Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine

by Glen A. Larson

The jokes had eased the tension between them. Athena knew her father respected her abilities and that he was short with her only when she failed to perceive the logic of his decisions.

  "Vipers approaching launch bay," Rigel said. "Continuing in triad formation. It's quite a sight, sir."

  Adama went to Rigel's monitor, watched over her shoulder at the ships gliding and sliding in flamboyant maneuvers as they zeroed in on the Galactica's launch bay.

  "A marvelous sight!" he said. "Truly marvelous!"

  "Precision flying, huh, Commander?" Athena said, deliberately using one of her father's favorite phrases. He smiled in agreement.

  Starbuck's voice again resounded across the bridge:

  "Boomer! Greenbean! Let's show those louts on board the Galactica what a perfect pinpoint landing looks like when performed from the triad formation. All together now, academy style!"

  The crew watched in admiring silence as the trio of vipers, speeding into the launch bay in close formation, performed the landing just as perfectly as Starbuck had promised.

  As soon as his viper had stopped, Starbuck gave out with his famous staccato victory yell, knowing he was probably driving a good percentage of his listeners deaf. Then he bellowed:

  "Kobol bless my soul, I'm going to break my arm patting my back for that landing. Boomer, Greenbean!"

  "Yo!"

  "Yo!"

  "I want to see the both of you in an instant. We're going to appropriate a case of ambrosa and celebrate the return of our wandering warrior in style!"

  "With you on that, Starbuck," Boomer said.

  "Oh, I don't need any ceremony, fellas," Greenbean said. Starbuck thought he sounded like a child, almost as young as Apollo's son, Boxey.

  "You may not need ceremony, ensign," Starbuck said, "but we sure as hell do."

  "Always good to have a reason to celebrate," Boomer agreed happily.

  "Then I guess—what the—"

  "What is it, Greenbean?" Starbuck asked, alarmed by the confusion in Greenbean's voice.

  "I don't know," Greenbean responded. "I just got the high sign to remain in my cockpit. Starbuck, the whole launch crew is crawling all around my viper."

  "Ah, they just want to be the first to welcome you home, buddy."

  "Maybe, but—well, I just don't think so, Starbuck. They got tools and stuff. What's going on?"

  "Sit tight. I'll be right there."

  Starbuck sprang out of his cockpit, flinging his flight helmet into Jenny's waiting arms, their traditional returning ritual. He leaped off the viper's wing onto the launch bay floor and broke into a run. Boomer joined him, halfway to Greenbean's viper. They didn't see Tigh until he stepped into their way, gesturing for them to stop. The two pilots' skidding to a stop was not as fancy as their pinpoint viper landing had been.

  "Whoa, boys," Tigh said. "You can't go over there just now. Command orders."

  "What is this?" Starbuck demanded.

  "Greenbean's being, well, quarantined for a short while. Normal procedure for—"

  "What do you mean, normal procedure?"

  "Yeah," Boomer said, "we just want to welcome our buddy back, that's all."

  "And you will," Tigh said. "But we have to take a few steps to protect the personnel aboard the Galactica."

  "There's no precedent—" Boomer protested.

  "There is now," Tigh said firmly, making sure his volatile pilots recognized the authority in his voice. "Remember, Lieutenant Boomer, how you came back from a routine patrol carrying that organism inside you, and then nearly killed off the entire crew with your illness? How's that for a precedent? We don't know what Greenbean may have picked up out there."

  "In his cockpit?" Starbuck asked.

  "We don't know for certain he was always in his cockpit," Tigh said.

  "Are you saying he's lying? Greenbean wouldn't know how to lie, sir."

  "I'm not suggesting he's lying. We merely have to take some precautions, and that is all. Please excuse me, lieutenants, I must see to Greenbean's reindoctrination. He will be returned to duty soon, don't worry."

  Tigh joined the crew at Greenbean's viper and began to supervise operations there. Starbuck and Boomer felt both humbled and confused.

  "I don't like this, Boomer."

  "Nor I, pal."

  "I don't like it when anyone impugns the honor of a colonial warrior, I don't care who it is, even Tigh."

  "Well, we'll just have to adopt the old academy attitude: wait until they get off the pot and then fire when ready."

  "Don't think I don't intend to make a few waves about this. C'mon, let's get a dose of ambrosa, wash the taste of all this out of our mouths."

  As they left launch bay, Starbuck got a glimpse of Greenbean, still in the cockpit of his viper. The poor boy appeared to be bewildered, and more than a little sad. Starbuck swore to himself, invoking all seven levels of Caprican curses, and once again told himself that, if things got worse, he'd quit the service. Although he knew that, as long as there was a single Cylon in pursuit of them, he could never turn his back on the fleet, making that vow usually made him feel better. This time, however, even the vow didn't work. He continued to feel angry, and miserable.

  Signing off on a clipboarded Vailean invoice, Apollo let the stevedores know they could begin unloading the cargo shuttle. Sheba and Bojay followed him out of the hold into a corridor leading to the elevators.

  "That's the last shipment of braka, according to my figures," Sheba said.

  "Braka?" Bojay asked. "Never heard of it. Some kind of machine oil?"

  Sheba's laugh had that high delicate sound to it that made others perceive her as friendly and merry.

  "No," she said. "Braka's a vegetable native to Vaile. Quite tasty and chockful of nutrition. You'll love it, big guy."

  "I never met a vegetable I liked. I doubt braka'll be any different."

  "You sound like Boxey," Apollo commented. "I can't get good food down his—what's that?"

  Apollo pointed to a group near the bank of elevators. They were citizens of the fleet, talking eagerly among themselves. The group parted slightly, and Sire Uri could be seen in the middle of it, chattering away energetically.

  "What do you mean?" Bojay asked. The group looked normal to him.

  "Those people," Apollo said. "They're up to something, I know it."

  "Apollo," Sheba said, "you're getting downright paranoid. They're just a bunch of civilians talking. I haven't heard about any martial law being invoked recently. They're still allowed to congregate anywhere except in the restricted areas, aren't they? Discuss anything? I hadn't noticed that freedom being taken away from us lately."

  Apollo was a bit annoyed at Sheba's gentle chidings. It was difficult to get angry at her, but she could easily ruffle a fellow's feathers with a few words.

  "Of course they're—it's just that, look . . . look who's in the center of it all."

  "Well, I'll bite, who? I can't say as I know any of those people."

  "It's Uri. Sire Uri. Remember, I told you about him. I just warned father that he was becoming dangerous again."

  "Dangerous?" Bojay said. "Apollo, he's just chatting with a few people while waiting for a lift to come."

  "Sire Uri never chats," Apollo said. "Not without a purpose anyway. And a devious purpose at that. He's never happy unless he's causing trouble." Apollo took another close look at the group, then announced: "I'm going to break this up."

  Both Sheba and Bojay reached for Apollo's arms to try to stop him from recklessly confronting the civilian group, but Apollo was quickly out of reach. Sheba looked at her brother and shrugged, then the two of them followed after Apollo.

  "Sire Uri," Apollo called as he reached the group.

  Uri separated himself from the others and, with a cunning and sinister smile, greeted the young captain.

  "Ah, the commander's son," he said. It seemed Uri could never resist announcing Apollo's relationship with Adama loudly and clearly. "You all know Captain Apollo, the hero of . . .
well, the hero of innumerable impressive exploits." The small crowd murmured its approval. At the same time they seemed, in unison, to shuffle backwards, as if afraid of Apollo's authority with them.

  "What can I do for you, Captain Apollo?"

  Apollo could barely keep his voice at a normal level. "You're trying to soft-soap me, Uri."

  Uri's eyes became unnaturally wide in exaggerated innocence.

  "Never, captain, never. You have my genuine admiration."

  "What's this all about?"

  "What's what all about?"

  "You and these people. What's going on?"

  "Apollo—" Sheba said and touched Apollo's arm. He shook off her loose grip. She looked away, hurt by his gesture but not wanting him to see it. She didn't have to worry. All of his concentration was on Uri.

  "Nothing is, as you say, going on," Uri said.

  "Come off it, Uri. I heard enough as I came down the corridor. This is about Vaile, isn't it? My father's orders on the subject aren't enough for you, are they? You're trying to influence—"

  "Influence? Me, influence? Captain, you insult me—as usual, I might add. You've not been off my back since that day on the Rising Star." He turned and addressed his next remark to the group: "It's a vendetta."

  The crowd, with their mutterings and nods, appeared to agree with him. Apollo was slightly disconcerted by their antagonism toward him. He had always had difficulty with assembled groups of people. He did not know how to be affable, how to appeal to them—an ability that Uri had mastered incredibly.

  Sheba made another attempt to ameliorate the situation.

  "Come, Apollo," she said, "we've got work to do. Another shuttle due in a moment."

  Apollo did not seem to hear her words. He kept staring at Uri.

  "You know the commander's will on this subject," he said. "We cannot stay on—"

  Uri's expression was so stagey, one would have thought he was playing to a massive audience, instead of this intimate little convocation in a Galactican corridor.

  "The commander's will. You mean, your father's will, don't you?" He turned to his people. "This man is the puppet of his father. Ignore him."

  "Uri—" Apollo yelled.

  "Ignore him," Uri stage whispered.

  The people in the group slowly and showily turned their backs on Apollo. Uri, smirking, joined them, speaking in his unctuous way:

  "As I was saying . . ."

  What he did say was innocuous, something about scarcity of rations. Apollo was not sure what he should do—stay where he was and stare at backs or cut his losses and walk away.

  "Let's go, Apollo," Sheba said softly.

  "Uri!" Apollo shouted.

  Uri stuck his head out of the crowd, smiling arrogantly.

  "Yes, Captain?"

  "I'm reporting this."

  "Please do. The commander does so like to be informed of the popular sentiments. Good day, Captain."

  Following Uri's lead, the group walked away from the bank of elevators. Not a single person looked back. How does the man hold sway over others, Apollo wondered.

  "C'mon, buddy," Bojay said, "I got a new joke that's too hot for Sheba's tender ears."

  Sheba laughed.

  "No way, Bojay," she said. "I want to hear it."

  "I'm in no mood for jokes," Apollo mumbled sullenly.

  "Exactly the time when you should hear one." They began walking down the corridor to the hold where the new shuttle's goods would soon be unloaded. "Now, once there was this Cylon who had a peculiar defect . . ."

  Baltar would have been pleased to see how well the relay transmitters had been concealed in Greenbean's flight uniform. The clothing was scanned and studied intensively but the implantations were not discovered. Lucifer's methods of concealment, interweaving the thin microcircuits with the threads of the clothing and manufacturing the transmit-units to duplicate exactly buttons and snaps, prevented the Galactican investigators from detecting the devices. Since Greenbean had been launched on the series of interrogations and tests the investigators were subjecting him to, the uniform had been laser cleaned and pressed in the commissary laundry, and he was wearing it again. The rays that poured off the suit did not show up on any of the ship's detecting devices.

  Greenbean's last ordeal was an intense physical examination. After body and brain scanning, Doctor Salik tested him with various injections and extractions. It was all very painful and annoying to a young man who just wanted to get back to his friends and party for a while. As Salik poked his stomach, Greenbean squirmed unhappily.

  "Ticklish, ensign?" Salik asked.

  "A little."

  "The women must just love you."

  Greenbean did not understand what the doctor meant, but he chose not to question the man. Salik often responded brusquely and made his patients feel foolish for asking.

  "Well," Salik said, turning away from the examination table, "you check out all right, far as I can see. Get dressed, ensign."

  Greenbean buttoned up his tunic, unknowingly touching at least three areas that concealed Lucifer's relay devices.

  "Gosh," he said, "the way everybody's been studyin' and pokin' at me, I thought I was either the enemy or dyin' o' some rare disease."

  "You're the hologram of health, ensign. Now get out of here. I got real work to do."

  Salik went to his desk intercom, and spoke into it—to the commander, who'd been monitoring the dull routine of the physical exam.

  "Commander?"

  "Yes, doc?"

  Salik didn't like being called doc, and usually discouraged people from the practice. But he had never chided Adama about it.

  "Greenbean checks out A-one. You could put him on patrol right away."

  "That's good news. Relay my good wishes to the ensign."

  Salik turned away from the communicator as Greenbean finished dressing.

  "You heard that?"

  "Yes."

  As Salik resumed his work, Greenbean approached him tentatively, unsure of whether to speak to the gruff doctor or not.

  "Doctor?"

  "Yes?"

  "You think something happened to me out there? You know, something dangerous?"

  "I don't diagnose the military aspect of an operation, ensign. From a medical standpoint, you appear to be the same Greenbean who left here, except for some bruises on your back, which probably came from being knocked around in battle. Brain-scan shows you definitely were out, but not why. That's about all I know."

  "I realize you'd just be guessing. I just want somebody to tell me somethin'. What do you think?"

  Salik fidgeted. He was always annoyed when a patient started asking questions, especially after he'd said all he could reasonably say.

  "Well, ensign, you want intuition, I got that by the beakerful. Yeah, I think something happened to you out there, but I'm damned if I know what."

  "I feel something, too."

  "What?"

  "I just don't know. It's like I lived through something, and then some god or other cut that part right out of my life. I thought I'd blacked out, but I don't think that's it. I didn't just black out. There was something else. What do you think, Doctor Salik?"

  "I don't know either, son. Might just be something in your head, something mental—"

  "You think I'm going crazy?"

  "No, didn't mean that. I'm saying you might be right. Something might have happened. We'll have to wait until you remember it, that's all."

  Greenbean frowned.

  "Maybe. But I think I am crazy."

  Salik often encountered cases where the patient considered himself crazy. Sometimes the feeling was just the result of battle fatigue or loneliness or too much attention focused on duty, and sometimes the patient was genuinely crazy. Greenbean was, according to his personality profile, acting strangely, but Salik doubted he was crazy.

  "Get some rest or get drunk," he told Greenbean. "Have some fun with your buddies or a girl friend. Forget about all this for a while. You need a
nything to help you sleep?"

  Greenbean smiled.

  "You forget, doc, I just had the longest sleep I ever had."

  "Don't call me doc."

  "Aye, aye, Doctor Salik."

  Greenbean slouched toward the door so pathetically that Salik could not help but speak compassionately to him:

  "Don't worry, son. You know the saying: it'll all blow out the chute before the journey's finished."

  "I don't understand."

  "Get away from here."

  Salik shook his head after the door had slid closed. The ensign was so young. He shouldn't even have to devote his life to fighting battles.

  The door slid open again and Salik's assistant, Cassiopeia, came into the room.

  "I have the other reports on Greenbean, as you requested," she said.

  "And?"

  "Everything checks out okay. Greenbean, his ship, his clothes, all okay."

  "Now I'm really bothered."

  "Why's that?"

  "I don't like it when everything checks out okay. In any given situation, there has got to be something wrong. Something small, something you don't notice at first, but something."

  Outside the room, Greenbean had started walking slowly down the hall. Most of the people he passed didn't pay much attention to him. For some of them, sad and regretful memories suddenly assaulted their minds.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The command chamber of Baltar's base-star had not been so busy since the last massive assault wave had been sent out against the human fleet, and that had happened some time ago. Now all the complicated flight and detection machinery was activated. Lights flashed so incessantly the room seemed in the midst of an internal lightning storm. Cylon centurions, who normally moved with an almost comic awkwardness, now worked with such fury that they were momentarily graceful. Beeps, buzzes, squawks, and whistles were rapidly emitted by the overwhelming array of Cylon technology, and these sounds frequently built to such a cacophony that Baltar had to hold his hands over his ears.

  The activity made Baltar nervous and he paced more frenetically than usual. Occasionally he interrupted his pacing to shout orders to Lucifer, who appeared to act on them while actually continuing to guide all operations his own way. He had become quite adept at the clandestine subversion of his superior's orders. The more Baltar paced, the surlier his frequent remarks to Lucifer became.