Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  "Hardly. I hear he's stirring up a whirlpool of trouble out there. Latest report I have speculates that he's going to make his move soon—a public demand that he and his followers be allowed to remain on Vaile. If Adama's not better by then, they just might get their wish. I don't want to even deal with them. I'd rather travel on understaffed than be continually besieged by weasels like Uri and his—"

  Athena put her hands on Tigh's shoulders.

  "Easy," she said. "Easy, Colonel, easy."

  Tigh turned away from the window and smiled wanly at her.

  "Sorry," he said. "This is all off the point, isn't it?"

  Athena took Tigh's arm and walked him across the room slowly.

  "You know," she said, "maybe it is logical that Father should have more difficulty with guilty feelings than most people. He has the most responsibility. Responsibility and guilt go together. Look what he's apparently dreaming about. The Cylon ambush. Not his fault, but he often talks about it as if he were somehow responsible. The ambush, the destruction of our home worlds, this journey, the quest for Earth, that's a lot of weight on a single pair of shoulders."

  "Too much, perhaps," Tigh said, disengaging from her and leaning against Adama's desk. He didn't want to express to her his fear that the commander had already cracked, that his condition was not connected with the guilt-disease sweeping through the ship. It may have been the natural result of all he had been through.

  "How's the investigation going?" Athena asked after they had been silent for a while.

  "Apollo hasn't reported in yet."

  "On my way here, I saw the three of them. They were just sort of drifting along a corridor, arguing a little. Well, Starbuck was just drifting, but Apollo and Boomer were arguing. They seemed confused. I don't think they've found anything."

  Tigh sighed.

  "There may not be anything to find, Athena."

  Athena stood at her father's bedroom doorway and looked in. Adama was resting quietly now. She felt a moment of panic when she thought he might have stopped breathing. But she saw him take a shallow breath and felt better. But she couldn't get the fear out of her mind that he might be dying.

  Adama stood on a patch of dark Caprican soil and watched his past self disembark from Apollo's viper. Apollo had taken him down in his viper, contending that the shuttlecraft would have been too easy a target.

  Even though he was some type of ethereal being or was trapped in a dream, Adama felt exhausted. He had been through the ambush, seen the battle again, watched the Atlantia destroyed anew. He stood on the bridge and studied the past Adama closely as he ordered the Galactica away from the battle because he knew that the larger part of the Cylon forces would be attacking the twelve worlds. That act had been described by some as cowardly, but he had done all he could for the fleet and there were the twelve worlds to be protected. Of course he had been too late to stop the destruction of the home planets. He watched himself see their destruction on the Galactica's monitors.

  As Adama observed all the destruction, he felt guiltier than ever. There had been so many points where he could have acted differently.

  He followed the past Adama down the scarred path to the cottage where he and his wife had lived for so many yahrens. It was now, as he'd remembered, in ruins, only a part of it still standing.

  As he watched the past Adama enter the cottage, there was a flash of light and the sky went from night to day. Adama blinked from the pain of the sudden luminosity.

  He looked again at his old home and was astonished. It was whole again. Its destroyed walls had magically rebuilt themselves. The battle scars on the house and the countryside had disappeared. As he tried to cope with the new developments, the door of the cottage opened and his wife came out.

  "Ila!" he called.

  She came toward him, muttering something about some shopping she had to do. He reached for her, and she walked right through him. He felt the same chilly sensation he'd felt when Adar had passed through his body. He turned to look at her. She had stopped in the middle of the path and peered up at the bright sky.

  "I swear, Adama," she said, "you don't come back from that war soon and I'm off. I'll go, I really will. I'll go to Piscera, Virgo, anywhere, even Scorpia. I will, I swear it."

  When she spoke his name, he thought she must see him. Then he realized that her statement, while addressed to him, was intended to be directed past the skies and to his other self in the Galactica, however far away the ship might be. He was astonished. She had never shown him signs of her longings. He had never known she was fed up with her life here on Caprica, as she seemed to say. Perhaps she had always been subservient to him too easily, he thought, and perhaps he'd never seen it because he was so used to being surrounded by subordinates. He regretted any heartache, no matter how tiny it might have been, that he could have caused her.

  He wondered what time period he was viewing now. Ila didn't look any younger than he'd last remembered. It must not be too long before the invasion. Perhaps his past self had already seen her for the last time, a thought that saddened him immeasurably.

  Ila foraged in her handbag, muttering:

  "Where did I put my list? I swear, I'm forgetting everything nowadays."

  She continued her walk up the path. Adama called after her:

  "Wait, Ila, wait."

  He was tempted to follow her all the way to whatever store was her destination, but something kept him rooted to the spot. His emotional reaction to seeing Ila again was so mixed up. At once he felt happy, sad, and shocked. For so long he'd been remembering her as she'd been younger, and not the slightly overweight and puffy-faced woman she'd become. Her skin was sallow and her eyes tired. She walked with her shoulders bent; it was the walk of old women whose bones had softened. Had she become old? Was he guilty of aging her too soon, with his frequent absences? He had spent more time on the Galactica than in this pretty little cottage.

  The light shifted again, and there were now clouds in the sky. He glanced toward the cottage and saw a child playing in its side yard. It was Apollo, furiously in the midst of a game of outdoor triad with a few of his friends. Apollo had been a happy child, Adama recalled. Now his son had become so austere, especially with him. Was he guilty, too, of the change in his son's demeanor, or was that merely the function of time passing?

  Ila came out of the door of the cottage again and Adama was momentarily confused. But, he realized quickly, this wasn't the same Ila who'd walked so busily away from him, up the path. She was younger now, the way he tended to remember her. She was beautiful, her darkly auburn hair framing a petite lovely face. At this past time she looked quite like Athena did now.

  A young man followed her out of the cottage. At first Adama didn't recognize him. It wasn't himself, he saw first, then he saw the smile lines beside the hazel eyes and he knew it was Adar.

  "That was some superior meal, Ila," Adar said pleasantly.

  Ila laughed. Adama was delighted to hear that hearty trilling laugh again.

  "I told you, Adar, that I saw through your flattery," she said.

  "And I told you it wasn't flattery. It was truth."

  Adar stopped smiling and stared almost grimly at Ila.

  "I adore you, Ila," he said.

  Ila poked her finger vigorously at Adar's chest.

  "Adar, you're not to bring up that subject again."

  Adar backed away from her threatening finger and said:

  "I can't help it. I prefer your rejection to my remaining silent. And who knows? Someday you may—"

  "Don't even say it. I may die someday, I may get rich someday, I may turn to a life of crime, but—dear Adar—I will not fall in love with you someday."

  Adar looked so disconsolate that Adama couldn't even be mad at him for making a play for his wife.

  "Ila—" Adar said, then grabbed her roughly and kissed her. Although she allowed him to kiss her, it was clear that she was not participating in the act. When Adar tried to prolong the kiss, she pulled a
way from him quickly.

  "How stupid of you," she said softly. "With Apollo nearby and Adama due back any moment."

  "A risk worth taking."

  "Oh, yes? That's just some new version of your flattery, isn't it?"

  As the light changed again and the figures disappeared, Adama wondered what he would have felt about the incident at the time if he'd observed it. He probably would have challenged Adar to a fight and been more than a little jealous of Ila. Now, with so much time gone, with both Ila and Adar dead, there was no anger in Adama. All he could feel were twinges of guilt, a wondering if he had treated Ila in a way worthy of her love and loyalty, especially when he considered all the time he had spent away from her.

  Baltar stood over him and gleefully gawked at the torture Greenbean was undergoing. As the fire-whip came down and seemed to cut and singe his skin simultaneously, Greenbean woke up. He couldn't orient himself to his quarters. They didn't look right, they looked like his cell on Baltar's base-star. He shook his head, trying to figure out whether he'd dreamed of fantasy or reality. Had he actually been on a base-star and been tortured by Baltar? Or was the scene just a manifestation of his gloom? What, after all, would he know of Baltar's ship? Yet, earlier in the dream, he had seen it in precise detail. He remembered a strange personage with a head that lighted up and red eyes that moved oddly. Why had that creature seemed familiar?

  Jolly stepped out of the shadows.

  "You all right, buddy?" he asked.

  "What—?! Oh, Jolly. You been there long?"

  "A while. I returned from patrol and found you sacked out. Whatever you were dreaming, it seemed painful, at least judging by the misery in your face. I decided to stick around, wake you up if you started screaming."

  "Thanks, Jolly. It was a real sweat maker, whatever I was dreaming."

  He held up his sheets to show their damp spots.

  "See?" he said.

  "What were you dreaming?"

  "I forget," Greenbean lied. "Somethin' pretty stupid, I expect."

  Jolly nodded, then sat on the edge of the bed. It dipped quite a bit under his considerable weight. Jolly had been on a diet recently but apparently it wasn't doing him much good.

  "How about a game of pyramid?" Jolly asked.

  "I don't think so," Greenbean answered, lethargically.

  "Something to drink? Eat?"

  "No."

  "Some triad down in the gym?"

  "Nope."

  Jolly's pleadings became desperate.

  "Greeny, you got to pull yourself together. You can't—"

  "I'm all right. Just let me sit here a bit."

  "That's what's wrong. All you've done since you returned is—"

  "Jolly, leave me alone!"

  The vehemence of Greenbean's plea silenced Jolly. They sat quietly for a few microns, then Jolly, maintaining the silence, stalked out.

  Greenbean tried to think about his dream but soon he had dozed off again. In this dream Baltar again stood over him, but he was being friendly. Baltar talked but Greenbean couldn't discern what the evil-looking man was saying. Frequently Baltar addressed something to the strange red-eyed creature in the velvet robes. Greenbean felt that it was important to hear what was being said. If he could hear it, he would know what was wrong with him. He leaned toward Baltar, struggled to hear what the man was saying. And he woke up, again dripping with perspiration.

  He sat up, trying to figure out the significance of the dream. Why had it seemed so real, like something that had actually happened?

  In some way he was doing something to the Galactica, he thought. He didn't know why he was so sure of that, or what to do about it. If he went to the commander or one of the other officers, they'd either laugh at him or suggest a few sessions of therapy. But he didn't need therapy or lectures from superiors. All he knew was that he was a walking bomb. If he couldn't turn himself in, what could he do? He could kill himself; that might be the only way to defuse the bomb. If only he understood what it was all about . . .

  He decided to take a walk, see if he could clear his head. He put on his newly pressed jumpsuit, the one with the guilt-relay devices planted all over it, and started wandering the corridors of the Galactica.

  Baltar really enjoyed himself as he enthusiastically described for Spectre the strategy he planned to use against the Galactica. He spread printouts all over the command chamber floor to show Spectre the planned movements of the Cylon forces. In the center of the floor, as the Galactica itself would be the center of the attack, was a paper with a diagram of that battlestar upon it.

  "With the forces aboard the Galactica so emotionally depleted, we should be able to surround the ship and destroy it," Baltar summarized.

  "Or force it to surrender," Spectre suggested diplomatically.

  "Well, yes. But I thought Imperious Leader wanted the Galactica finally destroyed."

  "I can't speak for the Leader. It just seems to me that, after its capture, we could revamp the Galactica and turn it into a powerful fighting base-star in the service of the Alliance. It seems a shame to waste such potential for a mere battle victory, albeit a spectacular one."

  Baltar did not care for the idea of a salvaged Galactica, but he chose to flatter Spectre rather than argue with him. Baltar would demolish the Galactica if he damn well pleased, anyway.

  "Of course, of course," Baltar said. "Good thinking, Spectre."

  Spectre was impressed and gratified by Baltar's compliment. He was, after all, seriously considering joining the human's staff. And the Galactica was a key factor in his decision making. After the battle, if he influenced matters well, the Galactica could become a marvelous base of operations for Spectre.

  "There is one thing I don't understand, blessed sir," Spectre said.

  "Yes, my friend?"

  Spectre noticed the use of the word friend, and became even more confident he could arrange matters his way in the future.

  "How can we be so certain that the personnel aboard the Galactica will be unable to respond effectively?"

  Baltar positively glowed with satisfaction as he answered:

  "That's the wonder of it. I have devised a unit that is even now forcing such guilt upon the Galactican personnel that I expect the majority of them to be emotionally disabled by the time we launch our attack."

  Spectre was impressed as Baltar explained LEADER to him. He had not suspected that Baltar was capable of such an intricate and brilliant device. This was, he was sure of it, a man to ally oneself with. Any genius who could devise such an invention must be worthy.

  ". . . And so," Baltar finished, "when we attack, the Galactica will virtually kneel at our feet."

  "Ah, another metaphor. Skilled of you, Baltar."

  Baltar never used metaphor on purpose, but he accepted the praise gladly.

  "And when will the attack take place?" Spectre asked.

  "I've timed it to coincide with the visit of Imperious Leader. We will watch our mutual enemy destroyed together, much as we have begun this pursuit of the Galactica together."

  If it had been possible for a Cylon-made creation like Spectre to be overwhelmed, Spectre would have fallen to the floor in admiration of Baltar.

  "You have a spectacular sense of drama, Baltar. I congratulate you. I look forward expectantly to the event."

  "And then, when we have won, I will formally request from Imperious Leader a favor—and how can he refuse a favor in those circumstances? I will ask him to transfer you to my staff, Spectre. That is, if you so desire?"

  Being a cybernetic intelligence was quite an advantage at times like this. A human being, even a Cylon, would have paused while pondering the advantages and disadvantages of such an offer. But Spectre's analytic circuits allowed him to evaluate the aspects of an issue in an instant. His conclusion this time was to provide a carefully worded, but not fully committed, response that would sound to Baltar like acceptance, but would protect Spectre in case anything went wrong. Spectre said:

  "I wi
ll at that time, I trust, consider it an honor."

  Baltar, who didn't detect anybody's subtlety but his own, was delighted with Spectre's answer.

  "Splendid, Spectre, splendid," he said eagerly.

  If Lucifer could have observed the state of Starbuck's mind, he might have been disturbed. Starbuck had once been a prisoner of Baltar's, and Lucifer had liked him. The human had taught him a card game called pyramid, then beat him at it, and Lucifer had been devising systems with which he could beat the lieutenant should they ever meet again. Of all the humans, Starbuck was the one whom Lucifer would have most wished to spare suffering. Yet, in a bizarre side effect of the guilt device, Starbuck was slowly going mad. The disorientation and bad feelings that had been induced into him were gradually disintegrating his senses of self-confidence and rationality. The rays from the guilt machine were affecting the chemistry of his brain more severely than in most of the other afflicted Galacticans.

  As he stood with Apollo and Boomer next to a railing that surrounded the triad court, Starbuck would in a short time become quite insane.

  They had come to the court in their wanderings through the ship trying to find some clue to the mysterious shipboard gloom. Down below them some members of the crew were practicing fighting skills rather than playing triad. Apollo had resumed his interrogation of Starbuck.

  "And that's all you can remember?" Apollo asked.

  "Right," Starbuck said sullenly. "I just started to feel down at Greenbean's party and haven't been able to shake it since. Hey, look at those guys down there. They can do better 'n that. It's like they're fighting in heavy gravity."

  "Keep your mind on the problem, Starbuck," Boomer cautioned.

  "And you, Boomer," Apollo said, "you've not caught this . . . this disease?"

  "Not that I'm aware of. Oh, looking at others makes me feel a bit down in the mouth, but I don't have the kind of specific gloom Starbuck was describing. 'Course, I don't have his way with the girls either, so that's a subject I can't—"