on, in human measurement, for seven hundred yahrens. His first-brain,
replacing the rudimentary one that trained and educated him in his early
years, had been awarded him at the proper ceremony marking his passing
from childhood to maturity. First-brains were the basic guidance system
of both the Cylon citizen and centurion. Since the first-brain's
activities concentrated on perceptions related to information gathering
and efficient performance in whatever job had been assigned the
individual Cylon at the maturity ceremony, only the simple interpretive
powers were implanted in it. In Imperious Leader's case, his childhood
achievements, especially the physical ones, had qualified him for the
coveted job of centurion. Even better, he had quickly ascended to
fighter pilot status and won the name that would have been (loosely)
translated into Colonial Standard as "Ace of Aces." As a result of his
mastery of warfare techniques, he had been award his second-brain much
earlier than his peers. The second-brain gave him the abilities
necessary for Cylon officers, particularly the gift of analyzing and
interpreting information. When the second-brain operated in conjunction
with the first-brain integrally, as it always did for Imperious Leader,
one rose to the level of executive officer. He had become one of the
youngest executive officers in the history of his race. He knew now
that, if he removed his helmet and let his many eyes survey the officers
surrounding the pedestal, he would be besieged by keen memories of
himself doing their jobs, interpreting and filtering data for previous
Imperious Leaders.
When the most recent Imperious Leader had reached the end of his
reign (each Leader held power for a specific term; about three-quarters
of a century in the time of Man, although the Cylons used no such
constricting measurements of linear time), he dictated his selection as
successor. Whatever his choice, no grumbling would have been heard from
the Cylon executive officers because there was no aspiration to power.
Cylons believed that the decrees of their superiors at any level or in
any position originated in a master plan known completely only to the
Imperious Leader. For them it was only logical, since Imperious Leaders
were the only Cylons with a third-brain and therefore the only Cylons in
possession of all information.
Even though he displayed his reaction to none of his fellow
officers, the present Imperious Leader had been mildly surprised when his
predecessor had selected him. The awarding of leadership generally went
to one of the officers senior in command experience. He had served long
and well, but did not consider himself eligible for the supreme echelon
until the next time of selection. However, with the same stoicism with
which he would have reconciled himself to death in battle, he accepted
the awarding of the third-brain. As soon as it had been implanted, he
understood why his predecessor, who now communicated with him
telepathically, had chosen him. Besides being part of that telepathic
network connecting the few third-brain holders who had not as yet
selected their time of death, he now possessed, according to Cylon
belief, the capability of limitless wisdom. While the second-brain had
allowed him a substantial amount of understanding about what happened,
why it happened, and how it happened, the third-brain allowed him to
transcend the tyranny of mere facts, to rise above the limitations of
trivial speculation, insight, and idea. With the third-brain he could
connect his first-brain information and second-brain interpretations of
the information to a vast accumulation of knowledge going bac in time
very nearly to the beginning of the Cylon culture. He discovered that
not every Cylon could admit the third-brain into his body and, in fact,
most of his compatriots would have involuntarily regjected it. For that
reason primarily, the selection of successor to Imperious Leader was
always carried out with extreme care. Tests at the implanting of the
first-brain indicated the few Cylons who had third-brain potential.
Those who qualified were kept under intense scrutiny during the ensuing
years. Some were weeded out when certain character instabilities emerged
in difficult test situations, while others were merely killed in the
war---a high number, since third-brain qualifiers tended to take high
risks in warfare. By the time the present Imperious Leader rose to the
executive staff, he was one of only six survivors eligible for
third-brain implantation. The final selection was made by the Cylon in
command, advised by all the former living Imperious Leaders, supplemented
by analyses based upon memories of dead Leaders whos brains were
preserved in the historical tanks. When he had awakened from the
third-brain implantation, knowing immediately why he was the choice, he
agreed thoroughly with that decision.
All of this, plus the entire history and accumulated knowledge of
the Cylon race, was his in an instant.
Now he reviewed the progress of his scrupulously deisgned
diversionary battle tactic against the Colonial Fleet, and he looked
ahead to the main plan that was about to commence. The enemy was sure to
be routed. His victory over the humans would assure his place in Cylon
history. He could expect to hand over command to a successor in the far
future, with satisfaction, knowing he would continue to be an influential
Leader, even in voluntary stasis.
His base ship now approached the main target, the most important of
the twelve targets to which he had deployed the massive forces under his
command. He wished to supervise personally the destruction of the planet
Caprica. His spy network had informed him that it was the home planet of
his chief human enemy, Adama, and he wanted the pleasure of causing its
destruction for himself.
It was odd, he thought, how dealing strategically with humans as
enemies for so long had forced him often to think like a human being.
His predecessor had warned him that it would be necessary to utilize a
portion of the massive third-brain for the contemplation of human ideas,
in order to coutner the enemy's moves in battle. He could not deny that
the ability to copy human thought processes had been invaluable in
fighting this stubborn, irrational race that was the enemy, but he had
never liked the times when he had to engage that part of his brain which
contained the essence of human knowledge, the clumsy stronghold of
unreason that housed human philosophies. Even now, as an image of the
present state of Caprica was transmitted to him from several sources, he
could not help seeing the coming annihilation of the humans in their own
terms. Good and evil, that was the kind of concern that perplexed
single-brained, inefficient human minds. If one of them had his
abilities and could penetrate the limitless dimensions of the Cylon three
brains, the human perceiver would have been appalled that such simple
; dichotomies as good and evil just didn't exist for the Cylons. What was
essential to all Cylons was preserving the Natural Order of the Universe,
and they were relentless guardians of that order. For that reason the
humans had to be exterminated. Their adventuresome ways and overriding
need to explore areas where their mere presence threatened universal
order had irretrievably destined them for elimination at Cylon hands.
Imperious Leader believed peace must be returned to the universe. The
humans' unfortunate tendency toward independent thought and action could
no longer be allowed to disturb the inhabitants of worlds whome they
visited without invitations.
Good and evil! He detested the human portion of his mind for
forcing him to consider that subject. He envisioned the deaths he would
cause, the cities he would demolish, the worlds he would reduce to
rubble---and saw that from the human viewpoint all of this necessary
warfare was evil! The Cylons were evil. He was evil. He detested the
very concept of evil, as much as he despised the concept of good. They
were not opposites, and they were not mutually exclusive. Even most
humans knew that. First-brain Cylons sensibly accepted the consequences
of warfare as essential, and neither mourned their own deaths nor felt
triumph in killing humans. Nevertheless, before initiating the
destruction of Caprica, Imperious Leader found it necessary to disengage
all his human philosophies, so that he could concentrate on strategy.
Two Centurions strode toward him, stopped before the pedestal, and
formally communicated the request to attack, a ritual that went back to
days when the Empire was ruled by Imperious Families.
"By your command," the first officer said.
"Speak," said Imperious Leader.
"All base ships are now in range to attack the Colonies," the second
Centurion said.
As the ritual demanded, the leader removed the communications helmet
and stared at his minions, his many eyes glowing with a rare moment of
elation.
"Yes," he said. "The final annihilation of the alien pest, the life
form known as Man. Let the attack begin."
The two Centurions made perfunctory bows and rejoined the spider web
of fellow executive officers. Even before they regained position and
Imperious Leader had redonned his helmet, large apertures had opened all
around the main circle of each Cylon base ship. Cylon warships emerged
in precise sequence from each aperture and flew to their pre-battle
positions, where they formed a twelve-tiered, coruscating wall that, when
fully constructed, divided into waves, each of which had a Colony as its
eventual target.
*****
No other Colonial Fleet battlestar had been able to launch full
contingents of fighting craft in time. The Cylon attackers now picked
off easily the ships, sitting ducks, that were catapulted out. Adama
realized with mixed sadness and anger that only the Galactica's fighters
were left to lead the fight against the immense attacking force.
Outnumbered, they alternatively dodged and flew at Cylon fighters. Laser
cannons fired and cross-fired, their radiant, thin lines chaging to
spectacular eruptions of yellow and red flame when they foud their
targets. As usual, Fleet warships fought with more skill and better
accuracy, but the overwhelming odds of this battle---this treacherous
ambush---seemed to be working against them, and Adama experienced a sharp
pain in his gut each time Cylon fire destroyed one of his ships. The
Fleet would lose many pilots today, perhaps all of them. They had
already lost Zac. Adama told himself to stop thiking of his son's death.
He must stop thinking of it. It had been painful enough to watch it
happen while he stood helplessly by, watching it on a screen like one of
the entertainment cassettes he often watched in his quarters. There
would be more pain later, but now, like all commanders who had tragically
lost sons in battle, going back in time through the many devastating wars
the race had endured, Adama had to keep his mind on his duties.
Apollo rushed onto the bridge, and Adama hastened to his side. The
young man was out of breath and he spoke ina staccato fashion:
"Cylons...ambush...they ambushed us...had to leave Zac...no other
option...had to lave...didn't want to, but had to...he's disabled...I'm
going to go back and lead him in."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible," Adama said. His mind raced,
searching for a way to tell Apollo of Zac's death. The two brothers had
been devoted to each other and there seemed no gentle way to break the
news.
"Father," Apollo said, his voice awash in desperation, "I left
him---just hanging there--his ship was damaged---I didn't know what else
to do. I've made my report---if I don't go back..."
Suddenly, staring into his father's eyes, Apollo perceived their sad
message.
"No!" he said in a weak voice. Tigh came to his side and spoke.
"Captain Apollo, Zac's ship was destroyed just short of the Fleet.
I'm sorry."
"But...but...I left him."
"You had no choice," Adama said gently.
Apollo turned away, his face pale. Adama recalled the times when
Apollo, as a child, had shown such excruciating pain. He wished he could
take the man into his arms as he had once embraced a crying boy. But
Apollo would, he knew, brush off any sympathetic touch at this moment,
and Adama knew enough to let his son come to terms with his own pain.
Telling Apollo again that he had no choice, the commander quickly scanned
the screens of the communications panel and ordered Tigh to report.
"Captain," Tigh said, "we have to know how many base ships we're
dealing with."
"No base ships," Apollo replied, some strength coming back into his
voice as he went into warrior mode. "Only Raiders. Thousands of
Raiders. I saw them hovering over Cimtar."
"That can't be, Captain," Tigh said. "Fighters couldn't function
this far from Cylon without base ships. They don't have the fuel."
"No base ships!" Apollo shouted angrily. "Just fighters. Fighters
lined up from here to Hades. I saw them. Maybe a thousand, maybe more."
"How do you explain that, Apollo?" Adama said, forcing his voice to
remain normal in order to quell his son's natural anger."
"I can't explain it," Apollo said, his voice calming. "We picked up
an empty tanker on our scanners. My guess is the Cylons used it to
refuel for the attack. They flew to the tanker from wherever their base
ships are right now."
Adama's brow furled as he digested the information Apollo was
providing. It was just the data he needed, it shed light on the elusive
riddle of this sudden ambush and the fake peace conference. The thought
that had been nagging him ever since the alert had been sounded came into
the forefront of his mind. Tigh was speaking.
"Why operate so far from Cylon with
out base ships when it isn't
necessary. They would've been out of our range at the old moon."
"Because," Adama said, "the base ships are needed---someplace else!
Get me the president! Now!"
The president's blood-drained face flashed onto the proper screen
before the echo from Adama's shouted command had faded form the bridge.
Behind Arcon, fire raged on the Atlantia's bridge. Arcon was
frightened---Adama hadn't seen a look like that on his face since that
day at the Academy when they sweated out the senior finals.
"Mr. President," Adama said, striving to control his voice. "I
request permission to leave the Fleet."
"No!" Arcon screamed hysterically. "That's an act of cowardice,
Adama. You know better than that!"
"Arcon! I've reason to suspect that our home planets may face
imminent attack."
The president, his eyes clouding with desperation, moved out of view
for a moment. The Atlantia's camera readjusted, caught the broken man
leaning against a wall.
"No, I say!" Archon bleated. "You are in error. You must be.
It's---impossible---I couldn't have been that wrong. Not that wrong."
"Arcon, this is no time to debate the..."
"Silence, Adama! Don't you...can't you...I've led the human race,
the entire human race, to ruin."
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself, man! We've got to act! Now!"
"I can't----can't act---can't even think straight---cant..."
"Arcon, you didn't lead us to this disaster, but we were led all the
same."
"Led---by whom?"
"Baltar! I must have been Baltar!"
"No, Commander, that couldn't be. I don't believe it. I won't..."
A deafening explosion drowned out the rest of Arcon's sentence. The
camera, blown off its moorings, momentarily caught a picture of a section
of the command bridge being ripped open, then engulfing flame rushing
across, then nothing. Adama shifted his attention to the starfield,
where he could see the flagship crusing in the distance. Fires could be
seen blazing inside it. Suddenly, with a burst of blinding light, it
blew apart, disintegrated into thousands of pieces. After a moment,
there was emptiness where the Atlantia had once been.
Activity on the Galactica's bridge had come to a standstill, as the
crew looked on in stunned silence. However, Cylon warships closed in on
their own ship now, and there was little time for reverent silence. Tigh
now stood beside Adama, the inevitable printouts in his hands.
Look sir, our long-range scanners have picked up Cylon base ships
here, here, and here. That puts them well within range---striking
range---of the planets Virgon, Sagitara, and..."