it directly into the bloodstream, but introducing it into an open wound would be better yet. Remember to ask Cottle whether it's feasible to apply it with a throat swab. And let's not overlook the 64,000 cubit question: what would happen if we contaminated a baseship's data stream, or got the infection to run wild on a resurrection ship?
After mulling it over, Ghostrider decided to hitch a ride on the next Heavy Raider heading down to the settlement. Hopefully, Cottle would have all the answers, but if not …
I wonder what it would cost me to bribe one of the Sagittarons to play a little game of kiss and don't tell?
. . .
She stalked them quietly through the oppressive mist, the heavy ground fog no challenge to the keenness of cylon sight. Not that it would have been difficult to trail them in any case: the sound of their drunken laughter carried a long way.
The knuckledraggers and marines from the Pegasus were holding a formal wake for their murdered comrade—at least, such was the excuse for tonight's carouse. The settlement on New Caprica was not yet a week old, but so far this particular pack of vermin had an unblemished record: they had managed to drink themselves into oblivion each and every night. For this, the Eight was immensely grateful.
During the day, the pack stuck together, and so far neither she nor her sisters had discovered a way to isolate their quarry. But at night, it was not so much the absence of light as the weakness of the human bladder that improved the odds—that, and the mysterious human insistence on privacy when discharging bodily functions. Periodically, one or more of the Pegasus scum would retreat into the shadows to relieve themselves: they all behaved as if the entire planet was a urinal drifting through space for their personal convenience. It was just a matter of time, the Eights knew … and in those selfsame shadows they were lying in wait.
"Hey, guys, wait up! I've gotta take a leak!"
"Ah, somebody find Karl a tree," a disembodied female voice said unsympathetically.
"Nearest one's about five miles away … on the other side of the river," a third voice gibed. "Of course, there's always the latrine; it's gotta be around here someplace."
"There's no frakkin' way!"
"What's the matter, Hobbes? You afraid one of those hot to trot toaster babes will slither outta the drain and snip it off when you're not paying attention? You want me to stand guard while you're taking care of business?"
"Sarge, he'll miss the mark for sure," a loud male voice taunted. "Hobbes is such a pantywaist that you'll have to hold it for him—you know … steady his aim?"
Karl Hobbes! The Eight's eyes gleamed with anticipation. One of her prey was only meters ahead, a gray outline in the swirling fog. She willed him to leave the street … it did not matter in which direction. Her sisters were waiting, and they would have him.
"Just gimme a moment," Hobbes slurred; "one alleyway's same as the next."
The shadow moved off to the right, and disappeared between two rows of tents. . . .
A hand suddenly emerged from the darkness, and before Karl Hobbes could even register what was happening, his assailant had slapped a piece of strapping tape across his mouth. His arms were brutally twisted behind his back and cuffed, a filthy burlap sack dropped over his head and cinched tightly around his neck. Something slammed into the back of his knees, dropping him to the ground. In a matter of seconds, more tape secured his ankles, and then two black-clad Sharons picked him up and carried him off into the night, dislocating both of his shoulders in the process.
. . .
Tory was moaning in Gaius Baltar's ear, the sound echoing Sharon's cries when they were making love, the alignment perfect in both pitch and tone. The female bridged the gap between Cylon and human, the passion for creation the divine spark that blurred the distinction between man and machine.
But Tory Foster was weeping.
"What's wrong," Gaius asked with genuine concern. "Am I hurting you?"
"No … no … nothing's wrong."
The President and his Chief of Staff were in the bedroom of her new apartment, eight floors above the river. The unit should have gone to one of the families from the Adriatic, but Gaius had pulled strings to arrange for Rebecca and Billy Keikeya to receive one of the top floor flats, and Tory Foster another.
"Please, Tory; you're crying. Something must be wrong."
"No … it's just … it's just something I do during sex." Tory ran her fingers along Gaius' cheek, wanting to comfort him. In bed, Baltar had taken her completely by surprise; he was a remarkably caring and considerate lover. What had started out, therefore, as cold and calculated manipulation on her part had rapidly morphed into an emotionally complex relationship, and she no longer had any sense that she was in control—not of Gaius, and most certainly not of herself.
"What? It hasn't happened before; I would have noticed."
"Not every time," Tory agreed. "It's a kind of melancholia. Hard as it is to believe, it only happens when I'm genuinely happy. I'm really sorry."
"Don't be. Don't apologize. Tory, you should be thankful. God's blessed you with an abundance of feeling, and this is how it reveals itself."
"That's one way of looking at it, I suppose. Most of the time, I just feel like an idiot."
Tory eased Gaius' head down so that she could kiss him—a kiss that she wanted to linger.
"But you're so understanding," she said gratefully. "You make me feel safe, and wanted."
"I never sensed this vulnerability in you. It's a side of your personality that makes you more attractive because it makes you more human." Baltar kissed her again, this time using his tongue. Tory possessed hidden depths, and he was determined to explore them all.
"More like Sharon, you mean?"
"In a way," he responded thoughtfully. "Initially, I saw her vulnerabilities—all of them. She was so insecure, so eager to please … but when she had to choose between the Cavils and us, she barely hesitated. Then she poured all of her passion and idealism into the campaign … I wouldn't have won without her. Now, her only thought is for the babies. When it comes to making decisions, she has one standard against which she measures everything: will it make the world a better place for our children? Romulus and Remus will never be neglected, never be starved for affection. Sharon's going to make a wonderful mother, and by extension she's going to make life better for every child on this planet."
"So, what are we doing here, Gaius? Am I just a passing fancy … a momentary presidential fling?"
"No," the President laughed. His hips began to piston, seeking a rhythm that would bring them both once more to the heights. "I care for you, Tory … and I need you in so many ways. You keep me grounded in a way that Sharon can't … you keep me from letting it all go to my head. I need your strength and your common sense—and your self-discipline, which is an area where I'm an abysmal failure. I don't seem to have the ability to say 'no' to anyone. I need you to do it for me."
"So I get to play bad cop opposite Sharon's good cop? Gee, thanks."
"Well, the job does come with certain perks," Baltar whispered as he nibbled on her ear. "Where do you keep your handcuffs," he playfully inquired. . . .
Twelve days later, when it became painfully apparent that despite all her precautions she had missed her period for the most obvious of reasons, Tory Foster calculated that this was the night on which she had become pregnant with Gaius Baltar's child. Roslin had outlawed abortion, but a determined woman could always find a way around such edicts. To her own infinite surprise, however, Tory discovered that she wanted to keep the child. There was a place deep inside her- a place that she had never previously sensed- that cried out for children. My maternal instinct, Tory mockingly conceded. I guess it just goes to show that I'm human after all.
. . .
Captain Doyle Franks took her seat, folded her hands, and rested them lightly on the dais. She took a deep breath, and when she looked up, it was to address the courtroom, which was filled with spectators and reporters.
"Before I read the verdict, I would like to make one thing clear. Like everything human, our system of justice is imperfect. It's flawed. But perfection is the province of the gods, not the province of man. We strive for improvement, knowing that we will always fall short of the mark. And yet it may well be that our failings are the one thing that make us a species worth saving, for humility, compassion, tolerance and understanding … so many of our virtues stem from our shortcomings as a people."
"The defendants will rise."
Still tightly shackled, the seven Sixes struggled to their feet.
"After carefully weighing the evidence, on a vote of four to one, this tribunal finds you guilty of crimes against humanity …"
The hushed audience erupted, drowning out the rest of the Captain's remarks in a sea of cheers and clapping.
"Order," Franks shouted as she repeatedly banged her gavel. "I will have order in this court!" She waited for the roar to subside before pressing on.
"Justice in this case demands punishment, but justice is not and cannot be blind. Here we have been asked to decide not merely the question of guilt or innocence but also the degree of guilt, and to fix an appropriate punishment. Without exception, the members of this panel find the question of the defendant's moral competence to stand trial especially troubling, but we also recognize that the law at present speaks only to the issue of a defendant's mental competence. We accordingly urge the Quorum to enact legislation repairing this deficiency so that future tribunals may be guided in their deliberations by coherent principles of law rather than the dictates of individual conscience."
"This court orders the defendants to be remanded to a place of imprisonment on the surface of New Caprica, the said location to fall within the jurisdiction of the Chief of Police. The defendants will each serve a minimum term of two years, during which they will individually and severally perform five thousand hours of community service at the rate of fifty hours per week. The Chief of Police will decide upon the terms of labor, and make report thereof to the President's office on a weekly basis. In addition, the defendants will be required to undergo one hundred hours of individual and group counseling under the direction of Dr. Amelie Fordyce, who will render a report of her findings to the President's office one month before the period of sentencing concludes. Upon the recommendation of Dr. Fordyce, at the conclusion of their term of imprisonment the defendants shall either be released into the general community without a term of probation, or be permanently boxed. So say we all."
Doyle Franks rose to her feet, and banged her gavel one last time. "This honorable court stands adjourned sine die."
Now, Romo Lampkin thought, comes the hard part. How is Amelie supposed to educate women who are the moral equivalent of toddlers in the basics of right and wrong? What's she supposed to do when they fail the lesson plan … spank them, and send them to bed without their supper?
Joseph Adama had long ago seared a number of fundamental truths into young Romo Lampkin's brain, and of these the notion that law and justice rarely converged was one of the most important. Still, he could not recall a case in which the chasm separating them had yawned quite as wide as in this rather shabby piece of staged melodrama. The verdict had forced his hand: he would continue to represent his clients, and to protect their interests. Amelie Fordyce didn't know it yet, but Romo Lampkin was about to come calling.