| Welcome to My World |
| Summary: | Sawyer and Cadmus discuss the information recovered from Leonis. |
| Date: | 29 Jun 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Marine Offices - Deck 6 |
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| This offices consists of desks for those under the CO, along with his desk toward the back of the room. The S1 and S2 have desks here and the place is neat as a pin, with everything in its place. At the front of the room, a Marine sits at a desk to meet people as they come in through the hatch. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #123 |
Cadmus is busily pinning a photo to the corkboard behind his desk: him, Constin, Coll, Jenkins, and others at Anadyomene, right after landing from their jump. It's a strange picture; everyone looks dour and serious *except* for him. The other photos on the corkboard are an odd mix of memories - dead friends and soldiers - and casefiles.
Sawyer has a magic little thing called 'high security clearance', and it really is quite amazing what doors that opens. As such, Sawyer has little problem traversing through Marine country as if she belongs here, all her credentials clacking together on their lanyard as she moves. The other thing that's clacking are a pair of high heels against the deck, not exactly proper footwear for a Battlestar, but then again combat boots would have ruined her ensemble. She has something rolled up in her hand, a magazine by all appearances, and after a cursory glance, she's headed in Cadmus' direction. "Nice photo." She comments, coming up behind him. "Though that man in the middle is clearly off his rocker." That man, of course, being Cadmus.
Glancing quickly over his shoulder, the MP in question shrugs a little - though he does favor Sawyer with a smile. "Lauren Coll's photo. She must have said something funny, I suppose," Cadmus quips. Turning about, he gestures toward the chair opposite his own, and busies himself fetching coffee from the nearby pot. "I'm glad you made it off that rock," he says, "Even if I didn't have time to tell you so during the ceremony. You missed some good stories up here, but I think you probably got the real scoop down there."
Sawyer slaps something into Cadmus' chest before she deigns to take a seat. It's the magazine she brought with her, and when it's unfurled it happens to be 'Acropolis Monthly', the magazine she was purported to write for before the Holocaust. "Picked that up for you down there. Thought you could use some /decent/ reading material." Sawyer, despite her rather polished apparel, drops bonlessly and unceramoniously into the chair he indicated. "Thank you. It's good to be back, and congratulations on your accommodation, by the way. I hear it's hard earned and you're one of the reasons I stand before you now. Or, well…sit." Last time she spent any time with Cadmus she was in a swimming suit. A far cry now from the tailored suit she shifts in to pull out a pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind?"
"Knock yourself out, Sawyer." Apparently the past few weeks have mellowed Cadmus's insistence upon last-name formality, as well. Looking over 'Acropolis Monthly', he guffaws under his breath, and places it gently on the side of his desk as he takes a seat - it's one of a kind, after all. "Hard earned? Maybe. Things are coming up snake-eyes all over this boat, but at least down here on deck six, I feel like we're plugging the leaks. I can't speak for anyone else, but… Gods, I hope I'm doing enough. It's been a hell of an uphill battle."
As he has no comment as to her smoking, Sawyer pulls a cigarette out by the filter with her lips. "Do you smoke?" She sets the pack on the desk if he's so inclined. "I have something else for you…" As if she's just ripe with gifts. "…something a bit more official. Seems I'm a bit of a security risk toting this around, and I was told to turn it over the MPs. Which. Would be you." This time it's a little thumbdrive she fishes out of her pants pocket. Holding it up in the light and examining it. "If I understand correctly. This is one half of the reason we went down there." Waggle waggle.
Perching his nose on a fist, Cadmus purses his lips and gingerly takes the thumbdrive; he holds it between a thumb and forefinger, as if perhaps it were poisonous. "I don't usually smoke, no," he murmurs absently. "What… What is it, exactly? I know you found a lot of stuff down there, but I'd be hard-pressed to say what of the things I've heard creeps me out most…" He doesn't wait for an answer, though. He's already slotting it into his computer and preparing to copy the data.
Sawyer smiles crookedly. "Well, my friend. What you'll find there is a copy of what no doubt Lieutenant Oberlin and Parres have turned over. It's whatever we were able to pull off the computer system at MolGen which is a jumble of religious text, test logs about human brain patterns being uploaded into Centurion programming, attempts at recreating the natural radiation signals that surround most of our Anchorages. Some security camera footage of the facility…but what they /don't/ and which now you possess is the data I pulled off the computers at the famed Towers. I wasn't able to decrypt any of that on the surface." Funny, though, how it's taken her well over a week to get this information turned in.
Failure obviously does not mean she didn't try. Cadmus just stares at Sawyer. He then stares at the portable data drive. When he returns to staring at Sawyer, he leans partway over the desk while jabbing a finger down at the computer; it looks rather like he doesn't want it to hear him. "I have no idea if this is going to ruin my day, or keep me up all night with glee. But… thank you," he murmurs. "This is no doubt going to give me headaches for a *month*, too. In a good way."
Sawyer finally gets around to lighting her cigarette, having given him plenty of time to protest. Her cheeks hollow out as she draws a cherry to life, and she shakes out the match and puts it ontop of the cellophane wrapper of her pack. "Well." She starts out, leaning over to mirror his movement. "Whatever you figure out, you have to make sure to share. I don't much like giving away my toys and watching someone else play with them. But you're welcome. Though honestly, you should be thanking your XO, he's the one that inferred I should turn them over or suffer the consequences." The journalist leans back away, so her smoke doesn't bother him.
The cigarette is pretty much entirely ignored. It's dubious that Cadmus even acknowledged the item as a separate entity from Sawyer's mouth; these are the hazards of associating with Tisiphone and other chainsmoking bastards. Placing an elbow on the desk's surface, he nods a few times as he considers this news. Snapping his fingers suddenly, he points to you: "No, you don't need to worry about that. Anything I can dig out of these files are going to be spread to anyone who wants to know, as long as their interest isn't in *continuing* these experiments…" he says. "And on top of that, I think these might give us a better idea about what other saboteurs we might just have on-board. Borenstein - he's the guy who tried to blow up Sitka - has been swearing he had nothing to do with any other sabotage attempts. I believe him, too. Pushed him to the point where he tried to kill me, in the interrogation room. But the thing is, I *know* he's guilty. I think he might not know. Like a sleeper agent in a spy movie, you know? First Man Out of Saggitaron, and stuff?"
Sawyer's eyebrow quirks up in a dainty little spike of intrigue, "When you get on a roll, you really just -go- don't you?" She seems vaguely amused, turning her head sideways and canting her lips towards the ceiling with her next exhale. "Interesting theory, performing the tasks in an altered state. Sort of like a schitzophrenic having no recollection of the actions of his other selves. Yet he was cognitive of the incident surrounding the explosion of Captain Sitka's viper?"
"I was assuming some kind of fugue state. I could buy that someone might have faked his access codes. But not his fingerprints or signatures. Faking fingerprints is strictly for the movies, especially in the quantities we found at some scenes. But yes… It seems he recalls the details of his attempt on Captain Sitka perfectly well," Cadmus says. Rapping his fingers against the desktop, he emits small 'thinking' noises. "But the thing is, his explanation for why he rigged the Viper don't hold water. It would have been more effective for him to bomb the catapults or signals booth. But he didn't, and he's convinced his rationale was solid. I'm no pilot, but I'm not sold. I think he's rationalizing. He believes it, but it doesn't make objective *sense*, in my book."
Sawyer settles into the chair, one leg crossing over the other but her posture is practically slumped in the chair so the back of her head is cradled against the cushion of the office chair. "What /was/ his reasoning?" If Cadmus is happy talking, the Journalist is surely going to let him, only keeping the conversation on the track she wishes it to be on by throwing out little questions to keep him rolling.
Straightening a touch, Cadmus spreads the fingers of one hand as if this would array before you the options Borenstein had. "Well, here's what he tells us," Cadmus begins. "He says he had to do Sitka because the clearance required to get into the signals booth or cats was too tough. He also says it was too tough for him to rig the explosives to an induction trigger, which is why he used a timer. This from a guy who rigged a pro charge in a way that nobody saw it, and who hacked into my frakking video feeds from the *deck*, using fiber optics." A pause, and he smiles mirthlessly: "Get this, too. He picked Sitka, because - get this - he didn't wanna risk Snag being the pilot. They had something going on, apparently."
With her cigarette snugged in the crook of her forefinger and middle, Sawyer rubs at the curve of her bottom lip with her thumb pensively. "Well. Someone saw it. Sitka had warning enough to get out of the way. Have you questioned Bell? If it was so well hidden, maybe Bell had prior knowledge of it's existance." A pause. "Just a thought." Sawyer takes another drag of her cigarette, forehead bunching up into a tangle of wrinkles in thought. "But /why/ blow anything up to begin with? What was his goal, beyond making deck meat out of the Captain?"
"Bell? No, I have to admit, I haven't questioned him. But if Doc's responsible for that bomb - or knew about it - I'll hang up my gun here and now. No evidence of any kind pointed to him, and he's phys…." Cadmus actually stops mid-sentence, utters a small "hmmm". The kind of "hmmm" one utters when one has an idea, or is in the middle of saying 'Of COURSE Cylons can't look like people!' He continues, momentarily: "Well, I suppose he could have had prior knowledge, but he sure didn't set the bomb. As for Borenstein, he wanted us to run. He figured if he crippled our ability to fight, we'd have to run, and so we'd stay alive."
"No offense to Captain Sitka, but one downed pilot does not a crippling blow make. And the fact that this Borenstein fellow seems to have feelings for Snag goes against the pattern we've seen so far with these so called 'Skinjobs'. Not that that rules him out for being a Cylon conspirator or humanoid model but…I'm just trying to help you look at this from all angles. So what do you /have/ so far?" Sawyer takes another draw of her cigarette, watching Cadmus carefully through the wavering wisp of smoke that drifts up from the tip of cancer stick.
Reaching into the drawer nearest his computer, Cadmus pulls out a series of disks and thumbdrives. Slotting the first of the array, the computer busily chugs away at making copies of the previously inserted portable drive. He also pulls out a cigarillo, sticks it in his mouth, and lights it. That probably also explains his indifference to your own smoking. "Ahh," he says, as he exhales the first breath, "I also see where some of your confusion comes from. If the charges had blown while Sitka was in the launch tube, the overpressure from the confined space likely would have knocked out the majority of our ability to launch and land Vipers, if not destroyed it entirely." Tapping some ash into trash can beside his desk, he continues: "Here's what we know. Borenstein bombed Sitka's Viper. He intended to bomb another aircraft as well, likely a Raptor, and wasn't averse to taking a hostage to do it. Nor was he averse to destroying the entire Battlestar with a jump shock, if he had to. His fingerprints were all over the missile housing involved in the destruction of the Raptor about a month ago. His signatures were on requisition forms for fiber optics used to remotely access and compromise our video systems. And he'd been planning to cripple our defenses since at *least* the time of the Cylon boarding event, at Parnassus."
Sawyer gives a silent little 'ah' at the clarification. "That's quite a risk, if it was just on a timer. Any delay would have been a snag in his initial plan and ultimately left more evidence to pile up against him. But that failure explains the escalation towards hostages, but not the risk to the ship. That seems to be a contradiction to his original goal: running to save what's left of humanity. You've an interesting situation, Cadmus. I certainly do envy you, that. I love a good challenge. Speaking of, I have another one for you. If you're up for it, of course." The last comes with a bit of a smirk, eyes now occupied by watching a man smoke who claims he usually doesn't partake in past time.
"Shiiiiiiiit." Cadmus draws this word out like it's made of putty; the last syllable falls out of his mouth as he begins to grimace. It's halfway annoyed, halfway amused. "I have plenty on my plate, but… When have I ever turned down a good mystery? I'm the enlisted guy sitting in the center of the storm. Nothing to do but ride it out, I suppose. Hit me," he says, squinting through the smoke between the two.
Sawyer actually allows a full smile to pull her lips, "Something in you has changed, Good Housekeeping." Her teeth claim and release the inner fleshy part of her cheek. "I like it." She leans over casually to stamp out her cigarette in an ashtray, muttering a quick thank you to the marine on whose desk it happens to be on. "Alright, so here's the deal. You're a marine, I'm a soft fleshy white girl. Somehow, I need to find a middle ground. Seems I'm getting up to my neck in some rather hot water and I need to learn how to defend myself. I realize you really don't have the time, but there are twenty four useable hours in every day and I was hoping there might be at least a few a week you could spare teaching me some hand to hand and how to properly use a firearm before Tillman gives the me the clearance to wear arms on the ship."
Cadmus rubs at the inner rim of one eye. It's more of a jab, really. "Eh," he mutters, "I think they've been drugging my food. I'm beginning to seriously doubt my own need for sleep, as well as my own ability to be harmed in any way, by anything…" He considers the request for a long moment, staring toward the room's far wall. Eventually, he pulls the ubiquitous ballpoint pen out of his breast pocket, pops the tip out, and begins hurriedly scribbling on a post-it note. "No one can carve the canal of Corinth in a single day, but every moment gives an opportunity to swing the first pick-stroke," Cadmus intones, paraphrasing the well-known historical proverb. He glances up, and hands the note off. "I see absolutely nothing wrong with helping you learn to defend yourself, be it with your hands, a pistol, or an automatic rifle. For good or ill, we should all know how to shoot, in this day and age. I'll make the time… As long as you don't mind starting off in the deep end of the pool, so to speak."
Sawyer reaches out for the little sticky note, looking down to it with a little furrow of her forehead. "Bring on the bruises." She says distractedly, then looks back up with renewed smile. "Truth is, I was a liability down on Leonis. Not a feeling I tend to like. So…this is good. This is really good, I appreciate it. And while you're busy putting me through my paces, we can compare notes. Maybe with the combined brain power, we'll make some headway on your investigation and my ever growing news story. My next step is to gain access to speak with Michael Abbot."
Cadmus nods a few time, declining to answer immediately. It's his eyes that are doing the talking in this case: checking the desks nearby for paper-pushers, people who might be eavesdropping, or anyone else with a serious case of of curiosity about him or his business. Satisfied that there are none immediately present, he leans forward to whisper his reply: "That is a good frakking plan. Listen, I don't just think you should, I think it's pretty imperative. I want to talk to him, but there's this political shit I can't have on me. I did my job and helped arrest the man, but I'm dead certain he's not a skinjob. If he is, we're too screwed for words to convey. So I'm looking into things, so to speak. Trying to find out who *could* be the leak in CIC."
Sawyer scoots her chair forward so she can fold her arms on his desk and lean over their prop. "There's a part of due process I have to believe in, and that's innocent until proven guilty. I /want/ to believe, but I know better than to let that cloud my judgement. Something was /off/ about Michael before we left on Cobra Talon. He wasn't the same man I drank with and shared stories with. It could just have been the pressure of the mission but…there was footage of someone who looked /exactly/ like Michael down on the surface, surrounded by Centurions as plain as day. But I am going to get in there and I am going to look that man in the eyes and I will have a chance to ferret this out for myself." Because she's nosy, gods dammit. And remarkably self-assured.
This is… not what Cadmus expected to hear. He furrows his brows as he, too, leans over. "I can accept that. I've never spoken to the man. But we're talking about an officer with *decades* of dedicated service. Could the Cylons really replace someone so completely? Or could they have planned this, what… twenty five, twenty six years in the past? That just chills me to the bone, Sawyer," he admits. "It means *any* of us could be sleeper agents, in the most literal way. You could be, I could be. Hell, either of us seem *more* likely than Abbot. I don't want to lose sight of other possibilities just because he's the most likely."
"Unless the man has a twin, Cadmus…" Sawyer drifts off, reaching out to lay a hand on the desk in front of him, a silent implore to see things from a different angle. She slowly starts to drag her hand back towards her, "If he is what he's accused of being, I'll be heart broken, but we can't let our own emotions cloud things. What we have to have are facts, one way or the other, but we can't just discount the possibility simple because we can't fathom what they are and are not capable of. What I've seen…" She presses her lips together into a thin pale line and shakes her head, trying to fight of mental images no doubt. "They're capable of damn near anything."
"That's bullshit. I refuse to accept that," Cadmus says, jabbing a finger toward the reporter. Despite the fact that nearby heads turn to regard the two, he continues on. "If they were capable of damn near anything, then our continued existence is planned - something I find possible, if not likely. But the statement implies we are powerless to resist. I've done things *personally* that they couldn't anticipate or stop, and I think keeping outside of predictability is our single greatest means of survival. The more we deviate from what they want us to do - or expect we will do - the more we can blindside them." He pauses, lowering his voice again; his excitement is abating, for the time being. "We need more information. We need to crack this stick wide open. I *refuse* to be a prisoner of anticipated behavior patterns."
Sawyer grips the edge of his desk, her own ire raised when his voice pitches louder. Her fingers tighten until the muscles strain beneath the skin, and the rosy healthy hue is given over to white. Her voice is low, dangerously so, words punctuated with a grind of teeth. "I'm not saying that just because they are capable that they will succeed, but I've seen /proof/ that a person's psyche can be hardwired into a machine of bolts and wires. I've seen with my own frakking eyes what looked as if They were trying to do the /reverse/ to humans. These things BLEED, Cadmus. They feel pain, they show disdain, they even show religious proclivities. So yes. Yes, I have to believe they are capable of engineering an upstanding military man and integrating him into our lives. Because I've -seen- it. You might have doubts about Abbot, but can you have doubts about Lieutenant Shaker? The fact that he died on the day of the Holocaust and then Tisiphone shot him /again/ or another version of him down on Leonis. Wasn't he, too, a man of service? For how many years, Cadmus. Think."
"Salt had ten years in the fleet. Ten years as a deep cover operative, I can see. Nearly thirty, plus the subsequent background checks you need to rank as fast and as high as Abbot did? That begins to stretch my credulity of what's possible, Sawyer. That means that pretty much exactly as the last Cylon conflict was winding down, they were inserting deep agents into our ranks. That this is the kind of technology they've had for the *entire armistice*," Cadmus shoots back. The tip of one index finger stabs at the desk's surface, as if to emphasise his point. "I'm not saying it's *impossible*, Sawyer, I'm saying it's unlikely. And frankly, if it turns out to be true, I'm gonna need to know why, or I'm giving up. Because it means that I can't trust anyone. Not a single other body in existence."
Sawyer drops her gaze down to her hands, slowly peeling them finger by finger of their grip on the desk until they are folded back in her lap and primly as possible. "Welcome to my world, Cadmus." She says quietly, voice aimed at her knotted digits. After a bout of silence, she finally takes the sticky note, adhears it to her pack of cigarettes and then tucks the bundle back in her pocket as she stands. "I'll see you in the gym, Lance Corporal. Congratulations again on your commendation."