Battlestar Galactica 11 - The Nightmare Machine

by Glen A. Larson

  Noticing it now, he ran at the guilt machine and rammed his powerful body against it. It slid several meters and began to make sputtering sounds. Lucifer backed into a corner, making sure he was out of the Leader's range. The Leader grabbed a rifle from a centurion and shot a large hole in the middle of the guilt machine. Flames and sparks emerged from its insides. Then the Leader reached in and started smashing circuits, ripping out and snapping apart wires, crushing shards of metal in his hands. Soon the machine, once so bizarre to look at, was a conventional pile of scrap metal, some of its components still smoldering from fire.

  Then the Leader stood next to the debris and examined it. His body went limp. With the origin of his guilt now wrecked, the feeling had abruptly left him.

  Lucifer, evaluating what he had witnessed, felt as close to humble as an ambulatory cybernetic intelligence could. If an Imperious Leader could be so affected by emotion, was it any wonder that Lucifer occasionally sensed in himself a series of responses that resembled emotion? And perhaps in the masterly way he had supplemented and changed his own programming, he had unknowingly given himself an emotional capability.

  He was both fascinated and impressed by the fact that his invention had had such strong effect upon so unlikely a subject as the Imperious Leader. If it could do that, what were its potentialities? It struck him that they were so vast that any further work he performed in that area would have to kept from both Baltar and the Leader.

  Imperious Leader stood still for a long while, realizing that his actions were mysterious to all in the room. Well, he though, it would have to remain that way. An Imperious Leader did not have to explain his behavior, even when it appeared to be aberrant. Still, in a sense, he had lost face in front of his troops and he would have to ensure they perceived his destruction of the command chamber as a necessity that accorded well with Cylon beliefs.

  However, the problem of regaining face with the troops was minor. More severe was his need to regain face with himself. The memory of his rage, and what had been inside him during it, would always be with him, forever affecting him, his judgements, his logical thinking processes. It could even render him unfit to rule. It had been, after all, a spell of insanity. Insanity in an Imperious Leader seemed a contradiction in terms. Or, if you took the infernal human view, an agreement.

  He addressed Baltar in normal command tone:

  "Your device, Baltar, is dangerous."

  By justifying his destruction of the guilt machine, the Leader was, in effect, taking the first step in justifying his rage.

  Spectre rolled to the Leader's side and said:

  "A brilliant understatement, my supreme liege."

  Imperious Leader barely noticed Spectre's comment, but to Baltar it was clear that Spectre had made his decision. After this incident, Spectre could not join Baltar. The self-seeking cybernetic intelligence had gone with power. Power was still Imperious Leader.

  "Something," Baltar said, "something . . . went wrong . . . I'm sorry, Imp—"

  "You will be more than sorry when—"

  Whatever the Imperious Leader had planned to say, it was interrupted by the high shattering blasts of an alert resounding throughout the base-star.

  "What is that, Baltar?" the Leader demanded.

  "An alert, sir. No doubt a false alarm. Perhaps caused by your—what is it, centurion?"

  "Human fighter ships have been detected heading toward us, commander. Markings suggest that they are from the Galactica."

  "Galactica! But that's impossible. They're disabled, emotionally disabled. I'm sure of it. They couldn't possibly launch an attack."

  "Then there are evidently emotionally disabled pilots heading their vipers in our direction, commander."

  The apparent insolence was only the Cylon manner of stating a fact.

  "Baltar, you fool," Imperious Leader growled. "What of your brilliant plan of attack now?"

  "I don't know, Imperious Leader, I—"

  Baltar suddenly could not speak. He did not know how to explain away this confusing turn of events to the Leader.

  "Well," the Leader said, "what are you waiting for? Don't you have any retaliatory capability?"

  "Of course. Centurion! Send out the order. Raiders launch immediately."

  "If not sooner," Spectre muttered.

  Bays in the base-star opened abruptly and fighting ships, each controlled by a trio of Cylons, shot through the openings. After clearing the base-star, they achieved formation and proceeded in long beautiful sweeps toward the dense onslaught of Galactica's vipers.

  "Here comes target practice, lads!" Starbuck shouted.

  "Form up for the first pass," Apollo ordered.

  The advance force came together and, flying in a kind of half-circle, they met the front rank of the Cylon legion. A coordinated firing from the vipers dispatched, with a chain reaction effect, several of the enemy ships. The opening this created allowed, as planned, the leading vipers to break through the Cylon ranks and head for the base-star, Their first shots at Baltar's dreadnought scored direct hits.

  The command chamber was rocked by the initial impact of the human assault. Baltar was knocked off his feet. The wreckage from the leader's rage bounced around the room, ricocheted off centurions, and damaged control room equipment further. Lucifer scurried around, finding it difficult to retain a graceful glide on the momentarily tilted flooring.

  "Imperious Leader," Spectre softly suggested, "you must leave here."

  "Yes, thank you, Spectre. You are right, as always." Spectre seemed to glow with the compliment. "I should not be trapped here in a ship not my own."

  "That was my thought, honored sir."

  Imperious Leader gathered the remnants of his dignity and began to leave the chamber. At the entrance portal, he glanced back toward Spectre.

  "Well, Spectre, are you not accompanying me? I need you."

  Spectre joined Imperious Leader at the entrance without a second thought or a look back. Ambulatory cybernetic intelligences never regretted lost opportunities. Baltar watched the Leader and Spectre leave, and Lucifer watched Baltar's watching.

  "Commander," Lucifer said, "the vipers have clearly broken through our lines. There have already been several damaging hits on the superstructure and below."

  Baltar could not concentrate on what Lucifer was saying.

  "Are all our raiders in flight?" he asked distractedly.

  "I am launching the remaining ships."

  "Good."

  Baltar examined the wreckage in the room, and it suddenly occurred to him that Lucifer was somehow directing the battle without proper equipment.

  "What are you using to convey orders?"

  He displayed a small keyboard that he held in one arm.

  "Fortunately, I installed a backup system long ago. It is limited but now operational."

  "Good, Lucifer, good. You're a genius. A . . . a credit to your series."

  A centurion stumbled into the command chamber and announced:

  "More vipers have broken through and are on a direct line to the ship."

  "What is the status of our fighters?" Lucifer requested.

  "Our initial losses are heavy."

  Baltar tried to assess the situation. His command room was in ruins. His fighting forces were unprepared, and losing. This did not seem like the beginning of a wonderful heroic future.

  The Galactica pilots fought fiercely. Even when they seemed trapped by a Cylon pinwheel formation, they managed to pull out, execute tight turns, and destroy the enemy ships before they could respond.

  Greenbean, especially, added Cylon kills to his record. The victory marks on the side of his viper would double, at least. He was all over the battle, saving one pilot after another from certain death, occasionally swooping in toward the base-star and scoring an effective hit. One of these shots, slicing a long gap in the underside of the base-star, caused a large metal piece of the surface to shatter off and fall away.

  "Good show, Greenbean," Jolly said
vigorously.

  "You see that, Apollo?" Starbuck cried.

  "How could I miss it?"

  Sheba and Bojay flew in tandem, wingmates. Three Cylon raiders rushed at them, laser fire streaking ineffectively by Sheba and Bojay's cockpits.

  "Hey, Bojay," Sheba said, "let's try the Commander Cain strafe and pincer."

  "You got it, Sheba."

  "I'll take highside."

  "Righto."

  They maneuvered their vipers sideways, as if they intended to retreat from the trio of Cylon fighters. Then they forced their ships into an abrupt flip and turn, and made right for the Cylons. Sheba arced above them, while Bojay zoomed below. Shooting precisely, each aware of the position of the other, they managed to destroy all three vehicles in a single pass. Sheba whooped with delight and was about to tell Bojay that Cain would have been proud, but her gladness abruptly changed to fear.

  "Oh my God, Bojay!"

  "What is it?"

  "Over there, it's Starbuck, isn't it? They got him trapped!"

  Starbuck was indeed in a doomed situation. He was surrounded by Cylon ships. They were spread around him in such a way that any maneuver out seemed impossible. It was what the pilots called the "grit your teeth and fire at them until they get you" battle position.

  "Apollo," Starbuck called, "tell Athena and Cassiopeia—"

  Before he could finish the sentence and before the Cylons could fire the one shot that would send Starbuck to viper heaven, Greenbean whooshed in through a small gap in the Cylon formation. His guns were blazing and he turned several ships on the far side into space debris. He and Starbuck, their vipers more or less back to back, or tail to tail, revolved and with amazing accuracy blew several of the Cylon ships to smithereens. They had reason to believe that the surviving Cylons might be angry, so Greenbean said:

  "Let's get out of here, Starbuck, before they get any ideas."

  They flew off, their parting shots cleaving a couple of Cylon raiders down the middle. When they were clear of the trap, Starbuck said:

  "Thanks, Greenbean."

  "Figured I owed you one. Heck, I owe everybody at least one."

  "You're paying back just fine. On your tail!"

  Greenbean looped and knocked off another Cylon. All in a centon's work.

  Smoke was now seeping into the command chamber. Lucifer and Baltar had been frantically giving orders, testing strategies futilely. Without even communication equipment on which to call up a visual, it was impossible to conduct a battle properly. This was the most devious attack Lucifer had ever seen from the humans. It very much resembled the kind of battle Cylons usually originated.

  "Imperious Leader's base-star has successfully cleared our ship and escaped the human onslaught," a centurion reported.

  "He could have stayed and helped," Baltar muttered.

  Lucifer replied to Baltar's criticism matter of factly:

  "It is the Imperious Leader's first duty in a position of danger, especially threat to his person, to remove himself from the battle in order to preserve his leadership for—

  "I know all that, Lucifer. All I'm saying is that his honor should have allowed him to—"

  "Honor? Honor is a human concept. It does not apply to Imperious Leader."

  "Or Cylons in general."

  "Baltar, Cylons have an alternate set of ethics that you would not understand."

  "No, I'm sure I wouldn't. Well, at least Spectre got out of here intact."

  That remark caught Lucifer short.

  "I do not understand. Why is Spectre's welfare important to you?"

  "I don't know, Lucifer. I honestly don't know. I just like the little guy's moves. Even when he's double-crossing me."

  Lucifer might have commented on Baltar's myopic view, but another hit on the base-star sent him gliding awkwardly across the floor. Baltar fell against him, sending both of them sprawling. Baltar's head hit the wall painfully. He sat up, holding it between his hands.

  "I think, Lucifer," Baltar said, "it is time to cut our losses. Order a retreat."

  Lucifer turned to the nearest messenger-centurion and said:

  "Order the raiders to return to the ship and—"

  "NO!" Baltar interrupted. "There's no time for that. Too many vipers have broken through. We're going to light-speed immediately."

  "And leave our fighters behind?"

  "Fortunes of war, Lucifer. A tactical necessity. Their sacrifices in battle will cover our retreat. But before we leave you can send out a message ordering the stragglers to rendezvous with us at a specific point. A few hectares down the road, say."

  "But most of them will be killed. It would deplete—"

  "Accelerate to light speed, Lucifer!"

  Lucifer did not approve but his programming forced him to accede.

  "Yes, commander."

  As he sent the code for acceleration through his backup system, Lucifer dispassionately examined the remains of his guilt machine. For all its failure, and the havoc it had been responsible for, the invention had left Lucifer with one pleasurable memory, that of the Imperious Leader chewing out Baltar for creating the device in the first place. There was in that a kind of pleasing revenge on the human commander for taking credit for what was not his. Was not that what the humans termed poetic justice?

  Some day he might try the machine again. Perhaps, if he defected to the humans, a plan now taking form as he thought of the futility of serving Baltar and perhaps even the Cylons, they might be able to discover some less catastrophic use for the device. That was an interesting idea, Lucifer thought, the one about the humans. He wondered how they might treat an ambulatory cybernetic sentience.

  "I think we've got them on the run now!" Adama observed as he viewed the furious Vailean battle on the various screens.

  "Sir," Tigh said, "the Vailean prime minister is in contact. He says their capital city is under direct attack."

  "Communicate that to Athena."

  Athena received the message and called to several of her best pilots over her commline.

  "Dietra! Brie! Carrie! Melika!"

  They all responded quickly.

  "The Vailean capital's being shelled," Athena informed them. "It's up to us."

  The five vipers peeled away from the main battle and flew to the capital. A phalanx of Cylon raiders was trying to level the city, and the Vaileans apparently were improperly defended by ground artillery. Bombs were exploding and the civilians were running for cover from diving Cylon ships.

  "Carrie and Melika," Athena ordered, "you guys go in low, get the strafers. Dietra, Brie! You stay with me. We're going into triad formation."

  "But Athena," Brie said, "we only practiced that one. We never—"

  "Time to show the hotshot pilots what we can do, Brie."

  Their triad formation turned out to be skillful, drawing admiration from the viewers of the battle aboard the Galactica. The three vipers headed for their rendezvous with several Cylon raiders.

  "All right now," Athena said. "Split formation and fire at will!"

  Dietra and Brie's vipers moved away from Athena's viper in a smooth arc, while Athena kept her craft on a straight course. The three-way firing from the vipers blasted a half-dozen of the enemy into fragments that fell like rain upon the city. Then they chased the rest of the Cylon ships and, with the help of Carrie and Melika, who had taken care of the strafing craft, the quintet of pilots finished off the phalanx.

  "I believe the Vaile battle is over, sir," Tigh announced. "Thanks to Athena and her squadron."

  "Yes," Adama said, "it was quite impressive."

  "The news from Vaile is minimal losses, with some destruction of the capital city."

  "Good for now, but we're going to have to leave them some protection against future attacks, Tigh."

  "How about Sire Uri, to be used as a decoy?"

  "I'll consider that. Any news from the strike wings?"

  "Nothing yet. They might not even have located Baltar's base-star "

 
; Adama nodded and settled himself for the long wait for Apollo and his colonial warriors to return.

  Apollo, in the midst of the fray, at first didn't detect the movement of the base-star. Then he saw it edge away from the battle, and then gradually accelerate, so that it quickly became a distant point, and then nothing.

  "Base-star has retreated," Apollo reported to his squadrons.

  "Yahoo," yelled Starbuck, impairing the hearing of several pilots along the commline.

  "They're leaving their pilots behind?" Boomer said.

  "As hanging targets evidently," Apollo noted sardonically.

  The Cylon pilots became aware of their base-star's sudden absence. Many of them looped their ships away from the battle, as if to pursue the unpursuable. Others followed.

  "They're leaving," Jolly said. "Should we go after them?'

  "No," Apollo said, "let them go."

  "But Apollo—" Starbuck said.

  "There's no time to chase them all over creation! We got work to do back at the Galactica."

  "Well, all right then. But, as sure as God wears the Kobol pyramids for triad shoes, you have an obsession about duty, Captain."

  Apollo laughed.

  "You better believe it, bucko!"

  There was a lot of laughter and rough jokes along the commline as the Galactica's pilots eased their vipers around and started back for their mother ship.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The party in flight crew lounge was vastly different from the last celebration held there, the one for Greenbean's return. This time the partygoers frolicked and danced cheerfully, with a considerable sense of relief that they were able to.

  One similarity to the earlier party was that Ensign Greenbean was again the center of attention. But the glum Greenbean of the first party had been transformed into a happy smiling warrior for this one.

  Jolly stood on a table and led the revelers in a toast:

  "Everybody, let's hear three cheers for Ensign Greenbean, our new ace of aces!"