Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine Page 3

  Lucifer rolled to the door of Baltar's bedchamber and emitted a soft whistling sound. A quartet of Cylons instantly wheeled a bulky piece of machinery into the room. To Baltar it looked something like a sphere on top of a pyramid that was itself on top of a cube. The sphere was translucent and flashed a bizarre mixture of purple, blue and yellow lights as it spun around. The pyramid was cluttered with dials, levers and curious little depressions on all of its surfaces. The cube had narrow vents going around it, and a number of knobs near floor level.

  Baltar, flabbergasted, stared for a long while at the device before speaking again:

  "What in God's twelve worlds is that junk heap?"

  "I call it Lucifer's Emotional Adjustment Device—Extensive Range. The acronym for it is LEADER. Quite a clever name, don't you think?"

  "I don't think. What kind of name is that? Emotional Adjustment Range whatever? Look, Lucifer, my head aches too much from your cleverness. Explain in the simplest terms your corroded memory banks can supply."

  Lucifer glided to LEADER and took up a professorial stance next to it. While he talked, he pressed buttons, pulled levers, keyed symbols and checked dials.

  "I have been experimenting with human brain waves. Charting them, isolating them one from the other—at least isolating what constitutes them in individual situations. The initial objective of my study was to see if human intelligence and emotions could be codified, put onto Cylonate crystals or stored on Borallian touchplates, then reproduced so that they could be induced into Cylons hooked up to them. Do you see, a Cylon could then think what a human thought, feel what a human felt. I thought that perhaps Imperious Leader could make effective use of such a device."

  "And promote you within the hierarchy, and give you your own ship, away from my command. Yes, Lucifer, I understand. I understand well."

  Baltar's sarcasm offended Lucifer. He did not like being forced to defend himself.

  "You apply to me motives that are foreign to me. Human motives."

  "Like mine."

  "Yes."

  Baltar's smile took on new levels of insult.

  "Lucifer, you're more like me than you suspect."

  "That is not possible or logical, since I am neither human nor Cylon."

  Baltar laughed.

  "Because you're an arrangement of junk? Even then, sometimes you think just like me. I have noticed, old friend."

  Lucifer, not pleased by Baltar's amiability, turned his attention back to LEADER.

  "My experiments in the recording of human emotion are still proceeding, with mixed results. I still need time to complete that phase. However, quite by accident, I discovered a function of my device that I hadn't anticipated."

  "Ah, a flaw in our arrogant metallic genius. Tell me more."

  Lucifer chose not to respond to Baltar's insult.

  "While I was adjusting levels for human output, I came upon a feedback factor. Some of the feelings I extracted from our humans could not only be retransmitted to them, but the retransmission could be accomplished at a higher intensity and rate than that of the original feeling I was extracting from them."

  "Lucifer, you're sliding into gobbledygook. I am not a computer. Retransmit all that in words I can deal with."

  "Simply: if an emotion exists within a human, I can take it out and then put it back at double, triple, quadruple its intensity. In short, if one of them is happy, I can receive an imprint of that happiness, then direct it back into him and make him happier, ecstatic, even insanely delirious with joy. If he is sad, I can make him morose, even suicidal. And, if there is a modicum of guilt within him, I can extract that guilt and make him feel, as the human phrase goes, guilty as sin . . . and beyond. Further, I can take one human's emotion and retransmit it to an entirely different human."

  Lucifer looked to Baltar for a reaction to his assertions. Baltar mulled over the information in what was for him characteristic fashion. He was attempting to think of a way he could use Lucifer's new device for his own advantage. He walked toward LEADER, saying to Lucifer in a low, sinister voice:

  "And you've been using this dreadful contraption on me these last four nights."

  "Well . . . yes."

  "I should have you reduced to spare parts for that. Lucifer, you had no right to put me through such misery." Baltar recalled the impact of his dreams and shuddered. "I do not need to—well, never mind that. For now I'll ignore your, uh, tactical insubordination. But I want you to know that, if you ever try to use that or any other of your monstrous contraptions on me in the future, I won't be so lenient."

  Lucifer knew it was time to emphasize obsequiousness with his commander. It was the best technique to adopt when Baltar's wrath was provoked.

  "As you wish, commander," he said.

  "Now, show me how this pile of space garbage works."

  "With pleasure, Baltar."

  Lucifer's tendril-like fingers pushed a button on the console of LEADER. Baltar, feeling a wave of sorrow plunge through his body, wagged a finger at Lucifer.

  "No, no, no. Not on me, you fool. Demonstrate with another guinea pig."

  Lucifer, a trifle disappointed, pressed the button again. The sorrow fled from Baltar immediately.

  "I have just the . . . guinea pig you wish," Lucifer said. He gestured toward one of the centurions. "Guard, bring us the human called Greenbean."

  Greenbean sat in the corner of his cell, trying vainly to wedge himself there so that no one would see him or his shame. He wished he were not so tall and conspicuous no matter how he arranged his body.

  His cellmate, a captured shuttle pilot named Scarn, sat on his bunk and drank from a glass of obviously stagnant water as if it were ambrosa. Scarn was as thin as Greenbean, but he had once, before his long imprisonment, been a well-built and athletic young man.

  "Easy, easy, fellow," Scarn said. "We've all done what you did."

  Greenbean could barely hold back his tears.

  "I thought I never would," he said. "How did I crack so easy?"

  "Get this into your head—it's not easy. We all been through it. We all cracked. These tinheads got too many devices, too many—"

  "That's no excuse. A colonial warrior ain't supposed to crack, not under any kind of pressure. Just give name, rank, classification numbers. Don't speak to them, even when they're friendly; always remember you're a colonial fighting man and don't—"

  Scarn, furious at hearing the old regulations, yelled at Greenbean:

  "Okay, hotshot, just rub it in for us, all of us. We're all cowards, all in the same boat as you, laser mouth. We all spilled the beans and only because of a massive amount of excruciating pain, all because they got machines that can pick apart our brains like picking leaves off trees, all because they can get inside our hearts and—"

  "Sorry," Greenbean interrupted, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to—"

  Scarn walked to Greenbean, bent down, and put a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay, buddy," he said softly, comfortingly. "No reason to keep going over it. Forget what you done. Our duty now is to find a way to escape. That's in the code, too. It's our primary, our only—"

  Scarn stopped talking abruptly when he saw the Cylon guard entering the cell. He stood up, came as close to the Cylon as he dared, and shouted:

  "What in holy hell do you want, metal brains?"

  The Cylon lumbered to a touchplate placed beside the cell door. He put his gloved hand against it. Circuits within the glove, imprints keyed to the touchplate, phased with it and activated tight narrow beams of fiery light that came down from the ceiling, directed right at Scarn. Scarn screamed and began to thrash around wildly. He fell to the cell floor and wept uncontrollably from the pain. Greenbean pushed himself away from his corner and ran to the still-writhing Scarn. He knelt by him and shouted over his shoulder to the Cylon:

  "Turn it off, you Cylon cr—please release him, sir."

  The guard removed his hand from the touchplate and the beams vanished. Scarn's body sagged. He was unconscious. Greenbe
an checked his pulse. It was beating a little fast, but normally. He put his arms under Scarn's body, intending to take him to his bunk, but the Cylon grabbed him and wrenched him to his feet. Greenbean could not quite get his balance, and the Cylon started dragging him toward the cell door.

  "Okay, okay," Greenbean yelled. "But let me walk on my own."

  The Cylon did not alter his grip.

  "Please let me walk on my own, sir." Greenbean said, space-academy style.

  The Cylon released him. Greenbean stumbled, but did not fall. The Cylon walked out of the cell and down the dank dungeon corridor. Greenbean walked sullenly behind him, his shoulders bent, wishing he could go back to cringing and crying in his cell-corner.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Colonel Tigh, passing by the starfield on one of his many errands carrying documents from one part of Galactica's bridge to another, slowed down a moment when he saw Athena standing at the edge of the starfield lost in thought, her eyes glazed in sadness. With everyone else on the bridge scurrying about busily or staring at monitors and manipulating controls, Athena's stillness seemed both unusual and lovely. Tigh recognized her resemblance to her mother, Ila, when she was contemplative like this, just as he often noticed how much she looked like her father, Commander Adama, when she was moved to anger. He was tempted to ask her if he could help in any way, but he saw Adama approaching from the other direction. Adama caught Tigh's glance and understood it at once, in the almost telepathic manner with which the two had often communicated since their days as wingmates in the hottest fleet squadron. Tigh nodded and continued on his quest to find the proper depository for the documents in his hand.

  Adama stood behind Athena for some time before speaking:

  "I think you're looking for ghosts."

  Even though her father's words had been spoken softly, Athena was startled.

  "What?" she said. "Oh, yes, I guess . . . I keep hoping to see them returning, the pilots who won't return. I mean, the ones we sent off to their—"

  "Easy, dear."

  He put his hands on her shoulders. She appreciated the affection. There was so little time for family affection between her, her father and her brother Apollo anymore. All their time was devoted to the Galactica, to its flight from the pursuing Cylons, and to the quest for Earth.

  "You're not responsible for the deaths of those pilots, you know," Adama said, sympathetically.

  "I know," she said, "I know that. But it's hard to get rid of the idea. I mean, I give the commands to launch them. It's . . . it's as if I send them to their deaths myself."

  "But you don't! You're just doing your job, working at a console, following the set drills and procedures."

  "Yet, I'm the last voice aboard the Galactica they hear, don't you see? I speak to each and every one of them before they take off. When they're launched, it's like they're, well, leaving home. Pretty sentimental, huh? Still, they're like family to me."

  "They are family. We're all that's left, after all. We have to regard our people, everybody on all our ships, as family."

  She turned to him and smiled.

  "Forgive me," Adama said, "I fall so easily into command-style homilies."

  Athena wiped away some tears from her eyes, noted a tear or two welling up into her father's eyes.

  Neither of them noticed Apollo standing near them. He had quietly climbed the stairs to the starfield.

  "Sorry, father, I'm just in a morbid mood," Athena said. "I've felt sad ever since we lost Greenbean. He was kind of goofy, but I was very fond of him."

  "We're all feeling sad, Athena," Apollo said. "I really miss old Greenbean, too."

  Athena reached out her hand to her brother. He took it, and she was pleased that, for once, the three of them were in actual physical contact.

  "Starbuck says he thinks the Cylons've got him and he's still alive," Athena said. "I don't even know if that's consoling. I can't bear thinking of him being tortured. He's so innocent they'll, well, they'll eat him alive."

  "I know," Apollo said, "I know."

  The three of them stood in silence for a while, looking out the starfield, thinking about their lost pilots. In spite of the sadness of his daughter's mood, Adama felt a moment of pleasure at the family tableau. It was rare, and the demands the Galactica made upon them might not allow another such moment for many, many centons.

  "Back to work, the both of you," he said finally. Athena returned to her console. Obeying his father's gesture to accompany him, Apollo walked across the bridge with Adama.

  "Your report?" Adama said.

  When he says back to work, he really means it, Apollo thought.

  "The people of Vaile have offered us their entire cooperation," he said, "any help we need."

  "Even under threat of Cylon retribution if their collaboration with us is discovered?"

  "Even under that. They've heard too many threats from the Cylons, they told me. They're happy to aid us."

  "Well, that is good news, Apollo."

  "They're a brave people. You'll like them."

  "I'm sure I will. Any people courageous enough to agree to supply the Galactica and the fleet with fuel, food, and supplies are admirable to me before I ever actually see them."

  Apollo smiled, enjoying Adama's irony.

  "When can the loading operations begin?" Adama asked.

  "Soon. Our logistics specialists are working out the details with the Vailean representatives in their capital city."

  "Fine, fine." Adama stopped walking and gripped his son's arm. "I'm happy with your work on this, Apollo."

  Apollo felt the usual surge of gratitude when Adama complimented him, even for a job as simple as the liaison with Vaile. The fleet was lucky that the colonies on that planet still existed, and even flourished. The leaders of Vaile had told Apollo that they had no idea why they were overlooked by Cylon assault forces. Their assumption had been that Vaile was just too much of an outpost for the Cylons to bother with. Apollo found it hard to believe that the Cylons, who hated humans so much, would leave any colony unattacked, no matter how remote.

  Adama acknowledged Tigh, who had been standing nearby, waiting for permission to speak.

  "Sir," Tigh said, "Sire Uri has requested an audience with you."

  "Uri?" Apollo said. "I haven't heard a peep from him since the Carillon disaster."

  Sire Uri had been the leader of a faction which had demanded that the citizens of the Galactican fleet throw down their arms, destroy their ships and settle on the leisure planet of Carillon. He had almost swayed a majority of people to his side when the Cylons attacked Carillon. Many had died in that debacle, and Uri had been uncharacteristically silent since.

  "Commander," Apollo said, "I wanted to speak to you about Uri. He was on the commission to Vaile, as representative of the Council. He was extremely interested in the place, kept talking about what a delicious paradise it was. That's what he called it, a delicious paradise."

  "Is it?" Adama asked.

  "It's beautiful. Green fields, lovely aromatic flowers, clean and attractive communities. Yes, it is beautiful. A gentle, idealistic society."

  "Idealistic? I never knew Uri to be attracted to anything idealistic."

  "Well, I don't know about that, but it's clear to me he's attracted to any place that he can legitimately call paradise. He got on that tack at Carillon, remember?"

  "Oh, I remember. I remember only too well, Apollo. Well, I'll have to grant him an audience, I suppose. I just won't listen to anything he says."

  "No doubt the best approach to the situation, sir," Tigh said, smiling.

  Apollo saw nothing to smile about.

  "I'm not sure about that," he said. "I'd listen to him. Not for what he says out loud but for what he's not saying, for what's going on in his twisted brain."

  "You really don't like Uri, do you?" Adama said.

  Apollo recalled the first time he had encountered Uri on the fancy starliner, Rising Star. With the memories of the Cylon destruction of the
twelve worlds fresh in everyone's minds, and with more than half the people who had survived desperate and starving, Uri had been reveling in a private club. He'd been stuffing precious food into his flabbily handsome face and celebrating like the lord of the manor. Apollo had been especially disgusted by the way he already had a doxie in tow, when his wife had been one of the casualties of the Cylon attack.

  "No, sir," Apollo said, "I don't like Uri. Worse, I don't trust him. I hear he's been stirring things up lately, holding meetings, working on the dissatisfactions of our people, planting ideas in their heads."

  "That's the Uri I've always known," Adama said, almost nostalgically. He remembered first meeting Uri when he'd been part of a military mission on Uri's home planet of Leo. Uri had been a newly elected leader in those days, and he actually had noble aspirations. Adama had been too concerned with the war to pay much attention to Uri's later rise to wealth and power and had no conception of the steps of corruption that had led to the weasely but smooth crook Uri had become.

  "We'll just have to pay Sire Uri more attention," Adama said, then addressed Tigh:

  "Tell him I'll see him in my quarters at the beginning of second watch."

  "Yes, sir."

  Adama and Apollo watched Tigh walk briskly away, receiving a pile of papers from a subordinate without breaking stride. When Adama looked at his son again, he could see concern in his eyes.

  "Something more, Apollo?"

  "It's the people of Vaile, sir."

  "What about them?"

  "Many of them wish to join us, join up with the fleet and help us in our quest, fight with us. They're quite excited by the prospect of finding Earth."

  "That's terribly optimistic. We may, after all, never arrive there."

  "But you really believe we will, don't you?"

  "Yes, I do believe that."

  "And we have faith in your faith."

  Apollo rarely spoke of their goals, being content to perform the day-to-day tasks skillfully, so Adama was quite touched by his son's affirmation of their quest.

  "Thank you, Apollo. That means a lot to me."

  "And the colonists?"

  "We'll take as many as logistics, space, and supplies'll permit."