Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine

by Glen A. Larson

"Don't go to sleep!" he hollered. "They're going to attack!"

  "What—?" Athena said.

  "I better summon Salik," Tigh said.

  He called the doctor from Adama's intercom. Athena continued to stare down at her father, who now appeared to be squirming in pain.

  She leaned down near him, whispered in his ear:

  "Father. Dad, it's me, Athena."

  Suddenly Adama sat up. He appeared to be awake.

  "Ila!" he shouted. "Oh, Ila, Ila!"

  Athena put her arms around him. She hugged him tightly and rocked him back and forth. He was not conscious of her actions. His body went limp in her arms.

  "Colonel Tigh!" Athena screamed.

  Adama stood in the ruins of the cottage. The attack was over. He had watched the bombs destroy the half of the cottage where Ila had lain watching Serina on the TV screen. He had watched survivors remove Ila's body for burial. He had not wanted to follow them. It was likely they buried Ila in some type of mass grave and he didn't want to see that.

  He also realized, in the back of his mind, that he had to stay by the cottage to play out the drama of the predestined past. When it was time, he walked up the path away from his home and stared at the skies. Eventually, as he expected, he saw Apollo's viper fly down to Caprica's surface and land in an open nearby field. His mind almost a blank, his emotions wracked by what he'd experienced, he watched his past self walk across the field, with Apollo following closely. Apollo's cautious stride showed he was obviously concerned for his father's welfare.

  Adama stayed at the side of his past self on the path to the cottage. It felt strange, taking step for step with his centons-younger twin. Inside the cottage, he studied the past Adama's dolorous face as he examined several old family photographs. He saw the family memories reflected in the past Adama's eyes. The past Adama stared finally at pictures of Ila, then started to sob.

  "I'm sorry, Ila," the past Adama said. "I was never there when it mattered. Never there when—"

  The mournfulness passed from his past self to his present self, and they both cried quietly. Even as he did so, Adama wondered why he was feeling so drained, so weak.

  Apollo came to the doorway and regarded his father silently and compassionately. The past Adama noticed his son, and brushed away some of his remaining tears with his fingertips. Adama could hear his other self struggle to control the emotion in his voice.

  "I didn't," he said, "didn't hear you come in."

  "Forgive me, Father. I should have gone away, left you . . ."

  "No, no, that's all right. I was . . . was just gathering a few remembrances. You want this likeness of you and Zac?"

  "No!" Apollo's response was vehement. "Look, there are crowds coming. They probably saw our ship land."

  "I'm not worried about them. I'll be a few more minutes here . . ."

  Apollo nodded stiffly and started to leave. Then he came back to the doorway and said:

  "Maybe she wasn't here, maybe—"

  "She was here," the past Adama said. "She was here."

  "Yes, she was here," echoed Adama bitterly.

  "Yes, of course," Apollo said.

  Adama listlessly watched his other self shuffle around the cottage, clearly collecting memories instead of physical souvenirs. Then his past self left. Adama was sure he would never see him again. He didn't wish to see what happened next, the beginning of the quest, the assembling of survivors. Lucifer, if he could have read Adama's mind at that moment, would have realized that the beginning of the Galactica's journey would have held no interest for Adama because there had been no guilt connected with those hopeful events.

  Adama sat on the remains of his favorite chair and stared at the ruins that surrounded him. As he sat, he could feel himself grow weaker. He didn't mind growing weaker. It seemed fitting. He felt old, with nothing to live for, not even the quest for Earth. He felt like sleeping, realizing vaguely that it would be like sleeping within sleeping, if this was a dream. A dream, and not the beginning of his death.

  Athena held on to her father as tightly as she could. There was pain surging up and down her arms, and she hugged tighter, glad to increase the pain.

  Salik rushed in, Tigh at his side. Athena relinquished Adama to him. Using a portable bio-scan setup, Salik tested the vital areas of Adama's body.

  "He's fading," Salik said softly.

  "What do you mean?" Athena said, knowing what he meant but not wanting to accept it.

  "Life signs are diminishing. His bio-pulse scan is the lowest number I've seen in centons."

  "No, he's all right. He's got to be."

  "Athena," Tigh said, and took her into his arms compassionately.

  Salik stood up.

  "Time to get him to the Life Center," he said. "I'll do what I can there."

  "Doctor—" Athena said.

  "I think he's dying, Athena. Get that into your head now. It'll be better later, when—"

  "When it happens?"

  Salik nodded.

  "What is it, doctor, what's killing him?"

  "I wish I knew."

  As Salik arranged for medics to transport Adama to Life Center, Athena said to Tigh:

  "Better contact Apollo. If you can find him, Tigh. And Boxey."

  "I will."

  After Tigh had left the bedchamber, Athena sat by her father's bed, holding on to both his hands, waiting for the medics to arrive.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Baltar put the finishing touches on his dress uniform, spraying a subtly iridescent shine onto the cloth at breast level. The shine slyly duplicated the bands of honor that second-and third-brain Cylons wore on their battle outfits. He was sure the extra sartorial effort would please the Imperious Leader, who was known to favor neatness in his high-level subordinates.

  He examined himself in the Gemon mirror. The mirror, manufactured from crystal originally mined on the twelve worlds' planet, Gemon, displayed Baltar from all sides simultaneously, numerous Baltars in an even row. He couldn't see a flaw in his uniform from any angle.

  "Well, Spectre," he said, "how do I look?"

  "Resplendent," answered Spectre, who had slid up behind him to perform the examination. There were several Spectres joining the several Baltars in the mirror's reflection. "Your clothes are the emblem of your glory, honored sir."

  Baltar basked in Spectre's compliments.

  "Do you think Imperious Leader will be impressed?"

  Spectre knew that, aside from the neatness and correctness of clothing, the Imperious Leader had little interest in the aesthetic splendor of what an individual wore. However, it was clear to him that, in his present mood, Baltar required flattery, so he received a favorable response. At any rate, Baltar would not perceive the Leader's lack of concern with clothing.

  "Yes, I believe he will be," Spectre said. "The Leader will see that you are the shining example of good taste as well as supreme leadership."

  Actually, Spectre thought Baltar's uniform was rather gaudy, and Baltar's selection of colors a pain to view.

  "You flatter me," Baltar said.

  "And I thought I had you fooled," Spectre said. He meant that, and was surprised to discover Baltar taking it as a joke.

  "You have much more wit than the usual cybernetic being, Spectre. That was a rather good comeback."

  Taking advantage of a compliment he did not deserve, Spectre said:

  "I suppose that's because I've been in the field with the troops. Suffering hardships, seeing the ironies of battle, doing the—"

  "Yes, you had rather a hard time there on Antila, didn't you?"

  "It was not what I had been programmed to expect."

  A centurion entered the room and informed Baltar that the Imperious Leader's base-star had initiated docking procedures.

  "Lucifer has suggested it is time for you to come to the bridge, sir."

  "Tell Lucifer that I'll be there when I'm good and ready," Baltar, more than normally irked, said.

  "By your command."

>   After the centurion had left, Baltar felt more nervous than ever. He began to pace, but the tightness of his uniform made quick walking painful.

  "Your comrade Lucifer is getting a bit too big for his cognitive storage banks," he said to Spectre.

  "Comrade? He is no comrade of mine, sir."

  Baltar scrutinized Spectre. He was again imagining Spectre as his new assistant.

  "I'm pleased to hear that, Spectre. Very pleased."

  "Thank you."

  If Spectre had been able to blush, he might have.

  "Well," Baltar said, "time to meet the Leader. You're sure I look all right?"

  "You look magnificent, your lordship."

  They left the room arm in arm.

  Humans, with their limited abilities to see anything worthy in Cylons, would not have been able to perceive the Cylon Imperious Leader as in any way attractive, or even acceptably plain. To them he was ugly in a bestial way, with his multiple sets of sometimes luminous eyes, his knobby head that looked like a pile of swamp-gray rocks, his uneven and out-of-balance body and his monstrous size. Cylons might have found him admirably attractive, if they had been inclined to make aesthetic judgements, which they were not. At any rate, the Leader himself had no care about what anyone of any species thought of him. His interlocking but separately functioning three brains enabled him to rise above such emotional perceptions in a godlike way. That distancing ability was one of the few ways in which Imperious Leader was godlike. His goal of achieving the destruction of all other intelligent species and his advocacy of mass murder when in the Cylon cause tended to negate any of his godlike attributes.

  Now, as he left his base-star to pass through the connecting airlock into Baltar's ship, he wished he did not have to devote even a fraction of his brains to the conniving human. However, the man had been the only one of his top-echelon officers to make much headway in the seeking and fighting of the human fleet. On the other hand, he usually lost the battles in spite of elaborate plots, strategems, and sneaky tricks.

  Spectre had convinced the Leader to make this inspection tour. The Leader had found Spectre to be a most useful aide, even though he saw through the creature's most obvious self-seeking ploys. Such routine trips were restful and helped the Leader to devote more time to meditation on plans to spread Cylon domination to more and more of the universe.

  Lucifer glided forward to meet the Leader. After the formal exchange of Cylon ritual greetings, Lucifer led the Leader to the command chamber.

  "I have good reports about you, Lucifer," the Leader said.

  "You are kind to say so, Imperious Leader."

  "No, not kind. Hardly kind. I am merely well-informed."

  While Lucifer was pleased to receive the Leader's praise, he wondered from where the good reports could possibly have come. It was hard to believe, after all their chummy regard for each other, that Baltar or Spectre could have transmitted the reports. Perhaps the Leader had a spy network aboard the ship.

  Baltar waited at the entrance to the command chamber, smiling so broadly it appeared that his face was being unnaturally stretched. He rushed forward to greet the Leader. Spectre followed Baltar closely, like a child's pulltoy.

  "Your imperial greatness," Baltar said, "it is again my pleasure to welcome you to our—"

  "There is no need to employ excessive formality with me, Baltar. I am not impressed by it. I am here on a routine tour that should not take up much time."

  "Routine?" Baltar seemed disappointed. "Well, Imperious Leader, let me inform you of my plans for your . . . your entertainment. Then this tour will hardly seem routine."

  "What do you mean, Baltar?"

  "Shall I tell him now, Spectre?"

  Of all Baltar's poses, Lucifer thought that his coyness was about the worst. And why was he playing up to Spectre in the Leader's presence?

  "As you wish, Count Baltar," Spectre said.

  "Yes," Baltar said. Strutting with authority, Baltar led Imperious Leader and his contingent into the command chamber. There, he addressed the flight officer: "Centurion! Launch the diversionary squadron!"

  The flight officer followed orders as Imperious Leader observed, some questions on his minds. He did not object to the surprise, since it was generally hard to surprise him. He admired anyone who accomplished that. Baltar might just be improving as a commander, he thought.

  "Diversionary squadron?" the Leader asked. "This interests me, Baltar. What is the purpose of this diversionary group?"

  Baltar explained his plan of attack against the Galactica. Lucifer was intrigued by the aura of politics that had entered the command chamber with the arrival of the Imperious Leader. It seemed to him that Baltar, Spectre and Imperious Leader were all maneuvering for position. Each wanted something that at least one of the others could give him.

  "You know the location of the Galactica then?" Imperious Leader asked.

  "Its exact coordinates, sir," Baltar replied proudly.

  "Then why haven't you attacked before this?"

  Baltar was temporarily disconcerted by the Leader's directness, but he was able to counteract the Leader's implied criticism charmingly.

  "I wanted the final defeat of the Galactica at my hands to be your little treat, sir. So I delayed the launch of the attack until your arrival."

  Imperious Leader, while able to see through the devious sycophancy of Baltar's explanation, was nevertheless pleased by it.

  "An interesting diplomatic move, Baltar. I only hope it is a successful tactical one."

  The Leader's comment disturbed Baltar. He had expected automatic praise and encouragement. After all, the Leader was rabidly devoted to the annihilation of the human race. Still, as long as Baltar had known him, the Leader had always been wary of committing himself, especially to another's strategy. He was sure that, after the success of the battle, the Leader would lavish praise upon him.

  "And what are the rest of your plans, Count Baltar?" the Leader asked.

  "We are assembling two walls of Cylon raiders to attack the Galactica and its fleet while the Vailean diversion is in full swing. I expect an easy victory."

  "Why is that? You have never had an easy victory against the humans before, why expect one now?"

  "That is the key to my plan, honored Imperious Leader. I have effectively reduced the Galactica's fighting abilities with a little . . . a little invention of mine that should interest and please you, sir."

  Lucifer could hardly believe his auditory circuits. Not only was Baltar taking credit for Lucifer's guilt machine, he was brashly doing it right in front of him. He longed to protest, but felt that it would not do to create a fuss during a diplomatic visit from the Imperious Leader, especially with a massive assault against the humans already underway. Baltar would pay for this dirty trick, Lucifer vowed, but he would have to bide his time until he had the opportunity to avenge himself on the cloying human.

  The Leader, on his part, would not have cared who invented the device. Creators were of scant importance to him. Only their creations were. And how the Leader might use them to his advantage.

  "It is a most marvelous device, my liege," Spectre commented. "Very impressive."

  "May I see this . . . this device?"

  "Naturally," Baltar said obsequiously. "Centurion!"

  "It is a guilt machine, sir," Spectre said.

  "I have named it LEADER," Baltar said. "After you, gracious sir, of course."

  Lucifer wished all the maneuvering for political position among these three would cease. He stayed at the tail end of the contingent as it proceeded to LEADER. Imperious Leader took a long time inspecting the machine, while Baltar, oozing confidence, explained its functions. Lucifer shut off his auditory circuits and watched Baltar's performance as a mime show.

  Sire Uri's march through the Galactica was gathering momentum. It had started in the Beta Level auditorium, where an impressive number of people had already congregated, awaiting his entrance. Fired up by his oratory, they had flooded out
into the ship's passageways, forming large groups and heading for the command bridge, their progress accelerated by their own surly energies. The ranks of the march swelled as others rushed to join it.

  While it appeared that there was a mass desire to resettle on Vaile, most of the dissidents were people whose mood had been brought low by the insidious waves from Lucifer's guilt device. The irrationality it caused had led them to forget their own beliefs and principles, so that they were swayed to a cause that they wouldn't normally have believed in, following a charismatic leader whose views seemed more logical and acceptable than they actually were.

  None of that mattered to Uri, who was merely happy to be achieving his wishes. He looked back on the multitude he led and gloated. Well, Adama, he thought, you didn't think I could pull this off, did you? Down on Vaile I'll allow you to have a pension and live in a cottage, a remote cottage. Playing to the mob, he roared:

  "TO THE BRIDGE! WE'LL CONFRONT THE TYRANTS THERE!"

  A massive deafening cheer went up from his followers.

  On the bridge, panic was setting in at the thought of the coming confrontation. Flight Officer Omega, who was officer of the watch, didn't know what to do. He wondered what the manual said about civilian mutiny? Colonel Tigh, who wanted to remain close to the unconscious Adama at Life Center, had sent a message to deal summarily with Uri and his followers. But Tigh, in his worried state, did not seem to realize the proportions of Uri's revolt. Omega wished Captain Apollo could be reached. Apollo had always handled Uri well. However, nobody knew where Apollo had disappeared to.

  "Reports say that hundreds of people have joined Uri's movement and are proceeding here," Rigel announced. "It's more a mob than a formal organized protest."

  "They're surly," said a crewman. "Better be careful."

  "What should we do, Omega?" Rigel asked.

  "Perhaps we should summon a detail of security officers as a line of defense."

  "But that could be dangerous. The mob sees armed officers here and there might be unnecessary violence."

  "Good point, Rigel. We'll tough it out without the help of security force then."

  "Too late for that, Flight Officer Rigel," said a voice behind him. He turned and saw Tripp, the chief of security, standing stiffly, his hand on the stock of his holstered laser rifle. Dressed in stark black uniform, Tripp always was an alarming figure when you saw him unexpectedly. There was a squad of other security officers behind him, all in the same black outfit, all in some way touching their weapons.