CHAPTER 7
THE LAST SUPPER
Romo Lampkin leaned back from the table with a contented sigh. Dax's may not have been the Hydria, his favorite restaurant on the ὁδόs Aδρiανoύ in little Tauron, but the fish was fresh and the chef knew what he was doing. Granted, the vegetables were still coming out of a can, but the aroma of bread freshly baking in the restaurant's outdoor oven sat Romo's mouth to watering every time he walked past. A medium dry white that he had obtained from the Prometheus' well-stocked cellar had cost him a lot in professional IOU's, but he reckoned that it was well worth it.
Romo quietly studied his dinner companion. He had never crossed paths with Amelie Fordyce back in the Colonies, despite the fact that she had often been called upon to deliver expert testimony in the courtroom. He judged the clinical psychiatrist to be in her early forties, a good-looking woman rather than a beautiful one, with long, black hair that she had subtly highlighted with streaks of cobalt blue. What impressed him the most, however, was her striking self-confidence. It was obvious why counsel for both the prosecution and the defense had often sought her out in criminal trials: this was not a woman who would be intimidated during cross-examination. It didn't take a genius to recognize that so formidable an adversary would make for an equally formidable ally.
Throughout the meal, Romo had considered how to make his pitch. It would be easy to flatter Amelie Fordyce. The soft, sky blue sweater that she was wearing accentuated the loveliness of her hair, and the simple but expensive strand of pearls that graced her neck suggested a woman who valued elegance, but preferred it to be understated. He sensed, however, that even the most heartfelt compliment was likely to be viewed by this woman as a crudely manipulative gesture. Romo's professional instincts had told him to steer the conversation into a neutral harbor—his cat, her tent … anything but the weather. Twice, she had given him an appraising look, and he had caught a hint of bemusement in her eyes and in the slight curl of her lips. He couldn't easily charm a woman of such obvious intellect, and the role of jaded cynic into which he slipped so easily would only provoke impatience. He was stymied, but he thought that her demeanor showed some degree of sympathy for his plight. For a brief moment, Romo wondered what Amelie Fordyce thought of John Bierns. The spook was a complicated man, and Lampkin reckoned that the good doctor would eagerly hand over a year's salary just for the opportunity to get the CSS agent onto her couch.
"I wouldn't have expected you to move in with the Eights," he finally remarked. It was still a neutral observation, but it did serve gently to turn the conversation in the right direction.
"Why," she asked in return. Amelie's tent was near Colonial One, but no one had remarked that it also put her within shouting distance of the Agathons. She wanted to carry out a long-term study of the hybrid children, and as the oldest, Hera was the logical place to start. But the infant was surrounded by Sharons, and one of the unintended consequences of Amelie's decision to move into their neighborhood was that she now found herself informally counseling the Eights on the many contradictory impulses that shaped the male personality.
"I would have thought that you would prefer to be closer to the hospital," Romo thoughtfully responded, "or to the jail. Your work must take you to both with some frequency."
And I have seven clients sitting in cells, whose fate will ultimately rest in your hands.
"Our professions operate a bit differently, Mr. Lampkin. Hospitals are depressing, and jails make people tense and uncomfortable. Patients find my tent welcoming in no small part because it's far removed from such public spaces."
We both know that you want to talk about the Sixes, but at this rate it will take us all night to get there. I suppose the time has come for me to speed things up.
"That was a wonderful meal, Mr. Lampkin, and you have been a gracious host. Would you join me in a glass of ambrosia? I feel like celebrating tonight."
Romo quickly summoned the waiter, and when they had drinks in hand, raised his to offer a toast. And then he paused—rather too dramatically for Amelie's liking.
"I'm sorry," he said, "but I don't know what it is we're celebrating."
"One of our mutual clients is working in the hospital, and Six seems quite taken with one of her patients … a very handsome young Sagittaron with some pretty unorthodox views. The young man in question seems to be equally smitten. He checked out in mid-afternoon, but he returned at the end of her shift to walk her back to the jail. I'm told," Amelie smiled, "that they were arm in arm the whole way, and that you could have lit up an entire city block with the electricity that they were generating. My next session with Six should be most interesting. If it goes as well as I anticipate, I plan to invite them both to a group that I'm forming for mixed couples. We're seeing more of these every day, and we need to make sure that the young people are communicating outside the bedroom, not just in it."
"Law and psychiatry both seem to be very much in demand these days," Romo acknowledged. "But who would have ever guessed that the two of us would end up with Cylons for clients? Who knows, Doctor … at some point in the future I may be scrambling to defend a Cylon on trial as a serial killer, and I'll need to summon you to testify as our resident expert in their psychology." He stated hard at the table, and inched closer to one of the space heaters that held the cold and damp in the makeshift restaurant at bay. "I certainly could have used your insights during this trial because my clients puzzled me from start to finish. In my universe, the people charged with heinous crimes tend to be guilty of something, even if they're innocent of the particular charge being brought against them. But the Sixes … to them 'crime' is a meaningless concept … literally nothing more than an entry in the dictionary. I never got through to them. Are you faring any better?"
"Laura Roslin agreed to take one of them on as a teaching assistant in her elementary school. Six is being mentored by a very bright young woman named Maya, and I'm monitoring her progress, or lack thereof, closely. But four of them are working in the fields, and a fifth is becoming intimately acquainted with the garbage masher on the Demetrius. They don't have much opportunity to interact with humans, and therein lays the problem. I need to place them in environments where they have no choice but to work in teams, but where they also get a chance to socialize. Do you have any suggestions?"
"How about assigning them to Colonel Phillips? His work details put in long hours, and they could use the extra manpower. Sixes are supposed to be good at maintenance, and a shovel's still a shovel no matter where you wield it."
Amelie nodded unconsciously in agreement. "A strong work ethic … a genuine sense of camaraderie … yes … I agree. Our Sixes would definitely benefit from prolonged exposure to a military unit with such pronounced esprit de corps."
"And the engineers have been working with Cylons nonstop ever since the evacuation of Picon," Romo added. "Having a few more Sixes hanging around the premises probably wouldn't bother them very much."
"Not at all, I should think," Amelie concurred. "Lieutenant Jacobs certainly doesn't appear to have had any adjustment problems."
"Marc is one of the colonel's junior officers," she added when she saw the blank look on Lampkin's face. "He's moved in with Sharon and Philista Liu, and he seems to be as much at ease around his Cylon partner as his human."
"Do you know everything that's going on in New Caprica City?" Romo kept his ear close to the ground, but Amelie Fordyce struck him as astonishingly well informed.
"Let's put it this way," Amelie countered with a polite laugh. "The Eights are swarming all over this settlement, and nothing gets past them. They confide in me, and in return I teach them about what to expect from the male half of the species. Mr. Lampkin, you have undoubtedly recognized that most of the Sharons are too trusting for their own good. In retrospect, we can all see that their innocence made it easy for the Cavils to exploit them. I don't want the wolves in our midst to victimize them a second time."
"Amen," Romo intoned—and then he raised his glass to offer another toast. "Here's to bright and shiny futures—for all of us, and for our few surviving feline friends."
Now it was Amelie's turn to look confused.
"Rats go wherever we go," Romo explained; "and right now, they're feasting on our garbage. Perhaps you haven't noticed, Doctor, but the problem is rapidly spinning out of control. And my cat," he said more or less as an afterthought, "is getting disgustingly fat."
. . .
Sharon Baltar glanced over the top of one of the many piles of paper that littered the President's desk. She felt increasingly under siege. As soon as she worked her way to the bottom of one mound, an aide would sweep the curtain aside and stroll in with a still more imposing stack to take its place. Even for a Cylon, the pace was brutal—but more importantly, it was unrelenting. A new crisis seemed to pop up every twenty minutes or so, and every human delegate to the Quorum needed to have his or her ego stroked on at least a daily basis. Worse yet, many of the demands that the people at large were making upon their fledgling government struck her as palpably absurd.
"Billy, get in here!"
Billy Keikeya hurried into the chamber, took one look at the de facto president, and grabbed a chair. It had turned into one of those days.
Sharon eyed the document in her hand with visible distaste, and passed it across to the press secretary. "How," she inquired, "did that make it to this desk?"
Billy studied the crumpled piece of paper, which bore the letterhead of the newly formed Colonial Workers Alliance.
"It's a list of demands," he said mildly. "Better working conditions, pay and benefits … the usual sort of thing. The language is inflammatory, but that's to be expected."
"Why wasn't this routed to Wallace Gray? He's in charge of industrial policy."
"It was, but the Minister believes that negotiating with a militant labor union falls under the heading of politics, and he's not willing to meet with Xeno Fenner until President Baltar issues guidelines for collective bargaining."
"In short, he's passing the cubit."
"Yes, but with good reason. Sharon, it's imperative that people get back to work, but the President has yet to present the Quorum with an economic blueprint. Are we going to return to a monetized economy, or will compensation take some other form? Wally doesn't want to sit down and talk with Chief Fenner until we have a framework in place."
"I see. Is there anything here that we can concede in order to buy my husband more time?"
Billy reviewed the union leader's manifesto, and slowly shook his head. "Not really. The way this reads, you'd think that we were still back in the Colonies, and that nothing's changed. We could offer to exempt people doing heavy labor from the lottery … make getting them into apartments a priority … but that's as far as I'd be willing to go at this time."
"Then invite Mr. Fenner to come by in the morning, but don't schedule an appointment. I want this to be an informal meeting … nothing promised in writing. I also want to see Reza Chronides sometime tomorrow afternoon. She can have her Mithraeum … we'll even provide the building material. But I'll make it clear that her followers will have to put the temple up by themselves."
"Sarah Porter won't be happy about this," Billy warned.
"No, she won't … but we need to put her and D'Anna in their place. It's true that we couldn't have won the election without them, but Gaius and I are tired of the daily reminders, and our sense of gratitude is exhausted. Sarah Porter does not run this government, and turning down her application while simultaneously approving Reza's may just drive the point home."
"But you have to admit that D'Anna's design for the cathedral …"
"…is truly inspired. I've been inside D'Anna's projection. The soaring columns, the stained glass, the light wells … it's all truly inspired. But if we abandoned every other project it would still take two years to complete, and the end result would be a crushing disappointment because the nebula refracts so much of the available light. The One True God deserves something better than a damp, dark, and gloomy house of worship."
"So, a more modest project with a more realistic design …"
"Gaius will take a less grandiose design straight to the Quorum, and it will be approved unanimously."
"How do you want me to set up the appointment schedule? Do you want to see Sarah and D'Anna before or after Reza?"
"Before," Sharon said decisively. "I want the news that we've rejected Porter's petition to be all over the marketplace before we sign off on the Mithraeum. Send some of our people over there to spread the word while Sarah's busy lecturing me on how much clout the Gemenese voting bloc possesses. Wait two hours, and then have our operatives start publicly praising Reza Chronides to the skies."
"That's pretty devious. Reza may not be Gemenese, but most of the Mithrasaries are. Sarah will inevitably see this as an attempt on your part to split the monotheists into competing doctrinal camps, which would weaken her influence considerably."
"And since Cylons are supposed to be devious by nature, Miss Porter will probably start asking herself how many other nasty surprises may be lurking out there in the weeds. If we can cut her down to size, she'll be easier to work with in the future."
"Sharon, are you sure that you didn't intern with President Adar?" Billy got up to leave, but he couldn't suppress one of his trademark grins.
No, Billy, the First Lady thought sadly; my capacity for deceit is but one small part of my inheritance from the Cavils.
Sharon picked up another memorandum. In big, bold letters, this one was marked URGENT, and it had also come straight to her desk from Wallace Gray's.
From: Wallace Gray, Minister for Economic Development
To: Dr. Gaius Baltar, President of the Colonies
Subject: Paper Shortage
Mr. President:
As you are no doubt aware, there is a severe paper shortage on the ground and in the fleet, and the crisis is rapidly escalating. Central planning in this and other government offices has been interrupted due to the lack of this critical resource, and the implementation of several vital projects has been delayed because we do not have the means with which to keep the necessary records.
This office strongly recommends that the President issue an executive order directing the military to begin immediate construction of a paper mill on a site downstream from the settlement, but at a distance of not more than three kilometers. There are several large stands of usable timber to the north and east of the settlement, and we further recommend that the centurions be organized into work battalions for the express purpose of harvesting this timber and transporting it to the mill. Environmental impact statements for the affected areas will be forthcoming as soon as we have paper in sufficient quantity to complete the studies.
Sharon Baltar leaned back in her chair, and surveyed her tiny fiefdom. The "offices" to which Wallace Gray referred were nothing more than a series of desks scattered across Colonial One—and she intended to keep it that way. Quarrelsome and self-absorbed Quorum members were bad enough, but a bloated bureaucracy would be infinitely worse. Arcane regulations were as much a threat to freedom as any telencephalic inhibitor …
And besides, she silently raged, there is no paper shortage! It's all sitting on my desk!
. . .
"So, are the rumors true? Are you shipping out with Natalie?"
The Liu household had settled into a daily routine, and Philista's early evening stroll through the warren of tents and apartments that made up the settlement was an important part of it. She had developed a network of trading partners, and she had moved well beyond simple barter. Philista was perpetually on the lookout for a good deal, but her thinking was increasingly oriented to services rather than goods. Her hardworking husband- for that was how she already thought of Marc Jacobs- knew more about plumbing than anyone on the planet, and his expertise was in constant demand. As an officer in the 3654th, Marc worked eight hours a day, six days a week, installing showers and toilets in the apartment buildings that were going up all over New Caprica City, but the units were modular in design, and the government planners had only signed off on one fixture per household. A lot of people, however, just had to have a second toilet, and this was where Sharon and Philista came in. Philista's absolutely gorgeous and superhot Cylon wife had somehow managed to persuade the centurions to help her dismantle much of the plumbing on her baseship, and she had borrowed a Heavy Raider to move her purloined treasure down to the planet. Philista had made a sincere and truly noble attempt to lecture Sharon about stealing, but she had got absolutely nowhere, and had eventually given up. Belatedly, she had come to the realization that the concept of private property meant nothing to any of the Eights, who simply helped themselves to whatever they wanted.
And that includes men, Philista reminded herself. So, while I'm wandering around out here brokering Marc's free time, Sharon is busily pleasuring him … doing anything she has to do, really, to make sure that he won't take an interest in another Eight or, God forbid, in a Six!
The black market ruled New Caprica City, and the Sixes had earned a reputation for being notoriously sharp traders. Indeed, it was by observing them at work that Philista had first sensed the true value of Marc's skills. One of the blond-haired infiltrators had worked in downtown Caprica City for two years as an on-call masseuse, and her clients had included some of the most powerful and knowledgeable men in government. Now, she was putting strong hands and a wealth of experience to more personally profitable use, and her business was flourishing.
Of course, massages aren't the only thing on offer in that particular tent … but as long as Six keeps her grubby paws off Marc, I don't really care what she gets up to. After all, men who know how to work with their hands are in short supply around here, and the competition is fierce. It's feeding time at the zoo, and it's up to Sharon and me to make sure that Marc stays off the dinner table.
"Yes," Hoshi confirmed; "Commander Six has asked me to serve as her XO, and the Admiral agreed to my transfer. Almost four hundred of our friends have volunteered for this mission, and several dozen of them will be bringing their … uh … significant Cylon others along as well."
"Meaning," Philista giggled, "that the Sharons aren't about to let their men out of their sight!"
"Well, there are a few Sixes in the mix, but you're right … we're mostly dealing with Eights here. I must say, they do seem rather possessive, don't they?"
"Possessive … and jealous," Philista agreed. "Once an Eight gets her claws in, any human woman would be well advised to keep her distance. Take my word for it—neither the One True God nor the Lords of Kobol would want to tangle with an enraged Eight."
"I wonder if Natalie knows that she's about to take command of a soap opera," Hoshi sighed. "Only a handful of Twos and Threes are coming along, so if what you're saying is true, things on board could get a little … heated."
"Honestly, Colonel, I don't know how you managed to fend off the Sharon who staked a claim to you on the baseship."
"She died," Louis said tersely. He vividly remembered the moment when Aaron Doral, seething with jealousy, had shot her in the head … remembered the explosion of brains … remembered grabbing a knife and stabbing the Five to death.
"I just hope that she resurrected," he added. "Every night, I pray to the gods on her behalf."
"Hosh, to answer your question, I haven't said a word to anybody about Kobol … not even Sharon." Everybody on Pegasus had been aware of Hoshi's sexual orientation, so it surprised Philista to learn that the Eight had somehow got inside his defenses. She abruptly returned to the subject that had brought her fellow officer to see her in the first place.
"Good," Hoshi answered; "and I want to keep it that way. Neither the President nor the Admiral is in the loop, so I'm making the rounds, making sure that everybody understands the need for absolute secrecy."
"You can count on me, Colonel—mum's still the word."
. . .
"Eight, you must eat; even Cylons require nourishment."
D'Anna awkwardly gripped the spoon in her cuffed hands, and raised its unappetizing contents to her sister's lips. The porridge was cold and full of lumps, an affront to tongue and eye alike; indeed, it was only with a supreme effort of will that D'Anna could force herself to eat from the bowl. The Eight had so far ignored the gruel, but Three understood that it was not because she found it offensive. The Ones had shaved her sister's heuristic responses down to the point where, left to her own devices, she would have starved to death.
"You'll have better luck if you call her Sharon," Cavil remarked. He dragged a chair into the chamber, made himself comfortable, and donned his favorite pair of dark glasses. The glare from the overhead lights was intense.
"How much of her neural architecture have you damaged," D'Anna asked. She did not even bother to glance in John's direction.
"Oh, that's hardly necessary," Cavil smirked. "We actually have a lot of experience at this sort of thing. All we had to do was tweak a few lines of code here and there, and our dear brothers and sisters forgot all about both their creators and the Sevens. And best of all, despite the gaping holes in their memories, they're happy as clams. The programming that controls basic physical functions is just as easy to edit, although I will confess that getting everything just right is still a matter of trial and error."
"Then why don't you restore some of Sharon's motor skills? What's the point of punishing her this way if she doesn't even know that you're here?"
"What? And deprive you of the pleasure of taking care of her? Really, Three, I expected you to be more grateful. Remember, I've seen how much you like to look after babies. Well, here's the chance to hone your skills."
"If the collective is so content with your leadership," D'Anna fired back, "how did this civil war of yours ever get started? Could it be that the others won't settle for being the best machines in the history of the universe? Did you finish up on the losing side of a vote of no confidence?"
"Yep … that's exactly what happened. And since I'm not one to pound square pegs into round holes, I've conceded defeat. The Sixes and Eights want to have kids, so I'm going to accommodate them. Of course, we'll harvest some of them for our own purposes …"
"You really are sick …"
"Sharon, do you miss Colonel Hoshi? Do you want him back?" Cavil was grinning malevolently.
"Louis," Sharon sighed, her eyes blinking rapidly.
"Do you want to have a baby with the dashing young colonel? Well, don't fret, my dear; we'll catch up with him in due course, and this time you won't have to take 'no' for an answer! This time, you'll have your way with him."
"Louis …"
"You see, Three? Sharon's present unhappiness stems from a single, festering wound. I've given her one goal … one purpose … and that's to heal the wound. That's all it will take to make her a productive and contented member of the collective."
"John, I used to think that you suffered from delusions of grandeur. But I was wrong. You're insane."
Cavil got up, and signaled one of the centurions to remove the chair. "Enjoy your dinner, Three. Some of my brothers are planning on coming by later this evening to spend a little quality time with you. Do entertain them properly."
. . .
Like thieves in the night, Tory and Gaius crept through Colonial One, both of them relieved to discover that the cabins were dark and deserted. Even Billy Keikeya had gone home. But the lights were still on in the President's office, and the two lovers knew that they would find Sharon Baltar at Gaius' desk, hard at work shuffling the mountains of paper without which a government seemed unable to function.
Gaius glanced to his left as he entered his office, making note of the centurion standing motionless and silent in his accustomed spot. The lone red eye had scanned him when he crossed the threshold, as it scanned every visitor to this sanctum. The machine was so reliable that Gaius was seriously toying with the idea of transferring his four bodyguards to the police department, or dismissing them from government service altogether.
Sharon was sitting right where Gaius expected to find her, but he was surprised to see one of the Threes lurking at her shoulder. His wife was holding a photograph in each hand, her eyes darting back and forth between them. She was obviously upset.
Oh, frak, Tory thought. If those are what I think they are, Sharon will feed us to the centurions!
Tory had used government credits to purchase a miniaturized video camera from one of the reporters in the press pool. She had hidden the machine inside a vent that overlooked her bed, and she had used it to film the first of her romps with the President. The film, which was concealed in a coffee pot in her kitchen, left nothing to the imagination. To be sure, she had never seriously considered blackmailing Baltar …
I just wanted the film for insurance … that's all … in case Sharon or Gaius ever decided that they could dispense with my services …
"Tory … Gaius … I'm glad that you're here." Sharon stood up, the photos still in hand. "D'Anna has just come from the hospital. A three month old baby was admitted tonight; this is just terrible."
Sharon handed each of them a photo. Baltar took one look, and the blood began to drain from his face. Tory flinched, and turned her head away. She had to fight hard to keep from throwing up.
"What in the name of the gods," she finally whispered. The whole left side of the baby's face had been viciously mutilated, and there was a bloody trail leading down from the now empty eye socket. The baby's left arm was a mass of bite marks, and two fingers appeared to be missing.
"According to the mother," D'Anna reported in a steady monotone, "the baby was fast asleep in a bassinet at the foot of her cot. After dinner, the woman left her alone while she went off to barter with her neighbors. She knits- heavy socks, mittens, scarves- and she trades her wares for food and firewood. When she returned to her tent, there were rats in the bassinet. They were feasting on the child."
Baltar blindly sat down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. He was suddenly finding it difficult to focus.
"Mr. President," D'Anna went on, "this is not the first such incident. Over the last four days, rats foraging for food in packs have attacked three small children while they were out playing. Several adults have also been bitten. My husband has been treating everyone with broad-spectrum antibiotics, but he is justifiably concerned about an outbreak of one or more forms of the plague. If that were to happen in so small a community …"
"All the drugs in the world wouldn't be of much use," Gaius finished for the Three. "We would be looking at a potential ELE … an extinction level event." The President struggled to pull himself together. "Have any Cylons been exposed?"
"Not yet."
"If it happens, isolate the victim immediately … total quarantine."
"Gaius, we have to get on top of this," Sharon intervened. She was thinking of the babies whom she would soon deliver, and how vulnerable they would be to such predators. "Is it true that every ship in the fleet has at least one cat on board?"
"Yes," Baltar confirmed. "No matter how far back you go in time, you'll find captains of seagoing vessels relying upon felines to keep the rats at bay. But there's a problem: the female of the species is the more adept hunter, so toms are going to be in short supply around here. Our cat population may not be able to reproduce."
"Lance," Tory suddenly blurted out. "Romo Lampkin has a cat," she added when she noted the bewildered look on Gaius' face. "Whoever heard of a female named Lance?"
"You're right, Tory! If Lance hasn't been neutered, he'll soon be living in kitty paradise!"
"And Lampkin will be able to name his price," Tory muttered.
"A penthouse overlooking the river," Sharon said on a hopeful note. "If it comes to it, maybe we can fob him off with a penthouse overlooking the river."
"Maybe," Gaius conceded with a nod; "we don't have a lot of bargaining chips to play with, but we must have something that Romo wants."
"We need to organize a sanitation department," D'Anna observed. "Garbage is piling up in the streets unattended, and Sherman believes that this is the source of the problem. He'll send you a memorandum …"
"Oh, please," Sharon wailed as her eyes roamed across her own personal garbage pile. "Not another memo!"
"But I can summarize his recommendations right now," D'Anna continued with a frown, ignoring the interruption. "We should recruit enough workers to run three shifts on the Demetrius, set up a landfill somewhere to the south of the city …"
"Right next to Wallace Gray's precious paper mill," Sharon swore under her breath.
"Have Colonel Phillips start mass producing garbage cans in his machine shop …"
That would mean shutting down the assembly line turning out air filtration systems for the apartment blocks …
"And, most importantly, put our surplus labor to work cleaning up the streets. Get rid of the garbage, and you'll get rid of the rats."
"Is there anything else," Sharon sighed.
"No, sister," D'Anna answered with a perfectly straight face. "You'll have my husband's memo on your desk first thing in the morning. Now, if there's nothing else, I need to get back to the hospital."
"Thank you, D'Anna," Baltar soothed. "I'll summon the Quorum into emergency session. I promise you that we'll go after this problem with every resource at our disposal."
But Cottle's wrong, Baltar said to himself. The more desperate the rats become, the more aggressive they'll become. This is all out war, and we may not have the resources to win it.
. . .
Once D'Anna had departed, Gaius stole a glance at Tory while he began nervously shuffling his feet. Sharon's eyes narrowed.
"What's the matter, Gaius? Have the two of you stumbled upon still another disaster in the making?"
"Uh … well …"
"Sharon," Tory confessed as she sat stiffly in her chair, "I'm pregnant."
"I see," Sharon flatly replied. She pretended to run various possibilities through her head. "And you're here," she finally concluded, "because Gaius is the father."
"There's been no one else," Tory whispered.
"Are you sure, Tory? Perhaps you've been sleeping with Admiral Adama as well, but it's slipped your mind!"
"Sharon, I'm sorry. I … I don't know what else to say."
"Gaius, do you love her?" Sharon turned her full attention upon her ostensibly disloyal husband, whose performance to this point had been flawlessly staged.
"I care for Tory … I care for her a great deal," the President admitted in a quavering voice. "But I love you, Sharon … only you." Gaius bowed his head, a study in abject misery.
Sharon quickly scribbled a note before getting up and walking over to address the centurion. "Take this to Rebecca Keikeya," she ordered; "my sister will know what to do."
She returned to the desk, but decided not to sit down. Instead, she leaned on it with outstretched arms, and glared at her two would-be betrayers.
"Tory, I take it as a given that you've decided to keep the baby. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here. Am I right?'
"Yes," Tory agreed.
Sharon sat down heavily. "Then here's what we're going to do. Tomorrow morning, the three of us will hold a press conference. We have a host of crises to address, so we'll leave the good news until last. And that is how we are going to present this … as good news. Gaius, you will set it up by once more drawing everyone's attention to the gender imbalance in the settlement. Stress the need for everyone to become more creative and tolerant with regard to our household arrangements. Let the scientist in you take over. Talk about the importance of having children … describe it as a patriotic duty. Can you do this?"
"Certainly," Gaius huffed. "I am, after all, first and foremost a scientist!"
"Good," Sharon tersely countered. "At that point, I'll take over. My theme will be that we cannot expect others to follow where we refuse to lead. We will inform the press that, at my repeated urging, the two of you agreed several weeks ago that Tory should join our household. Since then, you have been quietly attempting to make a baby. Now that you've succeeded, we want to invite the whole settlement to share in our good fortune, and emulate our example."
"You … you're going to tell the whole world that I'm pregnant?" Tory was so stunned that she could only stare at the Cylon in stark disbelief.
"All we are doing is acknowledging what in a few short months will become apparent to all. In the process, we're stopping the inevitable rumors dead in their tracks, and turning this fiasco to our political advantage. Of course, you'll have to give up your apartment, and move in here with us …"
"Move in with you." In a state of near shock, Tory Foster was acting like a clock that badly needed to be rewound.
"That's right. Our bed is large enough to accommodate three adults, so it won't really be a problem. Do you object to sharing my bed, Tory?" Sharon's voice had grown dangerously soft. "Do you object to servicing me the way that you've been servicing my husband?"
"Uh … no; in fact, I'd like that … I'd like it a lot!" Tory had never been so frightened in her life, but she wasn't stupid, and she wasn't about to disagree with a machine that could rip her head from her spine. If Sharon Baltar wanted Tory Foster on her knees, with her head buried between the Cylon's thighs, Tory had ample incentive to demonstrate the requisite degree of enthusiasm.
"Playa Palacios will undoubtedly broach the question of marriage, but I want to get as much mileage out of this story as we possibly can, so I intend to smile politely, and leave it at that. What do you think, Gaius? Should we leave the fourth estate dangling?"
"Oh, absolutely," Baltar gushed. "That's exactly the way to play it … tease them … keep them coming back for more. We'll have the press eating out of our hands for the next month or two!"
"Marriage," Tory repeated. She was glassy-eyed, and a thin film of sweat had broken out on her forehead. She had never even considered the possibility.
"I would prefer a manus marriage, wouldn't you, Gaius?"
"Oh, definitely," Gaius once again agreed. "It's such a quaint Gemenese custom, and it will help us to build political support independent of Sarah Porter."
"But … but,"Tory sputtered, "I would have to surrender my legal autonomy. A manus marriage … that's tantamount to slavery!"
"Yes, it is." Sharon's eyes were on fire; she had her treacherous rival right where she wanted her. "But only on the symbolic level. Slavery is illegal in the Colonies, isn't it Gaius?"
"That's right," Baltar concurred. "Tory, let's keep in mind that we are talking about an archaic ritual here. It doesn't really mean anything … well, apart from the obvious legal consequences. In the eyes of the law, Sharon and I would become your guardians … you wouldn't be allowed to own property … that sort of thing. But it really is a fiction, and one that Lieutenant Liu entered into quite enthusiastically with her Eight. She seems very happy with the arrangement. But let's focus on the political benefits. The President's senior advisor not only marries the Chosen One and his Cylon wife but also, in a gesture of absolute trust, insists on giving up her claims to personhood. The Cylons and the social conservatives would eat it up and …"
"The Chosen One," Sharon snapped. She didn't know where this was coming from, but among Cylons it was a very sensitive topic.
Gaius nodded vigorously. "Tory and I were talking about this earlier today," he explained. "Apparently, the idea that I'm the Chosen One has taken hold among the Taurons and the Cancerons as well as the Gemenese and the Sagittarons. Tory thinks that we ought to start playing the religious card to broaden our base … you know, staged events with a priestess like Briseis on one arm and a Three on the other?"
"It would open up a second avenue of attack against Sarah Porter," Tory hastily interrupted, tacitly agreeing to the idea of a manus marriage in the process. "Plus, it would position us to cut into Laura Roslin's following among religious conservatives. If we can take Roslin out of the equation, in the next election we won't have to rely so heavily upon Zarek's organization to turn out the vote."
"A third avenue," Sharon casually noted. She efficiently summarized her earlier conversation with Billy Keikeya while laying out her strategy to promote the fortunes of Reza Chronides and the Mithrasaries at the expense of Porter's faction among the Gemenese. Another half an hour elapsed before Tory finally took her leave.
When she was gone, Gaius Baltar swept his beautiful Cylon wife into his arms, and kissed her hungrily. "A manus marriage," he exclaimed. "My God, Sharon, you actually got her to agree to a manus marriage! How? How did you know that you could push her to such extremes?"
"Tory craves power," Sharon nonchalantly observed. "With us, she has an important role to play. Without us, she's nothing. Now, we own her. Her fate, and with it that of her child, is inextricably tied to our own. We need no longer worry about her betraying us the way she betrayed Roslin."
"You're as clever as you are beautiful," Gaius said admiringly; "it's no wonder that I love you the way I do." He kissed her again. Sharon was intoxicating, and far and away the best lover that he had ever had.
"Are you really going to make her service you," he asked skeptically.
"Of course," Sharon answered. "Tory's ambitions sometimes get the better of her judgment. So, I'm going to put her on her knees, and keep her on a very tight leash. Now, let's go to bed. I want to talk to you about the priestess. Does Briseis have a weakness that we can exploit … some flaw in her character or temperament?"
. . .
When her husband stepped into the shower, Rebecca Keikeya slipped across the hall and used a spare key to enter Tory Foster's apartment. She headed straight for the bathroom, and opened the medicine chest. The Eight located Tory's birth control pills, which were in reality nothing but placebos. Rebecca had made the switch several weeks earlier, when Tory was still living on Colonial One, and now it was time to cover her tracks. Sharon had warned her that Tory might become sufficiently curious to have the pills tested, while stressing that it was imperative she not learn the truth.
It took less than two minutes for Rebecca to pair off the packet of genuine pills with the phonies, and once again make the switch. Ninety seconds later, she was in her own bed, waiting impatiently for Billy to emerge from the shower. The young Eight was ovulating, and she fervently prayed that tonight would be the night—the night when she would finally find herself with child.
. . .
"You know what really surprises me, Saul?"
Ellen Tigh turned her head so that she could gaze up into her husband's eyes. The Tighs were strolling arm in arm through the settlement, as they did at this time every morning. Their progress was always slow because they had so many children to greet, but today they were intent upon visiting their new grandson. Simon and Giana were bringing Sherman home from the hospital, and the Tighs wanted to be there to welcome him.
"My guess would be … that we haven't run through all the ambrosia yet," Saul chuckled.
"Silly," Ellen said affectionately as she poked him playfully in the ribs. "No … I thought that I would miss television, especially The Late Show, but I don't. Life back in the Colonies seems like—well, it feels so far away … like something that happened to somebody else."
"Television's got nothing on live entertainment," Saul growled. "You wanna watch a soap opera? All you've gotta do is keep your eyes open, 'cause there's at least one personal crisis unfolding in every frakking tent in this settlement. And if you want laughs … what could possibly compete with Baltar's press conference? If that wasn't comedy, I don't know what is!"
"You're right, my love." Ellen snuggled up against her husband, and rested her head on his shoulder. "I thought our daughter acquitted herself well … but poor Tory!"
"Poor Tory my ass; any woman who sleeps with a worm like Baltar deserves whatever she gets."
"Should we tell her?"
"No," Saul said emphatically. "She thinks that she's human; who are we to take that away from her?"
"But she's going to find out. There are no antigens in the baby's blood, so Cottle will stumble upon the truth when he runs the test for potential birth defects."
"Which is what … another four or five weeks out? Ellen, Tory's got enough on her plate right now …"
"So, you don't want to say anything? Warn her that she's about to shack up with her own daughter?"
"Well, it's not like either one of them is going to get pregnant, is it? Besides, we agreed that what the others do is none of our business. We've chosen not to get involved in Sam's affairs, and if you ask me, his relationship with Caprica Six is a hell of a lot more scandalous than anything Tory's doing."
"The difference is that Sam is journeying to Earth with Kara. We can at least hope that Caprica will move on and find somebody else. But that's not going to happen here. Saul, do you realize that Tory could end up marrying Sharon? We can't just stand tamely aside and do nothing."
"Why not? We didn't say or do anything when Galen married Naomi, and those two are trying to have a baby … they're trying hard. I just don't see what makes Tory's relationship with Sharon such a big deal."
"All right … fine … but when Tory comes to us after the fact, wanting to know why the hell we didn't say anything … you deal with her."
"Don't worry. I'll handle her."
"Like you handled Danny Novacek? Saul, you're not a people person. Even back on Earth …"
"Oh God, here we go again! Ellen, do you have to bring up your father every single frakking time that we have an argument? I know he didn't like me. I know he didn't think I was good enough for daddy's precious little girl. But you know what? There wasn't a guy on the planet who measured up. And you know why? Because we all had one thing in common—and it's hanging between my legs."
"That's not true, and you know it! Daddy wanted me to marry Peter …"
"Peter frakkin' Goodson … yeah … I know … he wanted you to marry Peter frakking Goodson. Or maybe marriage is the wrong word. He wanted you to merge with the heir apparent to Goodson Biotech. I swear, if Edgar had designated his pet poodle to be the next CEO, your dad would have wanted you to marry the gods damned dog!"
"You are so unfair! But it doesn't matter, because I chose you. Do you know why? Do you know what attracted me to you in the first place? It's because you stood up to daddy! You were the only man I knew who refused to roll over and take whatever it was he was dishing out. You rub people the wrong way, Saul … and you've been at it now for over two thousand years. That's quite a track record. All that strength …"
"But I've never been able to stand up to you, Ellen … we both know that. When push comes to shove, I always cave … always give you what you want …"
"Because you're smart," Ellen cooed. "What woman can resist a smart, sexy man?" Ellen pulled her husband closer, and kissed him passionately.
"Ellen, for God's sake … we're making a scene!" But Saul's hand wandered up and down his wife's spine.
"We're standing in the middle of the frakkin' street," he protested. "The children …"
"Could learn a few tricks from us," Ellen firmly objected. She wrapped her arms around Saul's neck, oblivious to the open-mouthed stares that the couple was eliciting from human and Cylon alike. "We never did get to finish their education, remember?"
"Ellen …"
"Don't 'Ellen' me! You know exactly what I mean! The Threes and Eights are never going to find husbands unless we give them a few pointers. We can't exactly invite them to our tent, so-o-o …"
"So … we're what? Ellen, are we gonna make out right in the middle of the frakkin' marketplace, like a couple of horny teenagers?"
"Necking, my love … do you remember? It's called necking." Ellen tilted her head, and began to nibble on Saul's neck. She was eagerly looking forward to exploring the concept of love bites with her star struck daughters, who weren't making near enough progress for her liking.
. . .
"Madame Secretary, may I offer you a glass of champagne?"
Laura Roslin turned, to find Bill Adama hovering over her shoulder, with a glass in each hand.
"Thank you, Admiral; I would love some champagne."
She took a sip, and let out a long sigh. "Will it shock you to learn that this is my secret vice? When we first fled the Colonies, I gave serious thought to issuing an executive order confiscating all of the champagne in the fleet."
"Then you should thank the procurement officer for the CSS. Everything we're eating and drinking here tonight came out of that underground supply depot of theirs on Picon."
"Marcus Greene," Laura murmured. "Marcus was General Berriman's second-in-command. He was a good man, with an interesting circle of friends. Did you know him, or hear the rumors that he was sleeping with Anita Suarez?"
"No, Madame Secretary. I did my best to stay out of politics, and away from politicians. And I was never exactly the flavor of the month among the spooks … at least, not after that last mission with the Valkyrie."
"Still, here we are." Laura gestured with her free hand, taking in the whole of the starboard hangar deck. The party was in full swing. "Politicians and admirals … sinister spooks and Cylons … we've all come together to wish Kara well on her long journey to Earth, and to honor those who go out to fight with Natalie and John against the Cavils." Laura swallowed some more champagne, and then she looked the Admiral squarely in the eye. "Do they stand a chance, Bill?"
"I think so," Adama replied. "Once they're well away from the nebula, Bierns will meld with Pelea and bring the hybrid network back on line. In war, reliable communications are as important as reliable intelligence, and the hybrids give us both. Sonja Six and I have been all over John's strategic plan, and we're in agreement that there's nothing reckless or even daring about it. Hit-and-run tactics behind enemy lines that interdict supplies and disrupt communications will put the Cavils on the defensive, especially if Natalie manages to take out some of the servers that stretch the range of their resurrection ships."
"It sounds like a good plan," Laura agreed. . . .
"So, Racetrack, how does it feel to make captain?" Lee was nursing a glass of fruit juice, but he handed Margaret Edmondson a fresh glass of champagne. Apollo had sworn off alcohol because even a hint of it on his breath would make his heavily pregnant Cylon wife nauseous in the extreme.
"The work load's overwhelming, but that's in no small part because the previous CAG left such big shoes for me to fill." Racetrack raised her glass, and saluted her predecessor.
"How are you getting along with my sister," Creusa inquired.
"She's really demanding, but I like working with her. We review my performance every day. Natalie doesn't hesitate to correct my mistakes, but she always does so in private. I'd say that we have a good personal relationship."
Creusa frowned suspiciously, and looked around to see if she could spot her older sister. After her resurrection in the aftermath of the attacks, Natalie had partnered with a Six fresh out of the crèche, but the relationship had not survived Pyrrha's adoption. As far as Creusa knew, in the intervening months her friend had not taken another lover, but there was something in Racetrack's tone. . . .
"So, tell me, Chief … do we have any new arrows in our quiver?"
Since his return to the fleet a few days earlier, John Bierns had spent most of his time in hiding, and no one attending the party, including his own wife, had any idea what he had been up to. It was pretty clear, however, that he hadn't found the time to read any of the reports piling up on his desk.
Galen reached out to take Naomi's hand. He was proud of his wife … he was proud of his whole damned team.
"Major, do you know what you get when you pair the best Cylon engineer in the universe with a crazy son of a bitch like me? You get three … count 'em, three … stealth Raiders!"
"Three? Galen, that's incredible! Will they work?"
"They'll work," the Chief smugly replied.
"Lee Adama deserves a lot of the credit," Naomi cut in. "We all laughed at the time …"
"We were all drunk at the time," Galen ruefully confessed.
"Replacing the metal skin with carbon composite was easy, but it was Lee who started us thinking about ways to alter the Raider's power signature rather than trying to mask it altogether. The way we designed it … the navigation program runs constantly, but we placed all the other systems in hibernation mode. Activating the weapons suite will cause a tremendous power surge that nothing can conceal, but by then it will be too late anyway."
"And," Galen bragged, "to make a good story even better … ta da … while you were away we rolled out the second generation blackbird. It's just as fast and elusive as the prototype, but this baby also has recessed pods housing eight conventional missiles. Get it in close, and it'll take a baseship's FTL's offline before the Cavils even know it's out there!"
"Galen … Naomi … congratulations to you both; really, you've done a fantastic job. But, I can't fly, and Kara's heading for Earth. Who are you going to put in the driver's seat?"
"You're right, Major; the blackbirds have such sensitive sticks that our Viper jocks haven't been able to tame them …"
"And Hera's way too little," Naomi laughed.
"So, a few of the Sixes and Eights have volunteered their services. They've been putting in some really long hours. They're not there yet, but don't worry: they'll be good to go!"
"Well done, Galen … very well done." Bierns meant it. He had no intention of leading his people blindly into danger, and charging heroically into the teeth of the enemy's guns wasn't his style. He much preferred dirty tricks to a fair fight, and five stealth fighters was just what he needed to fight the war on his own terms. . . .
"Colonel Phillips, it's good to see you again." Laura Roslin offered the marine officer her hand.
"The pleasure's all mine, Madame Pres … uh, sorry … Madame Secretary." Alexander took her hand.
Laura smiled, but quickly turned serious. "You know, Colonel, I always wanted to be an elementary schoolteacher, so at university I never had any reason to study civil engineering. I wonder … could you give me a quick lesson or two?"
"What would you like to know, Madame Secretary?"
"Please, call me Laura."
"Only if you agree to call me Alex," Phillips grinned.
"Alex, can a Raptor lift a bulldozer off the ground?"
"It depends. Not if you're trying to make orbit. But if all you want to do is ferry equipment down at treetop level? Sure … that's no problem."
"Can one man get the job done?"
"That's the usual procedure. A second man is just excess weight."
"How about you, Alex? Can you fly a Raptor and drive a bulldozer?"
"Laura, I don't mean to brag, but every officer in my unit would pass that particular test."
"Then I have a job for you, but I want to keep it strictly between ourselves. Can you meet me at the airfield tomorrow morning? I would like you to clear a site several kilometers upstream. It shouldn't take more than an hour or two."
Now Phillips' curiosity was aroused. "Is this public business, or private," he asked.
"A little bit of both," Laura replied enigmatically.
. . .
Romo Lampkin leaned back from the table with a contented sigh. He wasn't surprised that the captain of the Prometheus had the best larder in the fleet as well as the best wine cellar, but still … two fine meals in a span of four days was a luxury that, even a month earlier, he would have regarded as the stuff of dreams. Until this moment, Romo hadn't realized just how badly he missed the simple pleasures of a blood-red steak and an Aerilon baked potato.
"Thank you, Captain; even back in the Colonies, I rarely had the opportunity to eat this well."
"No, Counselor … it's I who should thank you." Doyle Franks watched the light play across the surface of the ruby red wine in her glass. "You could so easily have turned the trial into a circus because in this fleet the line separating justice from mob rule has become very fine indeed. But, you didn't. You defended your clients with appropriate vigor, while at the same time you helped a deeply troubled young woman come to grips with the internal conflicts that have been ruining her life. Polyxena turned the corner when she could no longer deny the truth … that she loves Shelly Adama. She has you to thank for that."
"Contrary to popular opinion," Romo said with just a hint of embarrassment in his voice, "competent defense attorneys don't like to put the victim in a rape proceeding on trial in the court of public opinion. It's a highly dangerous strategy that backfires far more often than it works because it invariably angers the bench. I knew how you would react, Captain—and I wasn't about to go there."
"So," Doyle smiled as she continued to toy with her glass, "you were trying to please me?"
"In any courtroom, it's the judge who holds the real power, so I took your measure, and planned my strategy accordingly."
"I see. And what, may I ask, are the flaws in my character that you thought you could profitably exploit?"
"Not flaws so much as contradictions … the honorable person at the helm of a dishonorable ship … a very beautiful but also very practical woman with little patience for the theatrics so dear to my profession. I decided to play to your strengths because I could make no sense of your weaknesses. I'm not even sure that you have any."
At that, Doyle smiled and climbed to her feet. She walked over to the liquor cabinet, pulled out a decanter of vintage ambrosia and two large snifters, and moved on to the couch. When she was seated, she patted the cushion beside her.
"Mr. Lampkin, you are a clever and devious man, but on this ship such qualities are much admired … by human and Cylon alike. Come, sit beside me."
The captain poured generous measures into both glasses, and waited for her companion to join her. She did not have to wait long.
Doyle Franks was an uncomplicated woman, and a direct one. Patience was not her strong suit, and she was used to having her way. She wasn't quite sure what signals Romo Lampkin was sending, if he was sending any at all, but in any event the usual courtship rituals were not to her liking. She reached out to massage the back of his neck, and then she gently drew him forward. There was, however, nothing gentle about the kiss that she offered him.
. . .
"Major, we haven't crossed paths in quite some time. How have you been keeping?"
"I can't complain about anything but the workload," Bierns answered awkwardly. He had never been very comfortable in Laura Roslin's presence. "But mine is nothing compared to yours. Honestly, Laura," he said in an attempt to be gracious, "an elementary schoolteacher and the Secretary of Education … when do you find time to sleep?"
"I don't," she laughed. "Haven't you heard, Major? I live on coffee, tea, and chamalla."
Roslin took the spook by the elbow, and politely steered him toward an empty corner of the hangar deck. She wanted to talk with him, and she didn't want to be overheard.
"And how is Sharon," she asked as she guided him along, making small talk. "Is she taking you over the hurdles?"
"Her pregnancy, you mean? She's just entered her twenty-first week. She's … uh … demanding, but right now I have so little time for her that, when we are together … I just want her to be happy."
"You know, in a funny way we've come full circle. I vividly remember how you stood out at parties back on Caprica … how much speculation you inspired. Perhaps you're not aware of it, but tonight you're once again the center of attention. Your mysterious comings and goings have intrigued the Cylons no less than us poor, misbegotten humans. What have you been up to, John?"
"Just keeping busy, Laura—just keeping busy."
"Of course … but do try and make time for Sharon when you leave. She needs you now more than ever."
"Laura, I love my wife, and day in and day out I depend on her in ways that I can't easily describe. My injuries are no joke, and Cottle's made it clear that they're never going to get any better. Do you know what my biggest fear is? That I'll have an episode while I'm holding the baby … that I'll do something to hurt my daughter."
John looked off into the distance, but without really seeing it. He didn't dare focus—not if he wanted to remain on his feet.
"Right now, Sharon's still my nurse, but her priorities will change when Eirene is born. So, unless the Cylons assign another Eight to hold my hand, I'll have to master the fine art of falling gracefully, and learn how to scrape myself off the deck."
"When do you plan to return to Galatea Bay?"
"Not until we're a long way from the nebula. I'm assuming that Cavil's hybrids will sense us the same way Zenobia did."
"Well, would you do me a favor?" Roslin had now arrived at the moment of truth.
"When you catch up with your virtual wife, I have a message that I want her to deliver to Anita Suarez."
Laura was watching Bierns carefully, and when she saw his eyes widen in surprise, she knew that she had indeed hit upon the truth. There was a second fleet, and it was now ranging well beyond New Caprica.
"Madame Secretary," he choked.
"Tell Anita that it's okay for her people to throw a party on the planets they visit, but they really need to cover their tracks more carefully. I'll clean up the mess that she's left here, but make it clear to her that next time she might not be quite so lucky. If the Cavils had got her first, John …"
Laura smiled triumphantly. Bierns was slippery, but she had finally hooked him.
"It almost goes without saying, doesn't it? This wonderfully devious little scheme of yours would have blown up in your collective faces."
"Laura, I …"
"Don't bother, John … no denials … no lies. I don't expect you to tell me how many other fleets are out there, but I do want the answer to one question. Is the human race doomed to extinction?"
Roslin looked expectantly at the Colonial Secret Service Officer. "What did your analysts conclude? A dozen generations from now, will a hybrid species be all that's left back in the Colonies or here on New Caprica? Is Anita's fleet already overrun with hybrid babies?"
. . .
Sophia Palaikastro stood in the doorway of her cabin, and stretched her arms as she fought off the urge to yawn. Kobol's sun had barely cleared the trees, but at this latitude the day was already beginning to warm.
The men and women of Pegasus had settled into a comfortable routine, and under her leadership their settlement was prospering. The fields had been cleared in preparation for the next planting season, and there was an abundance of game, fish, and fresh fruit to supplement the supplies that they had brought with them when they fled the dying battlestar.
The settlement had no formal government- it didn't even have a name- but the men had willingly submitted to the matriarchy that she had nevertheless imposed. Sophia had outlawed marriage, and she had been pleasantly surprised when even the few married women in their midst had enthusiastically endorsed the rules that she had set out. The "right of the third night" was an ancient Tauron custom that had lapsed many centuries earlier, but Sophia had argued that it would serve their people well. A man slept with a woman for three nights, and then he moved on. It was as simple as that—and it was working. Her medical officer had confirmed nine pregnancies to date.
The human race, in its pure form, would endure.