Battlestar Galactica-03-Resurrection

by Richard Hatch

  And now he realized he could see through the buildings, see their inner floors and the walls that made up the separate rooms, as if he'd been suddenly given the ability of X-ray vision. It was disconcerting, an information overload with too much to take in, and he had to look away or lose himself in the details. Before he did, however, Apollo absently wondered what it must be like to live in a building of crystal, to walk on floors that were essentially invisible, walls that were little more than windows, ceilings that were skylights. For a private person such as himself, he thought this would be the worst hell imaginable.

  A circular glass platform hovered at the abyss's edge near Apollo's feet, and only the helioscoping of the light on its crystalline surface made the commander aware of its presence. He took a tentative step forward, gingerly placing one foot on its surface; it seemed capable of supporting his weight, and, trusting that Talen had led him here for a greater purpose than falling off a glass disc to his death, he stepped off the stone ledge and onto the platform.

  The disc dipped slightly beneath his weight, and Apollo had a heady, frightful moment when he thought perhaps Talen had gone to such complex lengths to assure he would plummet to his death, but then the platform was moving effortlessly through the underground sky, winding its way down toward the base of the glass city, weaving in and out between the buildings, and even if he had died there, Apollo would have left this life with a look of pure marvel on his face, because this was as close to unaided flight as any human could dream of having, and the rainbow of lights that skated along the edges of the buildings was haunting, dazzling and hypnotic.

  He vaguely understood the disc was winding its way down in ever-decreasing loops and arcs, as if that was the only way to reach any other point in this city—by traveling in spirals.

  The disc reached the crystalline streets of the city and skated along just centimetrons above the surface. Apollo watched the ground slip past beneath his feet, as if he were still altered from all the ambrosa, and somehow, that was a comforting thought; perhaps this was all just a dream, but if it was, he felt as if it were telling him something he needed to know. Dream or not, he was determined to see this through.

  Closer to the buildings, nearer the ground, Apollo could see something else: they were crystalline, yes, but they were an odd suffusion of technology and organics, a techno-organic hybrid. He wondered momentarily if the city were one massive computer chip, and then, the platform set him down in the central area of the subterranean metropolis.

  He stepped off the disc, hearing his footfalls echo hollowly around him, and made his way toward the aperture in the primary control area that opened before him. The glass here was opaqued, and he could only see his own reflection staring back as he stepped nearer the doorway that stood open like a dare.

  It never occurred to him not to enter the darkling edifice, and he wasn't sure the city would have allowed him any other choice.

  Apollo paused only a moment at the open doorway, feeling an odd undercurrent of raw energy skittering across his brain and through its crevices as soon as he drew near. Still, he didn't think it meant him any harm; the city had already had several opportunities to slay him, if that was what it wished. Taking a deep breath, he entered the building, and another pool of lights came up, showing him the path. He followed them deeper into the heart of the humming building, feeling the fluid behind his eyes start to tingle.

  The last spotlight brought him to a place before a computer that echoed the ancient Kobollian work station that occupied one wall of his sanctuary aboard the ship, but this one was unimaginably vast. The one aboard the ship had graceful wings that seemed to want to encircle him, and that was true of this one; it was just that the wings, the computer, were the entire edifice in which he now found himself. A heartbeat later, this impression was confirmed as the structure began to make a high, frail whirling sound, like a struck tuning fork, resonating in his ears and bones and brain and every atom of his being.

  Lights winked at him like a socialator, and he could only watch them with a dreamy detachment. Around him, holographic images appeared, like specters in some high-tech haunting.

  "Hello, Son," a rich, deep voice addressed him, warmly. It was a voice Apollo thought he would never hear again, for the speaker was long dead.

  Apollo turned slowly, not afraid of what he would see, but afraid of what he might not see, because he desperately wanted to see the owner of that voice one more time. "Hello, Father," he said, and swallowed.

  It was Adama, of that there was no doubt. Holographic image or not, it was bliss to see his father again.

  "Your brain is being rewired," Adama told him calmly, gesturing at the computer all around them, "so you can understand the ancient Kobollian texts."

  Gods, how he had missed that warm and reassuring voice, and being able to come to Adama with anything, at any time. He was a man who missed his father, because in all the endless worlds out there, Apollo knew there would never be another person who would understand and love him quite like his father had. There were so many things Apollo wanted to ask him, but Apollo understood he was not here as Adama's son, but as the supreme commander of the fleet. It was hard, but that was the way it was. Apollo nodded, and Adama continued. "You, and I, and the colonials, are not here upon Kobol by chance, but by design."

  "Whose design?"

  Was it possible, what Segis had claimed? That she and her acolytes had shifted the coordinates through the spirit masters, to the Cylons, to Baltar, and, finally, to Apollo? It seemed so; Adama himself was bearing this out, and yet… Apollo still did not quite trust Segis. It struck him as just a little too convenient that the ancient texts that supported Segis's tale, that the fleet's return had been prophesied, was also incomplete.

  Sometimes, he thought, the words that aren't there can tell you as much as the ones that are.

  Adama went on, as if Apollo had not spoken, and Apollo knew their time was short. His questions and their answers would have to sort themselves out later. "It has always been foretold the colonials must one day return to Kobol to complete unfinished business." Apollo again felt the question rise to his lips, but this time did not voice it. He wasn't sure he liked being a pawn in a game of the gods. The gods had a nasty way of discarding their plaything, once they were finished with them. "What transpires now will determine if the fleet will be allowed to venture with new technology across many universes, to far distant galaxies that will eventually lead you to the planet Earth, and beyond, to your new homeland."

  "It exists…" Apollo muttered. Earth was not a fable, then. He had always believed it was true.

  The whirring sound cycled up another octave, up and up, until it passed beyond the range of the keenest human hearing; Apollo suspected Gar'Tokk might have been able to hear it, but then, Gar'Tokk had been left somewhere along the way. He didn't think now that was by accident.

  Adama nodded, once, efficient as ever. "Your race is facing extermination and it is imperative that you understand that the decisions and choices you and your people make now will seal your futures forever. The Lords of Light have led you back here, but that does not mean you are guaranteed victory. The Lords give us free will because they aren't here to guide us. We must clean up our own mistakes—the House of Kobol must be put in order once more. Choose wisely!"

  "What decisions?" he asked, even though he knew he would receive no answer. "The visions I've been having of the Cylon armada attacking Kobol… are they real, or just nightmares stirred up by this place?"

  Adama's eyes twinkled with something that was more than the light of holographies, and he nodded, almost imperceptibly. There were only so many things, it seemed, he could tell Apollo, directly or indirectly. But the one last thing he told him was, coincidentally, the thing Apollo most needed to hear. "I'm very proud of you, Apollo," he said. "Remember I will love you always; be sure to trust your inner vision, no matter what appears to you. There is so much more at stake than you imagine, or can imagine."


  Certain words did not come easily to Apollo, and even though he knew he might never have this opportunity again, he had to force himself to say to Adama, "I love you, Father. I miss you so much." Adama smiled, and Apollo recalled something Cassie had told him earlier that same evening: You always know when someone loves you. The simplest words are often the hardest to speak.

  A light began to swell and fill the chamber, its brightness causing Adama's image to dissipate, and Apollo felt as if he had somehow lost his father a second time, but in his heart, he knew he would never lose Adama. The light bounced off the crystalline walls of the room, crossing and recrossing its own path, weaving a complex geometric shape that surrounded Apollo; then, the light ricocheted off the floor and slammed into Apollo's forehead, and even though there was no weight to it, the impact made the commander's head jerk back, as if he had been struck a mighty blow.

  For a micron, he saw the entire journey of the Thirteenth Tribe laid out before him in his mind, stars and nebulae and suns and constellations; all of these things appeared and fell away, replaced by another universe, faster and faster, images overlaying images. Along the way, Apollo could see the numerous planets the Thirteenth Tribe had colonized or populated, scattering the seeds of humankind everywhere. Some would take, some would not. He saw, also, the colonies as they were today, overrun by the Cylons, the worlds stripped and plundered and gouged out, turned into little more than husks, a mirror image of Cylon, endless vistas of technology that had been plundered from other worlds, other civilizations, and thrown together into a mad quilt of circuitry and steel, and he knew, without question, even if these worlds could be retaken by humans, they would never be fit for colonization, not for many, many generations. They were a lost cause, the cost of reclaiming them too great for the infinitesimal dividends they would return. Better just to move on, forget them. Whatever purpose the fleet's return to Kobol served, Cain was wrong if he thought it was to retake these worlds. They were, now and forever, part of the Cylon empire.

  Apollo's eyes were wide and fixed on something beyond himself, beyond this room, and his mind continued to expand with the rippling universe and the journey of the ancients, and he had to shut down then, had to pull his mind back before it widened like the concentric rings on a lake after a stone is dropped. As he closed his awareness, he pulled over himself a warm blanket of darkness, and he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  For the second time that night, Apollo woke to confusion, in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar sleeping module, next to Cassiopeia, and the memories of that evening flooded back to him, like air rushing to fill a vacuum. He wiped his hand down his face, his body sore and tired. Apollo grimaced at the stiffness in his limbs, and as his eyes became adjusted to the darkness, he became aware of someone standing next to the sleeping module. He turned with a start, and saw Talen standing beside the berth, looking down at him, a smile on her face.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  APOLLO FELT as if time had doubled back upon itself, spiraling back around like everything else in this city did, because here was Talen once more, standing before him, telling him he must follow her.

  "I am sorry to disturb you," she said, with just the slightest hint of amusement in her voice, "but your communications device must be defective. They've been trying to reach you. Your Quorum and the citizens are all gathered in the great hall now, to debate and vote on who will be the new supreme commander of the fleet."

  Apollo blinked the world back into some kind of muzzy focus. "So soon?" he muttered, his tongue all but spot-welded to the roof of his mouth. "The celebration just ended… didn't it?"

  Talen smiled the way Apollo remembered his mother smiling when he didn't want to go to instructional period, "that was last night," she said. "You've slept the day away."

  Had he? Apollo certainly didn't feel very refreshed, for all of that extra sleep. He felt as if he'd been chasing phantoms all night long, instead. He studied her, a look of puzzlement shadowing his features, wondering if the whole thing had been a dream.

  Apollo slipped quietly out of bed, without disturbing Cassiopeia, and replaced the warmers around her. Cassie made a morning sound, almost awake but still not aware, and Apollo whispered that he had to go and kissed her temple softly. Talen watched him, as if she were fascinated by his thoughtfulness, and looked away before he could catch her staring. Apollo realized he was wearing his uniform from the night before, although he thought Cassie had… but then, perhaps that was all part of the dream. It was all starting to lose the hardline focus he held between reality and fantasy. Most of what had happened—or not happened—between himself and Cassiopeia was a blur.

  "I guess I'm ready," he announced to Talen. Now it was his turn to stare once more, because he had a strong sense of deja vu. He was not an ambrosa drinker (and hadn't one of Segis's hooded acolytes warned him about that very thing, last night at the bar? He thought so, but, then again…) and perhaps this feeling of recursion was just his brain trying to compensate for the lag-time between sensory input and the processing of his thoughts. Apollo realized he was not sure of anything, anymore, where Talen was concerned.

  The door to Cassie's compartment whooshed open and Apollo stepped into the hallway with Talen, where faithful Gar'Tokk still sat, ever vigilant. The Noman seemed surprised to see Talen emerging from the compartment, as if, however she had entered, it had not been past his post.

  Apollo stared directly into her glowing eyes, and finally said the things that were on his mind. "I don't know how to explain this to you, but… do you have the feeling that we know each other? You seem so familiar to me and I keep seeing you in my mind and—" He stopped, almost embarrassed by this next sentence, but he had to get it all out in the open or it would continue to fester, like some small piece of shrapnel embedded just beneath his skin, or, in this case, his consciousness "—and in my dreams. Why is that?"

  She continued to meet his gaze, saying nothing, neither smiling nor frowning, giving no hint of anything she might have been thinking or feeling, until, at last, Apollo had to avert his eyes, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. "Excuse me," he said, trying to recover from his error in confessional judgment. "We really should go."

  Gar'Tokk turned to leave with Apollo; this wasn't the Noman's mystery, and it held interest for him only insofar as a potential threat to his master. But he could sense, even if Apollo could not, that there was no threat in Talen.

  "Choose wisely," Talen called after the departing commander. Those words froze him in his tracks; Adama had said the very same thing to him.

  "What did you say?" Apollo asked as he turned back, but Talen was gone, and he really hadn't expected an answer, anyway.

  Apollo sighed his frustration and raked his hand through his hair. He shook his head, then continued on toward the ascensiors. "You have very interesting friends," Gar'Tokk pointed out.

  No one noticed the robed and hooded man who moved behind the scenes of the last minute preparations for the vote and installment of the supreme commander. He was just one more of Segis's acolytes, and everyone had gotten quite used to the comings and goings of these silent, hooded caretakers. No one knew, precisely, where the caretakers lived within the ancient city, but then, no one really gave much thought to the robed figures, once they were out of sight.

  Within the great hall, multitudes of citizens, Warriors, and techs had gathered, awaiting the appearance of President Tigh, Athena, and Commanders Cain and Apollo. Giant flatscreens flanked either side of the presidium, and another flatscreen hung above the seating area. The hall was filled, from front to back and wall to wall, ground floor and balcony. As much as possible, the different groups sat with their own kind; Warriors sat with Warriors, techs sat with techs. But even so, there was quite a lot of division from one individual to the next as to who would best serve their needs as supreme commander. An undercurrent of tension ran through the hall, as if some low charge of static electricity informed the air. Security men stood on guard at various p
oints throughout the assembly, but anyone who glanced their way could see they were nervous, even frightened. There was the potential for violence here, a continuation of the narrowly averted riot from the night before, and this time, it might not be so easily turned away. The lupus at the door tended to get a little bolder when it knew the weapons were no real threat.

  The robed man stood near the presidium, watching from the wings, looking out at the sea of faces, knowing that for all of those who sat inside the auditorium, that many more had been lost in futile battle with the Chitain and the most recent attack by the Cylons. Once, the fleet's populous could not have been contained within these walls. Now, this was all that was left. Still, it was a miracle this many had survived so much over so many yahren.

  Approaching from behind, the hooded man could hear the sound of footsteps and voices, and he stepped back into the shadows that haunted the proscenium. It would not do for him to be found out just yet. He watched silently as Athena, Tigh, Cain, and Segis passed by without noticing him, making their way to the platform.

  The giant flatscreens suddenly filled with the images of the quartet as they walked onto the stage. It was President Tigh who stepped forward to the rostrum, and stood looking out at the gathering. He raised his hands to either side, even with his shoulders, and such was his presence that the crowd fell silent, as if it were some great machine that had suddenly been switched off.

  "Welcome, everyone. These are very rare and unusual circumstances that draw us all together today," Tigh began.

  In the audience, Bo jay sighed and turned to Boomer, and whispered, "He should always open with a joke."

  "Not one of yours," Boomer answered. "Not unless you want to clear this hall."

  "You all no doubt realize we are at a crossroads in our journey," Tigh continued, "and we are at a crossroads as regards our leadership. This is a momentous thing, too great for the Quorum alone to decide. This affects all of you, so you will all be allowed your say.