Battlestar Galactica - Destiny, page 19
Whatever was happening to him had nothing to do with the war against the renegade Cylons. Although the struggle dragged on and on, there was nothing in its dimensions to challenge any portion of Imperious Leader’s confidence in his implacable purposes. Nor did the hunt for the colonials explain why he should be experiencing unease. The humans fled and he went after them. It had become a habit.
There could be only one reason for an alteration in his consciousness, and yet the nexus of his minds rejected the inescapable conclusion. Contact with Baltar must have done something to Imperious Leader.
It was one thing for the greater Cylon consciousness to seep into a human mind, but quite another for a single human brain to exert any power whatsoever. Never mind that Baltar was a genius among his kind. He was only human, all too human. How could a lesser being influence or alter any aspect of superior Cylon consciousness?
Only Iblis could make the claim of impacting the Cylons. That was all right. Imperious Leader grasped the full implications. Iblis had been more than human for an Age. But if the ferocious reptiles leading the rebellion suspected that a contemporary human could have an influence on the leader of the impure Cylons, it would be a propaganda weapon in the hands of Alpha Leader. The mere thought of such an outcome made Imperious Leader shudder at the deepest metaphysical level.
No one must have the slightest inkling that something about Baltar had seeped into Imperious Leader. He would bury the secret so far down that even he would forget it.
His conscious, planning minds would move forward as always; but they would be driven by a scintilla of extra motivation that the colonials must be destroyed. When the time came, there might be something almost like pleasure in giving Baltar a crucial piece of false information assuring the destruction of the fleet.
Yet planning the endgame provided scant satisfaction in the present. Imperious Leader hungered for a reminder of his victories over the pure humans even more than the latest casualty figures for renegade Cylons. To that end, he mentally triggered distant Spy-eyes to send him signals from a place he had not visited in many years.
While he waited for data to flow, he amused himself by first cursing humans—and then altering the imprecations to more accurately reflect his evaluation of the new Cylons. He hated both sides for embodying the error of unimaginative breeding. A true Master Race must be drawn from the best elements available! Build and stretch and cut and stitch and fuse until the mosaic is complete. The great Count Iblis showed the way.
The necessity of combining disparate elements was even true when there were conflicts between the technological and the organic. Machines alone might as well be articulated stones. Flesh alone was weak and powerless, only fit to bleed and weep. Together flesh and metal became stronger; just as together human and reptilian DNA became more than the constituent parts.
Unity only mattered in a superior brain that guided all the different aspects of an Empire into an unstoppable juggernaut. Such a mind justified itself through power alone.
The colonials just didn’t get it!
The pictures requested by Imperious Leader finally arrived, transmitted directly to the visual centers inside his pulsing gray matter. He felt at peace as he saw one of his favorite things.
Over time, every defeated colonial ship that had not been blown to atoms was carefully gathered up and put in orbit around a sun in a lifeless solar system. There were ships from other enemies of the Cylons, as well. But Imperious Leader would not have started his private graveyard collection if not for the colonials.
It gave him a sublime satisfaction to see the carefully preserved bodies of men and women and children. Cold and content, pale with open fish eyes, they manned their stations for eternity in catacombs that once were ships.
Did they appreciate all the trouble Imperious Leader had gone to on their behalf? He actually wanted to remember them for the role they played in Cylon history. What greater compliment can an enemy offer a fallen foe?
Imperious Leader would like to extend the same courtesy to every remaining human.
Apollo found Cassie in the Med Lab. She was putting in a lot of overtime. One glance at the over-crowded stockade of human suffering told him all he needed to know.
There were too many injured.
There were too many dying.
The one thing that the Med Lab was short on was medical supplies. By some good fortune, the supply of blood and plasma was holding out.
Except that Cassie had one piece of unfortunate news in that department. She gestured for Apollo to follow her. In a corner of a crowded room she’d managed to throw up a curtain allowing one sleeping patient a modicum of privacy.
“Rhaya!” Apollo said her name like a prayer. “What happened?”
“Space detail. She’s lost a lot of blood.”
He felt like crying, but somewhere, a long time ago, he’d shed his last tear. Now there was only anger and purpose.
“Cassie, I thought you had enough blood for the current number of patients.”
“I do. But this girl has a rare blood type.”
“How rare?” Apollo wanted to know.
“The rarest I’ve ever seen,” said Dr. Wilker, joining them. “We can’t synthesize anything she can use. Technology has its limitations. Her only hope is if we find a donor with her type. We will keep looking until the end.”
Apollo wanted to stay and hold the girl’s hand. Duty wouldn’t let him. It nagged and pushed. It reminded him of the hundred things he had to do in the next micron. It was not about to let him sleep ever again. But that didn’t stop him wanting to seize time by the throat and insist that it give this girl a break.
“What is her condition now?”
“Stable,” said Wilker.
“We have enough plasma for her in the short run,” Cassie added. “We’re not shorting any other patients. At least not yet.”
It was turning into another of those days.
“I must get to other patients,” said Dr. Wilker. “But I would like to ask you a question if that’s permissible.”
“Of course, doctor.”
“Dr. Kim has already told me what to expect if I ask you about this.” He noticed Cassie busying herself with Rhaya’s chart. She knew where the topic was headed.
Apollo’s had enough respect for Wilker that he didn’t want to show his impatience but the man was taking an awful long time to get to the point. “Yes?” he prompted the doctor.
“Well, it’s about Baltar’s room. Space is at a premium, as you can see for yourself. Is there any possibility we could move him to smaller quarters and make use of the space?”
“No,” said Apollo.
“It’s just that even his guards take up space. Wouldn’t there be accommodations in the prison sections?”
“Dr. Wilker, I thought you grasped the situation better than this,” Apollo spoke patiently. “Baltar’s condition is a matter of fleet security. We need access to the best medical equipment as well as a place of adequate security. The last thing we need is for Baltar to be near the criminal element at a time of turmoil. I’m personally sorry for the current conditions, but I can’t justify taking the risk of moving Baltar.”
Wilker almost seemed to sag as he accepted defeat. Then he regained his composure again and extended a hand to Apollo. They shook hands.
“Thank you, Commander, for stopping by. I hope you don’t think I had anything to do with that graffiti scrawled on Baltar’s door.”
They all laughed at that. “Not your style, doctor. Did you ever solve that Med Lab mystery?”
“No, did you?”
Apollo shook his head. “I’ve been otherwise engaged. The way things have been going since the posting of the lottery list, nasty graffiti is the least of our problems.”
Wilker chose that moment to gracefully withdraw. “I will listen to your speech when it’s piped in.”
“Speech?” asked Cassie, as they watched the white coat of the departing doctor.
“I have to try again,” he said simply. “Maybe I can offer everyone another ray of hope but my batteries are running low.”
She took his hand. “Nobody does it better,” she said simply. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”
“You mean more than the burden you’re already carrying in here?” he asked tiredly. “You will always be special to me, Cassie.”
“I believe in you, Apollo.”
“If it’s possible for either of us to get away from what we have to do, we can meet in the star chamber.”
Cassie’s eyes grew a little larger than usual, but Apollo didn’t notice. He was kissing her hand. “That is a good place to meet,” she agreed.
Right before Apollo left her, he asked, “How is the child?”
“I’m glad you brought him up,” she said with a deep contentment.
"Does he understand about the lottery?” he dared to ask.
“No, he’s too young. At least I think he’s too young to understand. Sometimes he surprises me. I suppose a lot of mothers feel that way about their sons. But there is something growing in him, Apollo. I know that my destiny lies with him.”
Both were careful not to broach the topic of the child’s father. This was not the time or place and they had a lot to do.
“My son did it.”
Sire Uri lifted his sweating face from scrutinizing the blueprints laid out on the long table. “Did what?” he managed to get out. When he was this tired he found it difficult to talk.
“The blood on Baltar’s door. The message saying that Baltar would never leave with the fleet.”
The other council members and close hangers on had reached that stage in their deliberations and machinations when they could do with a break. The sudden outburst from Sire Opis had all the earmarks of an entertaining distraction.
“All right, then. Let’s hear about it,” said Sire Uri, leaning back in his chair and listening to it creak and groan in protest.
“His name is Adrick, but you probably already know that.”
“No, and I don’t care,” said Uri helpfully.
“Anyway, my boy was working as an orderly in the Med Lab. He had access to stores of blood..
“Frack!” shouted the oldest man in Uri’s chambers. “He wasted blood at a time like this!”
“Hope it wasn’t anything rare,” said another, still nursing his jaw from a roundhouse punch courtesy of Boomer.
“Look, I had nothing to do with it!” Opis defended himself. “I don’t have anything against Baltar compared to what we have to put up with from Apollo.”
“Please get on with the story,” Uri begged him.
“For some reason Adrick has convinced himself that Baltar is Apollo’s secret weapon. No one will ever convince me of that but boys will be boys. Anyway, one night when he was off duty he managed to sneak in and do the deed. He was almost caught leaving the scene of his little crime by one of the damned warriors.”
“Which one?” someone asked.
“Trays. I think it was Trays. I don’t suppose it matters.”
Sire Uri sighed. “No more than your story. Is there any particular reason you have chosen this auspicious moment to share with us your son’s imbroglio?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact there is,” finally picking up on Uri’s sarcasm. “The point is that Adrick’s name didn’t appear on the list. I’m recommending that he keep his mouth shut and go with the fleet in case our scheme backfires. I want him at a safe distance.”
Finally interested, Uri leaned forward in his chair and asked, “What did he say?”
“He’ll keep his mouth shut but he wants to stick with his old man. Share my fate and all that. I’m surprised that the little bastard has it in him.”
“Good for him,” said Uri. “As for his negative assessment of Count Baltar, I reserve judgment. The man is not part of our plan. Speaking of which, shall we get back to work?”
A heavy-set man who had lately become Uri’s personal bodyguard brought over a large box and opened it. Uri stood and peered in at the contents before gingerly removing a high-intensity portable bomb.
“Is all the merchandise this quality?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And there will be the quantity we discussed?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, I believe we are reaching the point of truth.” Sire Uri stood before continuing his address to the small assembly. “Despite the case of Opis’s son, I continue to believe it highly unlikely that not a single high ranking council member escaped the death list—as popular slang is describing the damned thing. I can just imagine Apollo standing here in front of us and insisting that the lottery was fair and square.”
“He wouldn’t stand here long,” said the heavy set man.
“We appreciate your zeal,” said Uri. “But it really doesn’t matter any more. Even if Apollo didn’t cheat us, the die is cast.”
“I just had a thought,” said Opis. "Apollo might not have anything to do with interfering with the lottery. The newly elected officials were a bunch of imbeciles who hated us. One of them might have screwed with the computer program and conveniently made sure our names were on the shit list!”
“Did you hear about the one who had his head split open?” chortled one of the female members of the Council of Twelve.
Her enthusiasm was contagious. “Too bad that didn’t set a precedent,” said the old member as a trail of spittle appeared on his chin.
“We are all on the same page,” Uri agreed. “Has anyone given thought to what we should do about our comrades who are incarcerated?”
Sire Opis put in his two cubits worth. “You were the one who warned us not to cause trouble and not to get arrested.”
Uri wasn’t about to let anyone get away with an attack of convenient amnesia. “Yes, and how many of you in this room ignored my advice with that stupid move about running your own lottery?”
They all grew sullen like spoiled children, except for Opis who piped in with: “I wasn’t there!”
“But many of you were. And then you had the nerve to contact me for extra guards, dragging me into it if I hadn’t been careful. What you did was as criminally stupid in a time of martial law as the way Sire Riggbok dug a grave with his big mouth.”
Opis took that as his cue for a return to the immediate issue. “What do we do about your friend?”
Uri was taken aback. “Riggbok? You think that poltroon is my friend?”
The mumbling around the table suggested that such was the consensus of opinion. Opis summed up: “But his family is of the finest blood.”
“So donate his carcass to the Med Lab,” suggested Uri. “We are not about to risk this operation for the likes of him. There is only one prisoner I believe would be of real use to us in the current situation.”
The manner in which Uri observed Opis made the other man a bit nervous.
“Are you looking at me?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you looking at me?”
Sire Uri folded his hands in his lap and began twiddling his thumbs. He could wait as long as any of these highly inadequate allies. By the Lords of Kobol, did he have to do all the thinking for everyone?
It was as if a small nova exploded over the head of Sire Opis. “Ryisl” he exclaimed. “Do you mean him?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“What good is he to us?” asked Sire Opis. No one in the room seemed particularly surprised when Uri held forth on the almost perfect lack of value to be found in Riggbok. But Ryis was a different matter. Paradis wasn’t that long ago. They all remembered the many useful functions of the architect.
“Wasn’t he a close friend of yours?” asked one member of the council.
Before Opis could respond, another asked, “Didn’t you sort of throw him overboard when you had your big showdown with Apollo and Athena?”
Sire Opis didn’t have to put up with this sort of nonsense. They couldn’t do this to him. He had too much on everyone. He opted for a simple declaration of a basic truth so his fellow council members would never do this sort of thing to him ever again.
“I have no friends,” he explained.
“Thanks for clearing that up,” said Uri. “One of these days we may be safely ensconced on another planet and in need of a man like Ryis the architect. When that sad day arrives we will be sorry we made no attempt at a rescue. For the time being, he is expendable.”
Uri poured himself a glass of Ambrosia and saw to it that the council members present had glasses as well, albeit with less generous portions. Non-council members continued to stand at attention. They could have grog later.
“I propose two toasts,” said Uri. “First, may our plan succeed.” They drank. “And now the second toast. To the memory of the late, great Ryis. We honor his personal war with Apollo.”
They all drank to that, including the man who was not his friend.
19
He wanted to get the sand out of his shoe. It had been there a moment before and now it was gone. A little voice in the back of his head suggested that if the sand wasn’t there, he didn’t have to worry about it any more.
Baltar knew better than that. It was all some kind of dastardly Cylon trick. If he ignored the problem then the sand would sneak back in his shoe. It didn’t matter that only he saw it. Dr. Kim assured him that his room was spotlessly clean.
The only way he could be certain was to see a thin stream of the yellow particles going from his upturned shoe to the floor below. Nothing else counted.
Elayna, the young nurse, tried to calm him. She quite reasonably observed that Baltar must be suffering from dreams again. She didn’t like the way he brushed her away. His normal friendliness had been replaced by a nervousness she’d never seen before.
When he insisted that he wasn’t dreaming any longer, she suggested calling in Dr. Kim and hooking up the machines just to be sure. No harm in checking on the old noggin, was there? He held her arm so tightly that he hurt her. That had never happened before.
He didn’t even notice when Elayna asked to be transferred, the same girl who had volunteered to stay by his side after the main body of the fleet left for good. She was crying when she reported to Dr. Kim and Cassie. She thought that Baltar didn’t recognize her any longer.
