Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  Ahead of him, a gleam of light circled a dot like a spotlight. He felt he was meant to drift in that direction. As the dot grew, he saw other dots, some of them nearly as bright. Soon they were a field of sparkling lights, all growing larger as he approached them. Their shapes took definition and he saw they were, as he had suspected, a fleet of ships. Had he floated around in space for a while and then returned to his own fleet? No, the star configurations were all wrong. This was another fleet.

  In a moment he saw what fleet it was and his heart beat rapidly with excitement. It was the Colonial Fleet! The Colonial Fleet, in loose formation, proceeding at one-quarter speed ahead.

  What? he thought. The fleet? But it was destroyed. It's gone. Where am I? When am I?

  He found the Galactica easily. Easing along at the center of the fleet, just behind the command battlestar, the Atlantia, it was like an especially finely cut jewel selected as the centerpiece of a collection of bright rare and beautiful gems. The other stones were also impressive but none as sharply faceted or as radiant as the Galactica.

  He could tell he was viewing the Galactica as it had been. There were scars of battle missing from its surfaces, scars he had memorized from Cylon attacks that had occurred since the Galactica had begun its voyage across space.

  Knowing he could pass through its thick outer walls in an easy swoop, Adama directed himself toward this earlier incarnation of his ship. Inside, he floated down familiar corridors, corridors he had traveled for so large a chunk of his life, to the bridge.

  He walked the bridge in his normal way, with his confident graceful stride, and he knew that nobody there saw him. No matter how corporeal he felt, he was invisible to his crew. That did not matter to him. He was calm.

  Tigh was his usually busy self, going from console to console, collecting and depositing papers with an almost careless ease. Everyone appeared quite happy, doing their jobs with smiles and frequently exchanging cheerful glances.

  He sensed someone coming toward him. He turned and saw a bearded man in white robes, the robes of presidential leadership. It was his old friend, Adar. Adar, alive again and looking quite impatient and angry. For a moment Adama hoped Adar was also a dream ghost so he could talk with him, two observers floating through their mutual past. But it was clear that Adar, like the others, didn't see Adama.

  Adar beckoned Colonel Tigh to him.

  "Colonel Tigh, has the commander been apprised of my arrival?"

  "Aye, aye, sir. He sends his regrets and says he will be here imminently. There was an engine room problem that had to be seen to."

  Adar dismissed Tigh. As the colonel walked away, Adar muttered to an aide:

  "Like him. Adama. Always puts duty over command procedures and diplomacy. I should be insulted, but I'm not."

  Adar fidgeted. Adama remembered seeing him killed, watching his friend's death on a television monitor. Adar's last words were regrets that he had been taken in by the Cylons. The memory of his friend's death made Adama look at him closely, taking in the details of a face he had known well but rarely looked at during their friendship. There was a dark, almost black, mole just under Adar's left eye. Had Adama ever noticed that mark before? He couldn't remember it.

  Tigh paced cautiously behind the bank of communication consoles. He was keeping tabs on Adar while checking all entranceways for the appearance of his commander.

  "Has Count Baltar been summoned?" Adar said to his aide.

  "Yes, sir. His arrival is expected soon."

  "Good. Now, if only my dear friend Commander Adama can pull himself away from his beloved engine room, we can expedite matters."

  Adama wanted to tell him he was right there in front of him, but knew there would be no response.

  "Where is he?" Adar said impatiently.

  Before Adama had realized that Adar would move, Adar had walked right up to him, then through him. Adama felt a slight fluttery sensation, like an inward wind. Perhaps he was a ghost then. Perhaps he had died in his sleep aboard the Galactica. But then, why was he here? Was this the afterlife, going back to the scenes of your life? That didn't seem logical.

  But he was definitely on the Galactica's bridge at some time in the past, and nobody could see him, so there was no choice but to accept that. He felt quite relaxed, a relaxation that faded instantly as he turned and saw himself stride onto the bridge briskly, smiling at Adar. Both men reached out their arms and embraced each other.

  "Adar, old friend," the Adama of the past said. "Please accept my apologies for not being here to greet you. A problem down—"

  "Yes, yes, I know. Always a problem, Adama. Sometimes I think that, without the energy you absorb from continuous strenuous duty, you'd be an empty shell."

  The past Adama smiled and said:

  "Ila's always saying things like that to me. Maybe you're both right."

  Adama could not adjust to watching himself, especially the younger version of himself without the deep worry lines he had acquired in the flight from the Cylons. There was also a jauntiness in his movements that he had either not been aware of before, or had lost. He hoped he hadn't lost it.

  "My regards to Ila," Adar said genially. "Is she still the most beautiful wife a Colonial Fleet officer's ever had?"

  "Beautiful as ever."

  "I hope to see the both of you again soon, at home, as in the old days. God, I miss those visits. One of the things you lose when life raises you to leadership levels, I guess."

  "What brings you here?"

  Adar's voice became excited.

  "News. The best of news. So valuable I didn't want to entrust it to normal communication channels."

  Adar paused dramatically, looking pleased with himself.

  "We are to have peace, Adama!"

  The past Adama seemed genuinely surprised. Adama couldn't remember how he'd felt at this moment, even while watching himself experience it.

  "Peace?" the past Adama said. "You mean, the Cylons—?"

  "Yes!" Adar said happily. "The Cylons have agreed to a peace negotiations conference."

  "A summit meeting? With the Cylons?! After all this time, and all the bloodshed, I find that hard to believe."

  "But it's true. The war, after a millennium, is all but over. Just a few details are left to be ironed out. Count Baltar tells me—"

  "Baltar! Has he got his sweaty hands somewhere on this?"

  Adar frowned, not pleased by his friend's reference to the peacemaker.

  "Well, yes," he said irritatedly. "He's arranged it all."

  The past Adama walked away from Adar. He wrung his hands worriedly.

  "A peace conference? Arranged by Baltar? And you're willing to accept it at face value?"

  "Adama—"

  "You can't trust Baltar."

  "He's changed."

  "Changed? If he's changed, it's for some devious reason."

  "Adama, he's bringing us peace. You mustn't turn that down over a matter of petty jealousy."

  Adama saw his past self become furious, veins standing out on his forehead, and he suddenly remembered this incident more clearly. He had been so surprised by Adar's announcement that he hadn't been able to think straight. As he watched himself now continue to protest Baltar's "deal," he wondered if there was more he could have done to prevent what he had even then suspected might happen.

  I forgot, he thought, that I'd perceived Baltar's wicked plot even at this early time. Why didn't I act successfully on my intuition? Why didn't I work harder to convince Adar that his wish for peace had blinded him to the treachery of the peace bringer?

  Adama, succumbing now more deeply to the power of Lucifer's guilt device, began to feel he had mishandled the meeting with Adar he was now observing. He began to despise his too complacent past self for trying to approach the subject rationally. He should have fought Adar and the council tooth and nail. He was skilled at oratory. Perhaps he could have at least convinced them to be more cautious about the details of the peace meeting, which Baltar deceitf
ully had fixed to the Cylons' advantage, knowing full well that they planned the most evil act of war in the history of warfare, and all in the name of peace.

  His feelings of guilt over this incident were heightened when he watched the newly arrived Baltar come onto the bridge, looking every inch the smug evil traitor he was. Why couldn't they have seen his treason on his sneering face at that moment?

  "Mister President," Baltar said. "Commander."

  Adama perceived a slight difference in the way the man pronounced the two titles. "Commander" was slurred cleverly to indicate condescension. Baltar had never forgiven Adama for being more popular, talented and intelligent back at the academy. Especially since Baltar had been kicked out in an incident shrouded in scandal.

  After the polite preliminaries, Adar got right to the point.

  "Count Baltar, the commander doesn't feel that the Cylon's peace offering is sincere."

  Baltar's stage grimace was so exaggerated that Adama recoiled, recognizing now the lie in the man's face. Even his blotchy skin seemed to gleam more in the perspiration of deceit.

  It became a struggle to stand helplessly by and watch his other self deal with Baltar in the formal diplomatic manner such a consultation generally demanded.

  "Oh, they are sincere all right," Baltar said, full of pleasure with himself. "I, uh, explained the concept of peace to them."

  The past Adama smiled sarcastically.

  "I didn't know they misunderstood the 'concept of peace.' It was always my impression that it meant nothing to them, that the only peace they understood was one in which they held absolute power over every other race in the universe."

  Baltar, untouched by the sarcasm, smiled with even more self-satisfaction.

  "The old rhetoric, eh, Adama? The kind of inflammatory words that have helped you and your kind to keep this war going on for so—"

  The past Adama took two steps toward Baltar, his fists clenched, his angry face looking like he had every intention of using them. Adama was quite willing to join his past self in the battering of Baltar.

  "My kind!!" the past Adama screamed. "We didn't start the war; the Cylons did with their cowardly sneak attacks, their pusillanimous efforts to conquer weaker civilizations. We didn't continue the war; if you had any sense of history, Count Baltar, you'd know that we were the ones who sought peace over and over, the ones who sent peace legations that were barbarously slaughtered, who kept—"

  "Adama, Adama," Baltar interrupted, his voice insidiously soft, "that was all generations ago. Generations of Cylons as well. The Cylons have new leaders, too, and they don't hold the warlike attitudes of their predecessors. They have assured me—"

  "Oh, you have their assurance, do you?" Adama whispered sardonically. "Well then, we have nothing to worry about, nothing—"

  "Adama, with your militaristic attitudes you can destroy any chance we have with—"

  "Gentlemen, gentlemen," Adar said, his voice insufferably kind, "these altercations will get us nowhere. I am the president of the Quorum, am I not?"

  The past Adama and Baltar muttered agreement together, each with their own private reasons for resenting Adar's conciliatory interruption.

  "And I believe in the present Cylons' sincerity," Adar said. "I have seen the documents that Baltar has brought back from them, and I believe they genuinely want peace. The Quorum agrees with me, unanimously. So there it is, you two. Make peace."

  The past Adama and Baltar completed a desultory handshake. Adama hated his past self for doing it at all. He should have stood his ground. There must have been something more he could have done! He was sure of it.

  At any rate, he should have made clandestine preparations to be ready for ambush. He might have thwarted the sneak attack on the peace fleet and gone on to save the twelve worlds. Was he, in effect, guilty of the destruction of the twelve worlds, the annihilation of his people? Not directly, of course, but indirectly? Was he, by this kind of reasoning, guilty of the acts he so condemned?

  As he considered these possibilities, he felt energy drain out of him, felt himself become woozy, sick with life.

  Apollo and Boomer kept passing each other as they paced the conference room. Starbuck sat sprawled in an easy chair, watching them lazily. He was bored. He had been bored since this meeting had started. He had not even participated in the shuffling of papers as Boomer and Apollo searched through several reports, logs, daily summaries.

  Starbuck noticed idly that Boomer's pacing was more energetic than Apollo's. He did not, of course, realize that the difference in physical energy was due to the fact that, of the three, Boomer was the only one unaffected by the waves of guilt flowing out strongly throughout the ship from the implantations in Greenbean's clothing.

  Boomer stopped pacing, glared down at the papers, and said:

  "Well, fellas, where do we start?"

  "I'm not sure," Apollo said wearily. "Colonel Tigh said we have a free hand. He suggested we check anything that seems relevant. Look for any correspondences that don't jibe, any clues that appear suspicious. He isn't even sure we actually have a problem."

  Boomer shrugged.

  "Well, that gives us a lot of leeway all right. You think there's an answer in any of these documents?"

  "Maybe. They at least tell us of everything that's gone on aboard the ship ever since we all started feeling so low."

  "I can't get any ideas from all this paper stuff. How about either of you? Starbuck?"

  Starbuck, his eyes dazed, barely nodded in acknowledgement of the question.

  "Well," Apollo said, "I first tried to tie things up with the fact that the situation corresponds to our docking here over Vaile."

  "Hey," Boomer said, with sudden enthusiasm, "that might be it. What do you think?"

  "Not sure. I considered the bad feelings might be due to something in the food we've brought up from there. After all, it's been incorporated into several mess hall menus."

  "Yeah, that fish that cooks up all orange and purple is real tasty. Think it might be the fish? It's been popular."

  "I checked on all kinds of food, not just the fish. I ran menu checks through the computer, suggested all kinds of correlations, came up with zip. Nothing matched. And, to make everything more complicated, the same food items have been introduced on other ships of the fleet, and they haven't had any subsequent difficulties. Everybody on all the other ships are happy as daggits. Only the personnel aboard the Galactica have come down with this . . . this illness, if that's what it is."

  "I don't know what it is," Boomer commented. "I don't seem to have it. Though, after watching you guys for a while, I just might come down with it."

  "And that's another factor. We've all pretty much been following the same dietary regimen, performing the same routines, been breathing the same air, yet not everyone has been showing the emotional symptoms."

  "Some kind of immunity in some of us, you think?"

  "Possible, but my hunch is that food and air aren't part of the problem."

  Boomer sighed.

  "Then we're back to square one."

  "Feels like square minus-one."

  Again, Boomer turned to Starbuck, this time staring right at him and leaning a bit in his direction.

  "What do you think, Starbuck?"

  "What?" Starbuck muttered. "Me?"

  "Any other fool here named Starbuck?"

  "Don't ride me."

  "If I can't ride you, I'll kick you. C'mon, bucko, what do you think?"

  "Simple. I don't know. I don't even think we got a problem. I don't care."

  "Don't care?!" Boomer exploded. "You gotta care! Something's wrong and we got to do something about it."

  "You guys take care of it. I'll follow along. But don't expect any swift detective work from me. I just don't feel like it."

  Boomer threw up his hands in despair. He was used to Starbuck being reluctant to accept a mission, but in those instances his refusal was a jaunty act, and he never meant it anyway. Now he was truly
lethargic, truly uncaring. It annoyed Boomer to see his buddy so transformed in attitudes, appearance, and mood.

  However, both he and Apollo decided silently to leave Starbuck alone until he was his former self again. They started going through the papers again, searching for nonexistent clues.

  Starbuck lost interest in their activity and returned to considering the folly of his philandering lady-killing ways. He remembered what Cassiopeia had said to him about the selfish and devious ways he treated women. He was beginning to think she was right. And he felt terribly guilty.

  Adama had followed his other self on a shuttle to the Atlantia for the Quorum meeting to ratify the Cylon peace offers. He had floated along beside the shuttle, glancing from time to time at his other self piloting the shuttle.

  He had observed the conference itself, watched Baltar sneakily stand in for the absent Cylons and smoothly explain away their absence. He told the Quorum that they would now travel to the place where the treaty would be signed by the Cylon representatives themselves. Of course, Adama knew there were no Cylon representatives waiting at the coordinates Baltar announced. But the Quorum had been pleased and displayed a collective relief at the expectation of peace at last.

  After the meeting the members of the Quorum celebrated joyfully. The past Adama separated himself from the celebration and strolled to a starfield where, Adama recalled, he contemplated the events and his distrust of the peace. Adama stood next to his other self and studied his own face. They were probably both thinking the same thing, that Adar had once relied on Adama's advice, but now he was seduced by the fancy lying words of Baltar. Looking over his shoulder, Adama saw, as his memory had led him to expect, Adar come over to his past self to try to smooth things out between them. Adama listened to a conversation whose words he recalled so well he could have mouthed them along with his past self and Adar if he had chosen to.

  "Well," Adar said, "I see the party isn't a huge success with all my children."

  Adama felt pain in his chest from the longing to appear now to Adar and speak sense to him. What kind of ghost would he have seemed to be? A twin, appearing from the ether.

  "It's what awaits us out there that troubles me," his past self said glumly.