Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  Starbuck was about ready to crack, and Boomer's remark almost did it.

  "Belay that, Boomer," he said. "You know I'm damn sick of you ribbing me about my love-life. My love life and my gambling, you get on one of those topics and you're a—"

  "Take it easy, you two," Apollo said. "This is no time for a fight."

  "Even if we did fight," Starbuck said, returning his attention to the activity in the triad court, "I think we'd do better than those guys."

  "Don't be too sure," Boomer muttered, still irked.

  "Boomer—" Starbuck said threateningly. He felt as if his mind was about to explode.

  "Back to the subject at hand," Apollo said. "You guys feel everybody started to go downhill at the time of the party?"

  Both Starbuck and Apollo answered yes.

  "Then let's concentrate on the party. I wasn't there. Was there any food everybody was consuming? Not just Vailean food, but any food?"

  "Salik's already cleared the subject of food," Boomer said. "He says no ingredients there could have caused the problem."

  "Right, Boomer, I was just trying to discover a common element."

  Across from them, Greenbean entered the triad arena. He was about to wander around the court's running track, but he saw his three buddies on the other side, and decided he didn't want to socialize with them just now. He joined several spectators by the railing and watched the fighters below without really concentrating on them. He was too obsessed with his feelings of guilt and his suspicions that he'd been in Baltar's headquarters where he had, in some way, betrayed the fleet. The memories he did have of that time were vague and unreal.

  "And most everybody drank ambrosa or grog?" Apollo was asking Boomer.

  "Right. But that's not a common element either. A few didn't drink. And I had about as much ambrosa as the next pilot without ill effects."

  "And there were people at the party who didn't come down with—"

  "Greenbean!" Starbuck yelled.

  "What?" Apollo said, confused. Then he saw Greenbean across from them. "Oh, yes, I see him over there. Let's concentrate on the matter at—"

  "No, Apollo, that's not it. I mean Greenbean is the common element you're looking for. He was there. It was his party. Remember? Nobody felt bad before he came back from the dead."

  Apollo noted the abnormal bitterness in Starbuck's edgy voice. There was an offbeat sound to it, a kind of lunacy. On the other hand, the thought of Greenbean had definitely lifted Starbuck out of his lethargy.

  "What are you saying, Starbuck?" Boomer said.

  "Greenbean. Look how long he was gone! Then he suddenly materializes out of nowhere. And he claims not to remember where he was. Who's to say he's not a traitor? He could be a plant, a tool of the Cylons. It might not even be Greenbean! Tear him open, you might see circuits. All this, it's his fault, the son of a—"

  Starbuck started to spring away from them, but Apollo gripped his arm and said:

  "Wait! Let's get a hold on this. Greenbean was cleared. He was examined, tested, inspected, you name it. He wasn't carrying any disease viruses or organisms or—"

  "But that's it, don't you see? Maybe he is the disease!"

  "Weigh anchor, Starbuck. Are you suggesting Greenbean's presence at the party was in some way—"

  "I'm not suggesting anything. Greenbean hasn't been the same since he got back. It's like he's not even the same Greenbean. I started to feel bad when I was at that table right by him. Apollo, it makes sense, it—"

  "What sense? Starbuck, it's not even logical, it's—"

  Starbuck couldn't bear Apollo's irritating rational admonitions. In the feverish insanity taking over his brain, he knew Greenbean was evil and the source of his own misery. He pulled away from Apollo's grasp and leaned against the triad court railing. He screamed across the court, the fierceness of his anger making even the fighters below stop their lethargic combat.

  "GREENBEAN! LOOK AT ME, YOU PIECE OF DAGGIT MEAT!"

  Greenbean, who had been absorbed in his own thoughts of bemused guilt, was startled by Starbuck's voice. He looked up, frightened. Starbuck knew, he thought. Starbuck knew about his betrayal. Even as he thought it, more details of his capture rushed into his mind. He saw himself in his cell, in Baltar's command chamber, writhing with pain under Cylon torture. He saw himself confessing, giving the Galactica's coordinates. Shame overwhelmed him with the return of the memories.

  Starbuck had started to race around the triad running court. He was shouting as he went:

  "It's you, isn't it, Greenbean? Or whoever you are. WHATEVER you are."

  Greenbean backed up, aware that everybody in the triad arena was staring at him. They knew, too. They all knew. They could all look into his mind and see his betrayal. Crying, he ran out of the arena.

  Starbuck yelled something incoherent and followed him.

  Apollo and Boomer were not far behind Starbuck, although neither had a clue to what was going on inside him. In spite of his crazed behavior, insanity was the last explanation that would have occurred to them.

  Greenbean hurried down the passageway leading away from the arena. His mind was a melange of pictures from his imprisonment on Baltar's ship. He remembered the words of his confession, and the misery he had felt after saying them. He felt an identical misery now.

  Starbuck planted himself in the center of the passageway and drew his laser pistol. He took steady aim down the long corridor, intending to hit Greenbean in the center of his back. However, as he pulled the trigger, Apollo's fist hit him in the arm and deflected his aim. His shot passed very close to Greenbean, who did not break stride.

  "Starbuck!" Apollo hollered. "What do you think you're doing? You can't shoot him!"

  "I wasn't going to kill him," Starbuck lied. "Just slow him down."

  "Didn't look to me like you were aiming to miss," Apollo said.

  "But that's Greenbean," Boomer yelled. "A colonial officer, a pilot, a buddy, a—"

  "No buddy of mine," Starbuck cried. "It's him. He's killing us. Or setting us up. I'm sure of it."

  Lucifer might have been amused by the fact that Starbuck, in his madness, had uncovered the truth of his intricate psychological sabotage. And, of course, nobody believed a mad man.

  "Starbuck, you're not making sense!" Apollo said. "Even if Greenbean is somehow behind everything, you can't judge him until he's had his say."

  "You're so hot on proper procedure—"

  "And you're just hot in the head, buddy."

  "Let me at him! Don't worry, I won't shoot him. I might rearrange his face a little, but—"

  Starbuck abruptly started running down the passageway. Exchanging worried glances, Apollo and Boomer chased after him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With Baltar and Spectre spending so much time together, Lucifer was freed to attend to his own endeavors. He tinkered with the guilt machine relentlessly, finding ways to refine it, to strengthen the power of the deadly rays being transmitted to the Galactica, to control them more adroitly from afar.

  He sensed Baltar and Spectre, arm in arm, coming toward him. He resented their smug alliance and wondered what abnormal features in their personalities nurtured it. It was clear enough what Spectre wanted from Baltar. His transparent need to use others in order to obtain power for himself was obvious. But what did Baltar want? And how could he not see what a fraud Spectre was? Perhaps he did, and liked Spectre all the better for it.

  While Lucifer should have been angry at Spectre for trying to usurp his position on this ship, Lucifer did not, in truth, mind the prospect of being transferred away. He preferred frontline duty but, if placed elsewhere, he could function quite well.

  "Burning a little midnight oil, Lucifer?" Baltar asked.

  "I don't burn oil. My oil is only for lubrication of—"

  "Please, please. I know. Just a figure of speech. Place it in your memory. It means working hard and long."

  "No work is hard for me, nor do I perceive the time of my labor as long."<
br />
  Lucifer tried to ignore Spectre's annoyingly steady gaze. Spectre, however, rolled forward to talk.

  "Count Baltar is fortunate indeed to have one so loyal as you in his employ, Lucifer."

  "Yes, fortunate," Lucifer said. More than he realizes.

  Baltar was fascinated by the eerie light show that was on display when Spectre and Lucifer communicated with each other. Their eyes lit up more, and so did the strange lights which seemed to illuminate their facial surfaces from within.

  "Ambulatory cybernetic sentiences such as we have no purpose except to please our masters," Spectre commented. Please, Lucifer thought. He wondered how a creature like Spectre could exist in the same series as himself. Spectre was, to be sure, an earlier model, so perhaps it was only proof of what Lucifer had always suspected, that earlier models were definitely quite inferior.

  "Has all been made ready for Imperious Leader's visit?" Baltar asked Lucifer.

  "Everything has been done."

  "Has the diversionary force been briefed on its mission?"

  "Yes."

  Spectre, intrigued by Baltar's words, asked:

  "Diversionary force?"

  "Although we undoubtedly have superior forces to send against the Galactica, I've planned a small diversionary action on the planet Vaile. It will serve to confuse the Galactica's warriors and punish the Vaileans for aiding the fleet. We will draw the Galactica's vipers away from the fleet and occupy them in a skirmish above Vaile, while two walls of Cylon raiders zero in on the Galactica itself."

  A Cylon squadron was often termed a wall because of the tight way its raidercraft flew together, looking at times like a solid wall.

  "Not only will we be able to destroy several of their vipercraft at a time when they cannot afford to lose any more—but, should they choose to abandon the fight at Vaile and return to attempt to defend the fleet, it will be too late. Our fighters will mow them down like balloon targets, thus forcing the surrender of the Galactica."

  "A master plan, I think, honored sir," Spectre remarked.

  Lucifer noted that Baltar seemed to glow with Spectre's flattery.

  As Baltar and Spectre left command chamber, Spectre glanced back at Lucifer, who had resumed his tinkering on the guilt machine, and said:

  "You are lucky, Count Baltar, in having such a one as Lucifer to expend so much effort in refining your invention."

  The last statement made Lucifer cease his labor. Your invention. Did Spectre mean, as it sounded, that he believed that Baltar was the originator of the guilt device? Or did he merely mean Baltar had titular possession as the commander of the base-star? It would not be beyond belief for Baltar to undercut Lucifer and take credit for the device. Baltar would bear watching.

  He returned to his work. Careful examination revealed that certain relays within the machine were being bypassed, a state he had not expected. Yet the change was, he was sure, for the better. The power going out now was much stronger and undoubtedly more effective. The Galactica may be destroyed from within, he thought, before Baltar's wall of ships can even get there.

  Things were going well. Lucifer might even be able to obtain a promotion as well as a transfer from the base-star.

  Uri sat, bathed in the glow of the only light in the small meeting room. He spoke to his chief aides, the ones to whom he had delegated limited authority. His voice was low.

  In the strange light he looked like a supernatural apparition, a demon.

  "Now's the time to strike. I'm sure," he said. "Adama can't fight us; he can't even get out of bed to face us. His comatose state is a condition we can use to our advantage. Ship efficiency is as low as the spirits of its people. Tigh is a fine leader, but he can't put down a resistance now, without Adama to back up his play. Send the word out to our lieutenants. Garner our forces for the march through the ship. We will make a public display, that way they can't ignore us. At the end of the march, on the bridge, we'll present our demands. If they stubbornly persist in not acceding to them, we'll take over the Galactica by force. We have the numbers to do so, I'm certain. Once that is accomplished, everyone can go down to Vaile."

  After his aides had left to spread the word, Uri switched off the light and sat in the dark. In his mind he saw the Galactica burning, a new star in the Vailean skies. It was an image he relished, although he wouldn't dare reveal it to his followers.

  He was confident his conspiracy would succeed. He was tired of being a nobody aboard the Galactica and wanted once and for all to settle someplace where he could attain power.

  Greenbean ran frantically, looking for a place to hide and catch his breath. He needed to think. He had to arrange correctly the images in his head. Baltar, Cylons, the torture, the strange red-eyed creature, the odd emotional manipulation, the cell, Scarn. It was all cluttered and confused in his mind. Just as he was about to slow down and crouch in a dark alcove, he heard the running steps behind him, and Starbuck's voice:

  "Greenbean! Stop! No point in running!"

  He heard the lie in Starbuck's voice and his fear multiplied. He managed to increase his speed. Rounding a corner he slammed into a strolling group of people, knocking a couple of them down.

  Apollo trailed right behind Starbuck. He struggled to make sense out of what Starbuck had said. Could he possibly be right about Greenbean? The guilt disease was unknown before Greenbean's return from the dead. Still, that could easily be a coincidence.

  One thing he knew for sure, he didn't want to be chasing the man through the countless corridors of the Galactica. The best course would be to go to Colonel Tigh in order to discuss the matter. But he couldn't do that—he had to follow the hotheaded Starbuck, prevent him from trying anything rash. All they really had to do was corner Greenbean and calmly escort him to someplace where they could talk to him.

  As they ran, other Galacticans joined them. They looked fierce. God. Apollo thought, all we need now is a rampaging mob.

  Apollo caught up with Starbuck.

  "He went through that door," Starbuck yelled. "He's going down."

  "Down to the next level?"

  "What it looks like."

  "Starbuck, maybe we should let him go for the time being, take—"

  "Are you kidding? Didn't you see how guilty he looked?"

  "We can't go off half-cocked."

  Starbuck glanced sideways at Apollo. It was a distracted look Apollo found difficult to interpret.

  When they got near the door through which Greenbean had disappeared, Starbuck sprinted ahead. Apollo accelerated, knowing he had to stay close to Starbuck, who couldn't be trusted if it came to a showdown with Greenbean. Worse than that, what about the mob that Starbuck was firing up as he went?

  Cassiopeia and Dietra left the supply room and headed down the corridor in the direction of Life Center. They carried cartons of medical instruments that Salik had requisitioned.

  "You know what Starbuck's gone and done?" Cassiopeia asked.

  "No, what?" Dietra replied.

  "He sent me flowers with a little note inside saying he was sorry about how he'd treated me and he wanted to make up for it. I mean, I know I was a little hard on him the other day, but I can't figure this."

  "Maybe he's reformed."

  "Yes, and the universe is contained in the shell of a pea. No, I think it's some new line, some new ploy. He wants to draw out my—"

  Greenbean emerged from a stairwell doorway and rushed by the two women, his flailing arm hitting Cassiopeia and knocking her off her feet. Her cartons of medical supplies flew all around the corridor. Greenbean, who hadn't seemed to notice what he'd done, just ran on.

  "Hey, you louse," Cassiopeia hollered after him. "Don't you see where you're—"

  "Wasn't that Greenbean?" Dietra asked.

  "I don't know," Cassiopeia said as Dietra helped her up. "He hit me too fast for me to check his identity. It could've—"

  The first wave of the pursuing mob spilled out of the doorway, led by Starbuck, and bumped into Cassiopeia
and Dietra, sending both of them to the floor this time. They just missed being trampled.

  Boomer stopped long enough to help the two of them up.

  "What's going on, Boomer?" Cassiopeia asked.

  "Can't stop now," he said, breathlessly. "Got to keep this mob from lynching Greenbean."

  "Lynch—?"

  But Boomer had run off. Cassiopeia and Dietra exchanged puzzled looks.

  "What should we do?" Dietra asked.

  "You chase after them," Cassiopeia said. "Do anything you can to help Greenbean. I'm going on to Life Center, tell Doctor Salik. He and Tigh are the only ones who can do something about this."

  Dietra hurried after the mob. Cassiopeia took one look at the cartons of supplies spilled all over the corridor, some of them obviously stepped on, and decided not to waste time trying to pick them up.

  Greenbean finally found a hiding place, a janitorial closet. He crouched among buckets and cleaning materials, and listened to the loud footsteps of the mob passing by outside.

  When all was silent, he tried to make his mind function logically. Some of the images that had been whirling around in his brain came into better focus, particularly the moment when he finally gave in to the torture and spilled his guts. He felt intense shame about this memory, and he sobbed quietly.

  Then he recalled being in Baltar's command chamber, remembered the machine that had manipulated his emotions. He could not remember what Baltar and his mechanical aide had said, but he knew it was about the machine, and that the machine was somehow responsible for his present misery. He did not at that moment understand how his experience then was connected to the events now, but he knew that it was an important aspect of his betrayal.

  God, he thought, I shouldn't live. I don't want to live.

  He tried to think of where to go, a place where he could quietly end his life. What about the devil's pit? he thought. He had never been to that mysterious area at the bottom of the ship. He only knew that people held many suspicions about it. It seemed like a logical place to go to end a worthless life.