Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  "Precision flying, Tigh," he said.

  "Reminds me of the time we were wingmates."

  "Yes, we were pretty slick, right? God, so many yahrens ago . . ."

  They stood silently for a while, overseeing the activity of the bridge crew. The mood all around them was happy and expectant.

  Adama spoke abruptly:

  "What did Greenbean call that wretched invention—a guilt device?"

  "Yes."

  Adama shook his head. For a moment he recalled being under the influence of the device.

  "I can't describe how guilty I felt when I was . . . in that dream. Or whatever it was. It was overwhelming, Tigh."

  "I believe it."

  "But, you know, it was strange, too. For all the guilt that ate me up inside, and all the willingness I had to fade away and die, at the same time I saw myself doing the right thing time and again. Making proper decisions one after the other. Oh, there were matters I regretted, and still do, and there were events that shouldn't have happened—but, you see, I wasn't guilty, really, Tigh."

  "I know it."

  "I'm too used to responsibility. Sometimes I lose perspective. When I do, I feel guilty for everything that goes wrong. And that's what was going on in my dream. I was taking responsibility for just about everything in the universe, and feeling guilty for my failings in preventing what happened. But the truth is, my responsibilities—and sometimes actual guilts—are connected almost exclusively with the ship and my family. These I can handle, the errors of the universe are not precisely in my domain. Ila always said I worried too much and that I should be selective in what I worried about. I guess I never quite understood that."

  "That must have been some dream."

  "Yes, Tigh, if it was a dream."

  Again they lapsed into silence. Athena broke into their reveries.

  "Sir, scanners are picking up some unidentified spacecraft coming into our sector. Heading toward Vaile. They must've slipped by our vipers undetected."

  Adama and Tigh crouched toward Athena's monitor. There had to be at least fifty blips flashing there, all heading toward the circular light that represented Vaile.

  "Warbook shows them to be Cylon ships," Rigel reported. "Raiders."

  "Sightings from Vaile, sir," Omega said. "They've detected the intruders and request help from the Galactica."

  "Should we call back our fighters, commander?" Tigh asked.

  Adama wondered now whether he should have committed a full contingent to the attack on Baltar's base-star. There had seemed too much potential danger there to withhold the primary forces. He could order some of the vipers to return and defend Vaile, but that would effectively weaken the attack. No, it had to be an absolute callback, or none at all.

  They would have to send the reserve squadron, the wing of pilots composed of cadets and recruits from other disciplines aboard the Galactica. And he had the perfect squadron leader near him on the bridge.

  "We'll send down the reserves," he told Tigh. "Roll out the new vipers, the ones the Hephaestus just sent us."

  "They haven't completed the round of test flights."

  "That's all right. They'll get their test flights now. Athena!"

  "Yes, sir," she said, smiling because she knew what was coming.

  "Athena, you're in command. Take them down. Assemble your troops!"

  Athena sprang away from her console and raced off the bridge to don her flight paraphernalia. She was in the cockpit of her viper in a matter of microns, as were the rest of her hastily assembled squadron. Except for a few test flights, it was her first time flying a viper since the battle over Kobol.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Baltar felt like a child at a natal celebration. In front of him the show he'd concocted was playing so spectacularly it could have been choreographed just for him. Above him, on the command pedestal, the elder whom Baltar most wanted to please, the Imperious Leader, scrutinized the show with obvious interest. And soon, like the child honored by the party, Baltar would be receiving his presents—mainly, a high position in the Cylon hierarchy and the reputation of military hero.

  Baltar climbed up on the pedestal and sat on the edge of it.

  "Watch this, Leader," he announced gleefully.

  The humans below, who had been mooning with a feeling of sensually romantic love transmitted to them by Lucifer's guilt machine, now were, at Baltar's signal to Lucifer, struck with a large dose of sorrow. Some of them began to cry immediately. Others, slower to react, looked puzzled, then settled into a mournful trance. Another group, the hardest affected, fell to the floor, where they writhed and kicked in their formidable sadness. Arms waved hysterically, and some men hit their fists against the floor. Baltar had made sure that Lucifer was transmitting emotions at triple strength so that the reactions of the humans would be sudden and dramatic. As he sat and watched the show, Baltar sometimes laughed with delight at the more extreme displays of emotion. Frequently, he glanced at Imperious Leader who, while he showed no feelings of his own, had his full attention on the display below.

  Lucifer watched Baltar's playful acts with some disdain. He found the emotional spectacle too ostentatious and ugly. It made him question the legitimacy of his own invention. He wondered if it was just a showpiece and not a genuine weapon of war. Or had Baltar's claiming of the guilt machine as his own somehow tainted it for Lucifer?

  Spectre eased toward Lucifer and said:

  "It is amusing, Lucifer, is it not?"

  "I am not amused. Such suffering is not a source of humor for me."

  Spectre gave Lucifer an odd look.

  "You sound almost human, Lucifer."

  "Impossible."

  If he was becoming human, he could always reprogram himself to eliminate such tendencies. If he ever became as human as Baltar, then he could self-destruct.

  "Now, cheerfulness, Lucifer!" Baltar hollered.

  Lucifer flipped a toggle on his control panel and, following the preset program, happier waves were emitted by the guilt device. Many of the humans in the center area started smiling happily. There were a few ripples of laughter among others. They looked around the command chamber at all the Cylons watching them and began to chuckle.

  "Magnificent, Lucifer," Baltar shouted.

  Spectre leaned close to Lucifer's hearing circuits and spoke softly:

  "It's like praise from the gods, isn't it, Lucifer?"

  Lucifer nearly told Spectre that this god, instead of involving himself with the proper duties of creation, appropriated the inventions and ideas of other beings, but he refrained.

  "This is wonderful!" Baltar screamed, while bouncing up and down absurdly on the edge of the pedestal. "Increase the output, Lucifer!"

  "Commander, I wouldn't advise—"

  "Lucifer! Turn it up!"

  Lucifer obeyed. The group of humans turned even merrier. They interlocked arms and danced around to chaotic music they hummed themselves. They hugged each other. And they gaped at the Cylons and laughed at their captors mockingly.

  Baltar twisted his body around so he faced Imperious Leader.

  "What do you think, lordship?" he asked.

  "Impressive," Imperious Leader said, "and a trifle unsettling."

  "Why unsettling?"

  Strange word for the Leader to use, Baltar thought.

  "Look at them. Although their emotions are manipulated, it nevertheless appears as if they are laughing at us."

  "If it disturbs you, I can change things in an instant. Let me show you what I have done to the Galactica. Lucifer, change the emotion to guilt."

  Lucifer attended to the proper switch and again the human mood shifted. Physically, they stood still or sat silently, sad expressions on their faces. A couple, less affected, glanced around quizzically at their guilty-feeling comrades.

  Baltar sprang down from the pedestal and started passing among his prisoners. It was an apparently brave act—although, to be sure, many weapons were being held on the prisoners. He was also prote
cted from the guilt machine's effects by a shield skullcap Lucifer had devised and given him.

  "You're cowards, liars, wretches," Baltar shrieked at the prisoners. "All of you. You ratted on your comrades, your friends, your wingmates, your officers, your bloody ship."

  As he prodded them on, his words took effect. Their guilt became more obvious on their faces and in the slumps of their bodies.

  "More, Lucifer, more," Baltar urged excitedly. "Turn the machine up to full power. I want to see them squirm."

  "Baltar, full power's never really been tested. There have been some strange bypass phenomena—"

  "Irrelevant! Turn it up!"

  "But—"

  "Now, Lucifer!"

  Reluctantly Lucifer turned up the output of the device, halfway to full power. The change had an effect on the humans even he had not expected. They began to sway with agony, to punch their own bodies repeatedly, to scream pitifully, to tremble violently, to tear at their skin and draw blood. Lucifer noted dispassionately that, while this display resembled that of sorrow, it was also importantly different. Sorrow could be shared; the humans could touch each other, stroke each other, feel part of a sorrowful world. But guilt was an individual matter. The guilty stood alone, not wanting to share the emotion with another human being.

  "More, more," Baltar screamed. "All the way to full power, Lucifer!"

  Lucifer would have liked to direct full power at Baltar, but the shield he wore prevented that. Instead, he followed orders. The human response was overwhelmingly grotesque. There were piercing screams and wracking sobs, and the humans began flinging their bodies about recklessly. The sounds disturbed Lucifer's hearing circuits.

  The screams and sobs were suddenly drowned out by a sudden thunderous roar from the command pedestal. The Imperious Leader had stood up, his massive bulk sending enormous shadows over the command chamber. He roared again and his body writhed. Lucifer noted that the writhing of the Leader's body very strongly resembled the writhing of the humans.

  Galactica's pilots on their way to battle always had a sense of determination prodding them onward, a grim-jawed readiness to face the laser cannons of the enemy. But this mission had produced an even greater determination on the part of the warriors. They could not wait to arrive in the area of Baltar's base-star.

  Greenbean, especially, had a craving for combat. He couldn't get out of his head the images of the suffering and torture that Baltar had inflicted on him. Furthermore, he couldn't forget the suffering he had innocently carried to the ship at the renegade traitor's behest. If he could only get Baltar's repulsive face in his sights, Greenbean knew he would shoot without hesitation.

  "Slow down, Greenbean," Jolly cautioned. "You keep edging ahead."

  Greenbean's grim reply chilled the easygoing Jolly to the bone.

  "I got reasons."

  Apollo glanced down at his scanner and saw the indicators he was seeking.

  "I think I've got 'em, fellas," he said. "Looks to me like one very large base-star, plus the usual support and troop craft. No, wait, there's another base-star, moored just behind it."

  "I got them, too," Starbuck announced. "Maybe we'll get two of those lousy base-stars for the price of one. We're closing in."

  "Everybody!" Apollo said. "Check all systems!"

  When all pilots had reported in the readiness of their vipers, and tightened formation, Apollo gave the attack order.

  "All right, all squadrons. We're going in! Kick in the turbos!"

  Together, in an impressively simultaneous thrust, the squadrons lunged forward.

  Adama, utilizing transmissions beamed up from Vaile by broadcast technicians there, together with camera equipment mounted in the cockpit of the diving vipers, watched the Vailean battle develop on monitors set in the wall of the command bridge. Several small screens surrounded a single major screen. Rigel, checking all monitors, selected the pictures to be displayed on the central screen.

  The Cylons were initiating their attack on Vaile. A few explosions erupted in series across the center of a field of grain. A pair of Cylon ships flew low, strafing a road to scare any inhabitants into the adjoining ditches.

  Galactica's reserve squadron was not yet within striking distance.

  "We have to get there on time, Tigh. The Vaileans helped us unselfishly. It'd be a shame if we let them down."

  "Agreed."

  Rigel tuned up Athena's voice so that it echoed through the bridge.

  "Approaching the enemy. They haven't detected us yet."

  "Wait!" interrupted Dietra. "There's a couple of 'em, peeling off. They're on their way. Come to Di-di, baby."

  The vipers of Athena and Dietra led the way toward the Cylon craft.

  "The one on the left's mine, Dietra."

  "My pleasure. The right's history."

  Athena swerved her viper at the last micron, in order to draw fire. Then she did a skillful slide downwards and came at the Cylon from underneath. Her shots sketched a neat singed line across the underbelly of the raider, and it began to split just before a fuel line exploded, turning it into a mass of flame. Dietra sent the raider she attacked into a downward spiral. It crashed into the Vailean ground, its nose buried into soft Vailean farm soil.

  Soon vipers and Cylon raiders were engaged in a fierce dogfight over the quiltlike pattern of Vaile's cultivated fields. The Cylon ships couldn't seem to get in a good shot. Each time a raider was blown up or sent on its final trip downward, a tentative cheer went up from the bridge crew. They didn't want to get too enthusiastic, afraid to invoke the old fleet superstition that it was wrong to cheer too loudly until the victory was assured.

  "I think we've got the edge on them, sir," Tigh said.

  "Precision flying. That's our edge, Tigh."

  "Yes sir!"

  Tigh relished hearing Adama's favorite phrase every time he said it.

  Lucifer worked frantically, trying to lower the guilt device's power, but it was jammed. Baltar's demands for full power had overloaded the central core, which was now spinning out of control and sending out the guilt-waves at a rate beyond the levels that Lucifer had programmed into it. The humans were driven insane. They ran haphazardly around the command chamber, attacking the confused Cylons, who were unable to function because of the shame the device was forcing on them. Even Baltar was affected from waves that broke through the shield of his protective skullcap. He was standing in the center of the chaos and weeping uncontrollably. Well, let him weep, Lucifer thought. It was his self-seeking need to put on a show for the Imperious Leader that was the cause of this disaster.

  On top of the pedestal, Imperious Leader twisted and convulsed like a mythical monster about to arise from confinement. His mind had become a turbulent languageless mixture of emotional images, images he had collected during his long involvement with the human scum. They were not pictures that pleased him. First, he was able to see himself as the humans saw him, as a hideously malformed and gnarled creature, as an ugly reptilian monster with bestial appetites and distorted ideas. Worse, for the moment, while under the besieging rays of the guilt machine, he saw the human conception of him as true. He was as repellent as they believed. His actions proved that. He saw another image: Of the destruction and death he had caused in the period of his leadership. He saw dead humans, their limbs intertwisted and their skulls showing through their skin, massed together on an infinite pile. They were the deaths he had caused in his fierce and monomaniacal pursuit of human annihilation. Seen as victims, it seemed to him that they were not the vermin he'd always believed. They had a sense of themselves as worthy, as beings of noble longings and compassionate intelligence who sought ideals that were counter to the wretched Cylon goals of universal conquest. As the multitudinous images of death and destruction for which he was the sole cause merged into a heinous panorama, for the first time in his existence Imperious Leader felt guilty for his evil and insignificant deeds. His guilt was deeper and farther-ranging than anything anyone on the Galactica had f
elt, than anyone in Baltar's command chamber was presently feeling. It was like a series of massive explosions all over his body, pushing against his outer skin, squeezing all of his brains.

  At the same time the rage was taking him over, he fully understood that he was being manipulated, that he was not an emotional being and that the emotions inside him were inserted there, like generative charges from the outside. He still believed in the Cylon ideals of order and control of the universe. He still knew that the Cylons must spread their power until it included all worlds, all civilizations. If there were worlds beyond the universe, the Cylons must conquer them also. Further, he knew that he, more than any previous Imperious Leader, pursued the Cylon goals with absolute dedication to them. He realized fully that his devotion to the cause had, in one important way, rendered him susceptible to the destructive power of the guilt device. In his need to destroy the human race, he had had too much involvement with humans, had absorbed too much of an understanding of how the human mind worked. Infuriating as it was, his ability to think like a human had resulted in his absorbing the full effect of the guilt machine rays, constructed as they were from Lucifer's intensive study of human brain waves.

  Knowing all this, Imperious Leader could not subdue his wrath. With a stentorian roar, he leaped from the command pedestal into the center of the suffering humans. Lucifer noticed that the Leader's jump was infinitely more graceful than one would have expected.

  Growling and bellowing, the Leader started picking humans up and flinging them to distant parts of the chamber. Lucifer heard bones and skulls crack when they made contact with the floor, walls, or technological items. When all the humans had been flung or had scurried for cover, the Leader attacked anything else that came to his attention. He kicked in monitor screens, sending sparks arcing across the command chamber. With forceful blows he crushed navigational consoles, scanning equipment, communication centers. He punched other Cylons, who in their loyalty had no concept of retaliation to an Imperious Leader. Soon the command chamber was lying in ruins and wreckage all around him. He had taken a blow at everything except the guilt machine.