In the midst of all the jauntiness, many among the Galactican personnel were already under the influence of Lucifer's guilt machine, moaning or whining or loudly complaining.
A young ground crewman, his eyes tearing up, was saying: "I should have checked that pin. If I had, Stentron'd be alive today. All I had to do was check one little—"
Two or three tables away, a brawny engineer was protesting: "So what? I served some time in the brig. I deserved it. So, what's it to you?"
A pretty but sad-eyed woman in a corner of the room, leaned close to the face of her lover and whispered: "I'm sorry, darling, I really am. I never meant to—"
A red-haired launch-bay supervisor was crying vehemently and saying:
"Yeah, I cheated, and don't think I don't regret it. Every day of my life, I regret it."
The woman in charge of personnel duty rosters spoke flatly:
"When I was a child, I slashed my brother's face with a broad sharp knife. He was disfigured. Ragged lines across his cheek. For life. For as long as he did live, anyway. The lousy Cylons got him, they—"
A man from the logistics section held his head in his hands and said to no one in particular: "There's never enough time. I work hard, damn hard, but I got to work harder. I'll never be able to—"
Even if he could have listened to any of these people, Starbuck would have heard nothing. After downing several ambrosas in a row, he was now, uncharacteristically, nursing a drink. He felt as if all energy had been siphoned out of him. Although he actively surveyed the party with his dark blue eyes, the eyes were glassy and he saw little. He did trace some of the movements of the women he'd known.
Boomer, who was speaking jovially to Starbuck, was one of the few in the room who was quite unaffected by the relays in Greenbean's clothing. He may have been immune to the device's rays, or perhaps, in his careful intellectual way, he had defined his own guilts well and could not succumb to emotional concern over them.
"You look like the bottom of a Cylon battlesuit," Boomer said to Starbuck. "Cheer up, pal."
"Get lost, Boomer."
Boomer was shocked. He simply wasn't used to his old friend being surly, except to the occasional commanding officer. And, for all their history of friendly banter, Starbuck had never tried to dismiss him rudely before.
"Hey," Boomer said, "what's wrong, pal?"
"Nothing. Nothing's wrong."
"Here you are, acting like you've lost your last viper, and you say nothing's wrong."
"Boomer, stop being cute. I'm tired of it. Leave me alone, or your jaw's gonna wind up part of that far wall."
"Hey, you don't even have to produce logical arguments. I'm going."
When he saw how angrily Boomer was backing off, Starbuck realized what he'd done to his oldest friend.
"I'm sorry, Boomer. Boy, sometimes I really do treat you like so much melted felgercarb, don't I?"
"Ah, it's—"
"Yqu know, I was just sitting here, taking stock of my life. God, I got a lot of markers waiting for me when I die."
"Say again? I'm not used to you attempting to be metaphysical, bucko."
"I mean, I've just been looking around here, this room. At Athena, Cassiopeia, half the other ladies here. In this room alone, Boomer, not to mention dozens of other rooms elsewhere. I really know how to treat a woman, Boomer. How to treat a woman rotten."
Boomer clamped a hand on the back of Starbuck's neck and said soothingly:
"That's the ambrosa talking, friend."
Starbuck's sad eyes looked down at the table.
"Is it?" he asked. "Maybe, maybe not."
On the other side of the room, Dietra and Cassiopeia sat side by side. Neither of them appeared to be particularly happy. Dietra leaned toward Cassiopeia, and muttered:
"You look as down as I feel, Cass."
"Do I? I don't know how I feel. I've been thinking about the past."
"You, too? Wow. I was just thinking about my folks, how they wanted me to be a social butterfly and here I am, a viper pilot. I never saw them again after—"
Her voice drifted off as she pondered her memories of her family.
"I was thinking of when I was a socialator," Cassiopeia said abruptly. "At the time I thought it was the greatest life possible. Now, I don't know. It doesn't seem like much. You know, so many people I've met, all the pure thinkers and tough judges, kind of blanch when I tell them what I was. What right do they have to judge me from their narrow experiences? Yet, I wonder, was I wrong?"
"God, I don't know."
Dietra's voice was bleary from drink.
"Me, either. I can't seem to shake the feeling that somehow I wasted that part of my life. And I used to be so proud . . ."
Cassiopeia picked up her beaker of ambrosa, but couldn't find the interest to drink any of it.
Apollo had intended to come to the party but, after the fight with his father and the old memories now flooding back to him, he couldn't work up any enthusiasm for celebration. In the corridor outside his father's quarters, he leaned against the wall, brushed away a few tears and shut his eyes. He opened them again at the sound of Tigh's gentle voice. Tigh had managed to come up to him silently.
"Are you sick, Apollo? I could walk with you to Life Center, have Doctor Sal—"
"What? Oh, no, I'm not sick. Just a little blue. Fight with father, I guess, did it. Ridiculous argument, really, but I couldn't control my temper."
"He'll understand."
"Will he? I'm never sure."
"Be sure."
Tigh walked on toward the door to Adama's cabin.
"Colonel?" Apollo called after him.
"I was thinking just now. About Zac. How I left him behind."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Wasn't it?"
Apollo didn't wait for a response to his question. He ambled down the corridor without looking back. Tigh, puzzled, watched him go. He wondered when Apollo would let go and forgive himself. There was really nothing to forgive. Apollo had had to warn the fleet after he and his brother had discovered the Cylon double-cross, which meant leaving Zac hobbling along in a damaged viper. Zac's ship had simply been an easy target for a bunch of Cylons. It was an act of war, and not Apollo's fault. Apollo, Tigh thought, is too much like his father. Both of them pursued responsibility as an animal to be cornered in a formal hunt.
Hardly anyone at the party was now cheerful or happy. Greenbean had reached new depths of glum misery. He was practically catatonic. Jolly struggled to draw a smile out of him. Finally, he said:
"I guess you must be worn out, huh? Why don't you go to your bunk, take a snooze?"
"Sure, Jolly, sure."
But Greenbean made no move to lift himself off his chair.
"Well?" Jolly asked.
"Well, what?"
"Take a rest. Now."
"Sure."
Greenbean wanted to go to his quarters and plop down on his bunk, but he couldn't work up the energy. His struggle with the guilt pouring out from LEADER'S relays, the force of which was strongest in the area around him, provided him with a guilt he could not understand. The mind-wipe had taken away the memories that were the source of his guilty feelings. The result was that he simply could not recall just what it was that he felt himself guilty of.
Jolly tried to lift Greenbean out of his chair. Normally he could lift Greenbean's lightweight body easily but now it was too limp, too heavy. Some of the other pilots were staring at Greenbean oddly. Jolly laughed and said, a bit too loudly:
"He's had a bit too much ambrosa."
"I don't feel a thing," Greenbean muttered.
"That's your problem."
"Yep, that is my problem."
Jolly was about to say more, but his attention was distracted by a fight breaking out a few meters from him.
"It was my fault!" the first battler yelled.
"The Lord Kobol take you, you lie!" said the second one. "It was my fault, and nobody else's!"
"Frack! You alw
ays have to take the credit."
"What do you mean, credit? I could lose my stripes at my review."
"What do you mean, your review? My review. It was my fault!"
"MINE!"
The first combatant took a wild swing at the second, and soon they were head to head, mixing it up fiercely. Jolly, who hated such absurd battles, especially when they broke out at a buddy's party, tried to intervene, but one of the fighters hooked him one in the jaw. He fell back. Ensign Giles, his stubby little legs kicking away in front of him, fought his way into the melee. A gaggle of Blue Squadron pilots saw the chance for a good brawl and began fighting among themselves. Soon the whole roomful of people were either in the middle of the battle royal, or standing near walls, gloomily watching the brawlers swing wildly and rarely land effective blows. Tables were hurled and chairs were broken, sometimes over heads. The ambrosa that enterprising drinkers hadn't liberated from tables was running in many streams across the floor. Galactican security forces had to be called in to break the fight up. When most of the people had left, the room was in shambles, with nothing upright, except for Starbuck.
Starbuck stood, his mood melancholy, in a corner of the room, still pondering his notorious exploits with the opposite sex.
Tigh entered Adama's quarters just after an aide had informed him that there were signs that the party was deteriorating. This was only moments before the fight started.
"Commander," he said, "they tell me the celebration's getting a little out of hand. I thought it might be good if you—Commander, is something wrong?"
Adama had merely turned and, his eyes glazed, ice formed over ice, stared at his aide, uncomprehendingly.
"Are you feeling all right, Adama?"
When he spoke, Adama's voice was soft and somewhat vague.
"No, I don't feel . . . too well. I think I should . . . rest."
He stood, listlessly. Tigh came to his side.
"Adama! Tell me, what's wrong?"
"There is nothing wrong with me," Adama said, his voice angry, its tone imperial. "Nothing wrong with me, Colonel Tigh, that a little catnap won't cure."
Without looking at Tigh, Adama shuffled toward his small bedroom. Observing the slump of his commander's shoulders and the disconsolate way he walked, Tigh muttered:
"I surely hope so."
CHAPTER FIVE
Tigh felt out of place, sitting in Adama's chair and dictating into his microphone, but even the commander would have demanded that the log be kept. Still, the mike felt heavy in Tigh's hand and, to him, his voice seemed to echo hollowly around Adama's quarters.
"Thanks to Apollo, Sheba, and Bojay and the rest of their crews, the Vaile operation is proceeding on schedule. It is about the only thing that is. Work aboard the Galactica is at a virtual standstill. Here we are, for once enjoying a rather peaceful time, attaining the maximum levels in fuel and supplies for the first time since we went to that little Cylon peace party and almost got knocked to oblivion.
"Below us is the kind of planet that men dream about. I have given notice that unlimited furloughs are available to all who qualify. Yet few of the Galactica's crew or civilian personnel are taking any rest and recreation leave there. They seem to prefer to stay aboard, listlessly making a mess out of their jobs, moping around and sitting for long periods staring off into space, retreating to their quarters where they do little more than sit around and brood. I've caught several people who don't usually show their emotions crying silently. Salik tells me there was an attempted suicide down in the engine room. And engineers are usually the most life-loving among us.
"It's like a disease, this brooding and crying, a disease which has infected the vulnerable. Some of us are immune, but for no rhyme or reason I can see. I simply don't understand. However, whenever I ask anyone what's bothering them, they are either surly to the point of insubordination or they supply me with a good chunk of their life history—or at least that part of their life history containing all their regrets.
"Doctor Salik says he can find nothing wrong medically with anyone, nor can he figure why so many people would suddenly sprout psychological problems simultaneously. Whatever this . . . this evil is, it's affecting different people in different ways."
Starbuck couldn't focus on his cards. The abstractions on their pasteboard surfaces at first seemed to swim, then form into patterns. He couldn't tell whether he should play or discard, bet or fold.
He shut his eyes tight for a moment, felt dizzier as the same abstractions, now white against the blackness, danced a merry little jig. He opened his eyes and looked again at the cards.
Instead of the abstractions, Starbuck now saw faces on the surfaces of his cards. Faces of the women he'd known. On the two center cards Cassiopeia and Athena glared out at him.
"You're a louse, Starbuck," the Athena-face seemed to say. "Look at how quick you tossed me over when a zippy little blonde suddenly appeared on the scene."
"Don't call me zippy," the Cassiopeia-face seemed to respond. "Besides, I don't think zippiness has anything to do with it. Or intelligence. Or skill. If you're a female of the human species and you're at least more attractive than vapor trail residue, Starbuck'll make a play for you. It's a disease with him. He's got to chase every reasonably attractive woman he sees. And without honor or ethics."
"Tell me about it," the Athena-face said. "He told me there had never been anyone like me."
"You, too? Heck, the women of the Galactica could have that particular line embroidered on samplers."
"Hey, hey, hey," Starbuck muttered.
The cardplayer across from him, a tall overly neat Libran (as most Librans were), glanced at Starbuck quizzically.
"You all right, bucko?"
"Fine. I'm fine."
"He's always showing off his combat medals," the Cassiopeia-face said. "If they gave medals for philandering, Starbuck'd have more medals than he's got chest to put them on."
"That's the key to him," the Athena-face said. "Woman chasing is combat to him, the little—"
"I'm not that bad," Starbuck muttered, and all the card-players looked at him strangely.
Starbuck understood that he was seeing things, and that what he was seeing were, in a way, reflections of his own concerns. The card faces were right, he was guilty of being too frivolous in his stalking of women. Too often he used lines that he'd used before. He'd always figured that, if they were successful, they deserved recycling. Now he wondered if the mere fact that he often used rehearsed routines meant that the words were meaningless, just instruments used to attain his objectives, ways of making the ladies respond to his manipulations in the same skillful way he used the instruments aboard a viper to make it perform the precision flying tricks he was so famous for. Juggling the affections, say, of two or three different women was, for him, essentially no different than a successful execution of the triad formation. It occurred to him that, if he hadn't made all his courtships so much of a challenge, perhaps he would have treated the objects of his affection in better and more fulfilling ways. Certainly, after a set of romantic experiences that had made his amatory skills already legendary in Galactican history, he should feel much better about his amorous exploits. Also, he shouldn't be talking back to fantasy images on playing cards.
"Your play, Starbuck," the Libran said.
"I know, I know."
"Well, are you going to discard or would you rather have that hand bronzed?"
Normally Starbuck would have retorted with a flippant remark to a fellow cardplayer's rudeness, but today he just didn't feel like trying to keep up his image. Let 'em eat braka.
"Discard, I guess," he said. However, staring at the two cards he couldn't make up his mind which one to throw down. "I was going to give up this card," he said, staring at the pasteboard surface on which he had imagined Athena's face. Then he put his thumb on the card that had represented Cassiopeia, and said: "Or was it this one? I'm not sure."
The Libran flipped his entire hand of cards in
the air and stood up from the table.
"I quit," he said. "I don't enjoy this game any more, anyway."
Starbuck put down his hand more delicately, as if he didn't want to harm any of them, particularly the Athena and Cassiopeia cards. Staring down at them, he said:
"Yeah, me, too. I'm sick of cards."
On the other side of the lounge, Sheba and Bojay sat at the bar, each sipping at glasses containing a newly invented cocktail that had been concocted from a mixture of ambrosa with a juice made from one of the recently shipped Vailean fruits.
"Tastes pretty good to me," Sheba remarked.
"Better 'n braka," Bojay muttered.
Sheba laughed. It was not a sincere laugh, just a reflex action to Bojay's humor. She hadn't felt much like laughing lately.
They sat for a while in contemplative silence. Sheba ran her finger around the rim of her glass. It made a faint deep whistling sound. Bojay tapped at the side of his glass.
"I wish Dad was here," Sheba said suddenly.
They both got a similar mental picture of Commander Cain, the man they'd both loved in spite of his stiff military manner.
"Yeah," Bojay said, "I'd like to see the old warhorse again."
"Like to see him stride in here, banging that baton against his thigh or pounding it into his palm."
"I really miss the old—"
"I can't help feeling I failed him in some way."
"Know 'zackly what you mean, Sheba. 'Zackly what you mean."
"You're drunk. You never get drunk."
"Nope, never."
Sheba thought of how she'd strived so hard to win her father's attention and respect, while Bojay recalled his efforts to be the top pilot of Cain's ship, the Battlestar Pegasus, just to impress him.
"How did we fail him, Bojay?"
Bojay gulped down the last of his ambrosa and Vailean fruit juice.
Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine Page 8