Battlestar Galactica 7 - War Of The Gods

by Glen A. Larson

  The sentence was life imprisonment. It might have been kinder to simply kill him. How long could he possibly survive in a tiny cubicle, in solitary, without even a machine like Lucifer to talk to? How long would it be before he lost his sanity? Not long. It was that which frightened Baltar more than anything else. He imagined himself a mindless vegetable, crawling around upon the floor and making whimpering sounds and soiling himself. This, the would-be ruler of a world.

  The final blow had been that they had given him a cell with an observation port. He could hammer upon it for the remainder of his life and he would not so much as scratch it, yet he would be able to see the outside. He would be able to see the stars. He would know that somewhere out there was the base ship he had commanded. The ship that would not give up the chase simply because he had disappeared. No, it would be assumed that he had died and the hunt would continue and, one day, the base ship that had once been his would find the Battlestar Galactica and destroy her. And he would be on board, watching it all happen. He didn't want to die, but he knew that it would not be long before he would dream of it.

  Baltar wrapped his arms around his head and huddled against the wall, weeping.

  "It can't end like this," he moaned. "Please, don't let it end like this."

  Something flashed by outside. A white flaring through the observation port made him look up. He ran to the port and looked outside.

  The ship was surrounded by white lights. He heard the red alert signal sound. Outside and above his observation port, from an angle that he could not see, a brighter light was growing closer. Baltar backed away in fear.

  Suddenly he felt incredible pain, as if a tremendous blow had been delivered to his head, resulting in a massive edema. He clutched at his head, doubling over with pain. It kept increasing. Baltar screamed.

  He awoke in the life station. At first, he thought he was being treated aboard the Galactica or possibly the prison ship, then he saw a Cylon med tech looking down at him. He was in a life pod and his vital signs were being monitored.

  "What—where am I?" he said, looking around him and seeing several other Cylons in the life station. Had they captured the fleet? Could it be?

  "You are aboard the base ship, Baltar."

  He looked up and saw Lucifer gliding toward him across the floor, moving with his usual soundless grace.

  "Lucifer!" He struggled to sit up. "What happened? How did I get here?"

  "You do not recall?" said Lucifer.

  Baltar looked at the I.L. series Cylon and shook his head.

  "We received your distress signal," Lucifer said. "I dispatched a patrol to investigate and they found your shuttle, drifting in space. You were aboard, but you were not conscious. At first, they thought that you were dead. Did you not find the Galactica?"

  Baltar slowly climbed out of the life pod. His whole body felt sore, though why he did not know.

  "The Galactica?" he said.

  "Yes," said Lucifer. "You were to rendezvous with the Battlestar Galactica. You departed in the shuttle alone, unescorted."

  "Rendezvous with the Galactica?" Baltar stared at Lucifer as if the computer had gone insane. "Alone? Why in the name of Kobol would I do anything as mad as that?"

  Lucifer stood silent, his red eyes appraising Baltar. "It was by your order," he finally said.

  Baltar turned away. "My order? Impossible. I do not remember giving any such order."

  He tried to remember. What was he doing alone in a shuttle that was drifting out in space? How did he get there? Why was it all a total blank?

  "Was I ill?" he asked Lucifer.

  "Your bodily functions are all normal. Nor were you ill before you left. What happened out there, Baltar? Did you find Adama?"

  "Adama?" Baltar shook his head. "No. No, I—I don't remember."

  "Baltar, we must—"

  "Leave me."

  Lucifer hesitated, as if about to say something else. "By your command," he said, then turned and silently left the life station.

  Baltar sat down, rubbing his temples. His head ached, his whole body ached. How could he have blanked out so completely?

  "The Galactica," he said softly to himself. There was something about the Battlestar Galactica. But what? He tried to concentrate, but all that he could manage to summon up were fleeting images.

  Alone, in a shuttle. Why? Going where?

  Adama, and a stranger, a tall stranger dressed in white flowing robes.

  Alone again, in some sort of small chamber.

  "A dream," said Baltar. "It must have been a dream."

  But it was not a dream. They had found him drifting out in space. Alone. And he remembered nothing. Nothing.

  "It isn't finished," he said to himself. "It isn't finished, after all."

  He frowned. Why would he say something like that? Of course it wasn't finished. It would not be finished until he had tracked Adama down, until he had destroyed the accursed Battlestar Galactica and her pathetic fleet. They were out there somewhere and, sooner or later, he would find them again and finish it once and for all.

  Baltar leaned forward, putting his head in his hands.

  "Why can't I remember?" he said. "Why?"

  He felt that if he could only concentrate, he could bring it back, but try as he might, nothing but faint images tantalized his mind, images that didn't seem to mean anything. He could make no sense out of them. One image in particular disturbed him greatly.

  He seemed to remember a white light. An incredibly bright white light . . .