Battlestar Galactica - Destiny, page 5
“I’m not interested in the secrets of the universe!” Baltar screamed in his sleep. “You Cylons promise everything but it’s all lies!” Dr. Kim made a note of it and then checked on her other patients. The recording devices were on twenty-four hours a day and no one was on permanent watch. It would be different if Baltar hurt himself or swallowed his tongue in his delirium but so far he did not seem to be in physical danger.
She was annoyed that he kept begging for drugs to keep him awake. He was fine, according to him, so long as he didn’t drift off. But no one could stay awake forever.
He insisted that if he had the free run of the Med Lab he could work out a way to stay awake permanently. Calmly, she deflated his idea by pointing out that he’d only succeed in reaching the “waking dream” state. The Cylons could still reach him there.
Besides, it was up to Commander Apollo to determine what was to be done with Baltar. The decision was neither hers nor her patient’s.
Cassie was a big help with Baltar. Kim looked forward to her conversations with her. The sudden sound of a closing door made her think Cassie was checking in but to her surprise she saw a glimpse of someone running. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone else on the night shift.
She followed the interloper only to find another swinging door. Before she went through it she saw something glistening on the door to Baltar’s room.
Someone had scrawled in blood the words:
BALTAR STAYS BEHIND!
She wasted no time calling security.
5
Victory over the colonials was not enough. The three-lobed brain oflmperious Leader demanded complete understanding of the human enemy. Conflicts among the Cylons forced him to consider a wider range of thought categories than had once seemed optimal. Now he had to know everything!
At one time it was sufficient merely to hunt and destroy the unpredictable human targets. No attention was paid to irrelevancies, such as the fact that a renegade human actually fathered the Cylon race from its reptilian origins.
Count Iblis admired ruthlessness when he was a mortal man. He casually dismissed his humanity back then. How simple it was for him to retain that part of himself as he became more than human, his consciousness extending to merge with the highest levels of control mind.
No matter how pure the purposes of that control, a problem remained for the ultimate cylon Ego that perceived itself as Imperious Leader. How was he to make sense of the senseless? Human imperfection no longer outraged the delicate sensibilities of that hyper-critical perspective. Now the very flaws of the human enemy provided an endless source of fascination.
Could there be something intrinsically evil about the human source? The three-lobed brain perceived vast seas of orgasms all to no effect. Imperfections were chains to hold back any clear purpose.
Contemplation was dangerous. It led to even stranger thoughts than considering the possibilities of limits. Could there be an entirely different kind of perfection? Was it remotely possible that imperfection at certain moments in the flux of space-time could be itself a kind of perfection?
The merest hint of such an idea stimulated the neuron flow in the incandescent and pulsating hive-brain. Imperious Leader was eager to learn.
The human traitor Baltar might furnish the answer to all such musings. There was in that tortured soul an incessant desire to do something great as defined in human terms.
In common with Imperious Leader, Baltar could analyze and evaluate a situation with various moving parts. If anything, he had a natural gift for strategy and tactics. But there the similarity ended. Baltar’s sole purpose was the preservation and aggrandizement of Self. This was a different matter from a sense of superiority. To Imperious Leader, Baltar was superior to most of his fellow humans. That was merely a fact, the same as the Cylon leader’s knowledge of his superiority to all other Cylons. The mystery of Baltar did not lie in his high self-regard but rather in his purposes.
What exactly did Baltar want? If his needs were self-contained there was no need for him to act on the external world at all. Undoubtedly he possessed the genius to create a cyber-environment in which he could place his brain in permanent stasis with adequate energy and defenses to optimize survival. From that relatively secure and hidden redoubt, he could construct scenarios of personal triumphs and satisfactions that could feed his ego for eternity.
He would cease to matter to his fellow beings; but how was that different from his current circumstances? Forever isolated from others of his kind, he would no longer send out signals of any value to the Cylon Empire. Baltar would be an Empire of One.
For some incalculable reason, the human traitor had never thought of this solution to his problems. He was human, all too human, after all. He lacked practical Cylon mental engineering. To wit, problems are meant to be solved.
The dispassionate Cylon intellect concluded that ultimate answers about the human soul were to be dug out of the writhing mass of tortured gray matter that was Baltar’s brain. Perhaps that was the man’s ultimate purpose—to help Imperious Leader put down a Cylon revolt that challenged his rule.
There were plans to be made for the final encounter between those who care enough to conquer the universe and the weak ones who run and hide. Baltar was very much part of those plans.
He had a dichotomous nature, even more so than the routine human specimen. It would be a shame to waste him as a mere homing beacon for the Cylon fleet. There were other uses for a splendid tool.
Ever since it had been ascertained that images of the Cylon world had been bleeding into Baltar’s unconscious, a simple strategy dictated the restriction of those mental pictures. A distortion wavelength gave the already paranoid victim a whirlpool of nightmare visions instead.
Why not try a more sophisticated strategy and send the man clear and understandable pictures of what the Cylons intended to do? Only Imperious Leader would make certain that Baltar received some false data.
“I’m tired of people dying,” said Koren.
“Death is what you make of it,” came the stern yet reassuring tones of Gar’Tokk. “If it is not time for you to die, then you have a duty to live fully. You must learn that from death.”
The two appraised each other in a lonely corridor. Anyone else coming upon the young teenager all by himself during a sleep cycle would instantly interrogate the lad. That was not the way of Gar’Tokk. Curfew was an alien concept to Borellian Nomen. They respected the right of every living thing to roam, regardless of age or stature.
Gar’Tokk only needed one look at Apollo’s adopted son to sense the deep loneliness of the boy. Apollo mattered to the Noman, so the boy mattered as well.
“What is your trouble?” he asked.
Koren raised an eyebrow in surprise. Despite his young years he had been around long enough to be surprised that Gar’Tokk would presume to tread, however lightly, on someone else’s privacy. If the boy had been asked that question by almost anyone else, he would have resisted. He’d made up his mind to be bitter and stubborn. He felt that he had the right, after all he’d been through with both his real father and now Apollo. Every time he thought he might have a chance for happiness, the universe refused to cooperate.
On the other hand, it was difficult feeling sorry for himself when someone as important as Gar’Tokk paid attention to him.
“I guess I’m thinking too much,” he said.
“Wisdom whispers to the young as well as the old,” said the big humanoid, placing a hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder.
Emboldened, Koren pressed on. “Maybe you won’t think I’m crazy but I’ll tell you. It seems like we fight ourselves a lot more than we do the Cylons. I mean, lately that is. At least since I’ve been born. Look how my father, my real father, fought Apollo!”
“You have not forgotten how the Cylon force pursued us into the Ur Cloud?” Gar’Tokk gently reminded the young critic.
“No, of course not,” the boy admitted. “But ever since we got to Paradis it’s like I said, only worse than before. The way we’re still fighting now it’s like we’re still down on the planet. I can’t believe that some of us will have to stay behind when the fleet makes the jump.”
“Cold equations,” said Gar’Tokk. “Hard facts.”
“Too hard!” the boy countered, staring into the eyes of the big alien, searching for some kind of understanding. “Why don’t we all stay here until the Cylons come and face the final battle together!”
The Noman gave an almost imperceptible nod but Koren noticed. “You have a warrior’s heart,” came the deep voice. “But you don’t think like a commander.”
“I know,” muttered Koren. “It always comes back to Apollo.”
“True. Your adoptive father has to make the final decisions so it must come back to him.”
“When the council lets him!” the young one added and they both made low grunts of amusement that weren’t exactly laughter.
“Koren, you must understand that Apollo has a duty to all.”
“Then why is he going to split us up?” the boy asked tensely.
The Noman shook his great mane of a head. “He did not create the trap we are in. He will fight with every ounce of strength to save at least a remnant of his people no matter what happens.”
Koren shrugged. He should have known better than to open his mouth around Gar’Tokk unless he chose to be exceedingly careful about what would come out. It was hard to put anything over on a seasoned veteran whose people were famous for 100% honesty.
“But what if the two groups never see each other again?” he asked, trying vainly to keep emotion out of his voice.
“Wrong question, young human. In this sea of space and time distance is the same as time. You should ask how glorious it is if both groups survive. That is what matters.”
Koren turned his face away from the Noman and said in a quiet voice, "I don’t want to lose her.”
“Who?”
“Caran. I don’t know what’s happened to her since we left Paradis. I don’t even know if she got off the planet.”
Gar’Tokk was not one to give false comfort, even to the very young. This time words of comfort came easily. "Very few were left behind, young warrior.”
It took a moment for the boy to realize what Gar’Tokk called him. “Thanks,” he replied. “Thanks for everything.”
"Don’t thank me yet. Follow instead.”
Not knowing what to expect, Koren followed the broad back of his benefactor down a corridor until at length they arrived at a special gymnasium. Even though it was the middle of a sleep-cyde, Gar’Tokk had a key.
“That’s for warrior training,” the boy said in awe.
“I know. There is an exercise good for your body and your mind. Come inside.”
For three centons, Gar’Tokk showed Koren how to run and climb over a variety of steep surfaces. He taught him how to use his dominant foot when jumping, and how to use his upper body strength to best advantage to continue up the side of a wall. Momentum made a big difference but there was also no better demonstration to the young man of why he needed to develop his biceps so that his arms could match the power of his legs.
Gar’Tokk showed Koren what to do with his arms and legs when jumping to the ground so that his body could absorb the force of impact without breaking bones or tearing muscle tissue. The boy learned to roll and duck. He learned to keep his hands in front of him because they were his best friends not only for fighting but also for dealing with the demands of any rigorous course of physical action.
He found out the right time to bend his knees and the wrong time to depend on the power of the untrained grasp of his hand. Most of all, he learned how to breathe when exerting himself and never to fear the racing of his healthy young heart and the pumping of his lungs.
Koren didn’t even realize how exhausted he was until the session was over and then he half fell to the ground, laughing in exhilaration at what he’d found out his body could do.
“Apollo would do these things with you if he had the time,” said the Noman.
"That’s easy to say,” said the boy, examining his feet.
“It’s the truth, young adopted son of the commander.”
Now he had Koren’s undivided attention. “Are you saying he asked you to spend time with me?”
Gar’Tokk, always careful, was especially diplomatic in his answer. “We both talked about you with pride, young one. My time is mine.”
Koren grinned. “You’re a real friend, Gar’Tokk,” he said. “Let’s do this again real soon.”
Ryis didn’t like his cell. He didn’t mind being locked up nearly so much as he objected to the design of the cubicle. Other prisoners might offer suggestions of how to decorate the walls so as to create the illusion that they still occupied private quarters, but thoughts of that kind never crossed Ryis’s mind. He couldn’t stop being an architect.
If the purpose of confinement was to make the prisoner feel claustrophobic then too much space was being wasted. Assuming that psychological warfare was not the purpose, then space was still wasted. A better design would make a smaller cubicle feel more spacious. One glance at the guards and the prisoners on either side of him was sufficient for Ryis to appreciate that none of his companions cared about the aesthetics of good engineering.
The man next to him did share certain interests with his former employer. The poor fool still believed in the vision Ryis has put forth on the planet that was even now in the process of breaking up. There was little advantage in pointing out to him that if the master builder had had his way then they’d all be dead by now. The most exasperating of the situation was that Apollo had been proven right yet again.
It seemed that by always betting on disaster Apollo never lost. The commander had figured out something about the universe that eluded his fellows. Ryis hated Apollo so deeply that it burned his soul.
“You think they’ll leave us behind?” asked the architect’s former right-hand man.
Sometimes Ryis didn’t listen to his appendages. But he was so bored at that moment that anything originating outside his head was worth paying attention to.
“You can count on it,” he said. “Whatever sort of system they develop will carefully select out all the ‘bad sorts’ and ‘traitors’ to be left for the tender mercies of the Cylons.”
“Yeah, I sort of figured on that, Ryis. But what about this idea that the ones left can survive even if they take on the Cylons; or maybe they can hide from the Cylons. I’m a little confused about it.”
Ryis snorted derisively. “You’re not the only one who’s confused. But think about it, man. You’re smarter than the rest. You’re not a bova. You can’t possibly believe their felgercarb.”
The other man nodded. “I never believe anything that sounds good coming from an enemy. Iwish we had some solonite so we could blast out of here.”
“And then what would you do?” asked Ryis, keeping his voice low and his eye on the guard at the end of the corridor.
“Ask you for our next move,” the man answered in an equally low voice.
Ryis enjoyed every syllable of the man’s answer. “I’d tell you to gather those stiil loyal to me. We’d commandeer a good ship with functional FTL and we’d go our own way, separate from the fleet’s continuing quest for Earth and not a sitting duck in this system. To hell with all of them!”
“I wouldn’t have thought of that,” admitted his right-hand man.
“Take it from me,” said Ryis, wanning to his subject, "whenever your enemies give you two choices start looking for a third or fourth option.”
The other man sighed. “I thought Paradis was our new choice.”
“So did I. It would have been the answer to all our prayers. But there’s no point crying over spilled oceans and split continents.”
“How much longer before it disintegrates completely?”
“Some of the scientists remain sympathetic to me and they smuggle information my way. Paradis won’t be with us much longer.”
“I’d like to see it blow up,” said the right-hand man.
“I’ll leave you to that pleasure. I’d find the spectacle too depressing.”
The guard chose that moment to return to his station nearer to the cells. That was their cue to terminate the conversation. Ryis didn’t mind. He preferred keeping the particulars of his plan at a sub-vocal level.
The final destruction of Paradis would provide a stronger impetus to get on with the selection process. Despite his animosity for Apollo, he didn’t envy the commander his current duties.
No sane man would volunteer for that job.
The little man sat next to the body of his little wife. They were the sort of people who never stood out in a crowd. They had many friendly acquaintances but no close friends. They had no living relatives, no children, no pets.
They lived together for thirty yahren without making a ripple on the society in which they floated as serene as a gray leaf. And up until this moment, they survived the current war with the Cylons.
So no one could be more surprised than the little man that he had placed his fairly weak hands around the throat of his wife’s even weaker throat and strangled the life out of her. That was his second surprise of the evening. The first was that they had argued and shouted only a short time before.
They had never had an argument until that dark moment.
As the little man sat on the bed in which lay the corpse of his wife, he tried to reconstruct what had happened. It seemed very important to him that he do this as quickly as possible because he had something to do just as soon as it was clear in his mind what had transpired in their cramped living quarters. He had to be sure of each and every detail.
When the disagreement began he thought that she was joking. But her words were difficult to misinterpret: “If they don’t break up couples and you aren’t selected to go with the fleet, then I’ll leave you and form a Seal with someone who is on the list to go.”
