BG02B—Through Other Eyes
by VStarTraveler
Author's Note:
This is a collection of standalone one-shot Battlestar Galactica stories told from the perspectives of other than main characters. The summary for each one-shot story will be presented at the beginning of that story.
Disclaimer:
This story is a work of fiction, written totally for fun and not for profit. This interpretation of the world of Battlestar Galactica is entirely my own, and Battlestar Galactica and all of its various components remain the property of their respective owners.
Part 1: Awakenings
Summary for Part 1:
Awaking in Doctor Wilker's lab leads to strange insights with unexpected results. A dark comedy.
Part 1 is my entry in The Room forum's May Writing Challenge - PROMPTAPALOOZA! as Challenge 2: Through a Looking Glass.
The tall, thin Warrior with blonde hair was pushing the cart with the stockier, frowning man following.
"'Bean, this is the silliest idea I've ever heard. We're trying to kill the tinheads that are doing their best to wipe us out and we're doing this? Crazy!"
Greenbean grinned, though he was half in agreement. "Hey, Captain Apollo and Doc Wilker asked me to do it."
They left the cart in Wilker's lab with his thanks. He was taking a look as they walked out with Giles still shaking his head.
~BSG~
Almost 2 yahrens later:
Light slowly coalesced into solid though strange forms. He was clearly not where he expected to be.
The accompanying sound was even more alien. Analyzing, he detected vibrating high tension wires and air passing through assorted air pressure relief devices in alternating patterns. This was accompanied by a high-pitched human voice that sounded as if it was experiencing a relatively mild interrogation on the homeworld. Well, maybe not so mild. The screeching continued in undulating patterns that seemed to include actual Colonial words conveying a message about some concept called love. A quick check of the database showed that the word did not compute. After listening for a few microns, he found that the words were essentially meaningless, but the resulting sound was actually relatively unobjectionable. As he did, he suddenly sensed that his hand was malfunctioning, so he grasped it with his other hand to stop the unnatural tapping that seemed to accompany the beat of the tumult.
"Ah, movement! Good!"
He turned slightly to see a human, a type of creature he had always hated and hunted, as it sat down in front of him. It had a strange band strapped around its head with a light shining directly into his roving sensor. As the light slipped and the being adjusted it, he was intrigued, not understanding why the human didn't just bolt the light to its head. The man adjusted the input and said, "Excellent!"
He felt strangely pleased at this response. Still, from a lifetime spanning several hundred yahrens of training and battle, he knew it was his duty to reach out and break this vile creature, but when it said, "Now look to the left, please," he was surprised to find himself complying unquestioningly. "Raise your right arm" and then the left got similar responses.
Looking around the room, he saw a variety of things that could be used as weapons. There was a wrench that he could use to...to tighten a connector. Then, there was a tank mounted on the wall that could easily be used to...put out a fire.
Shears! Of course! He would use the shears to...remove the top...of a paper from the bottom half. A broomstick...he could use for cleaning. Then, he saw a wire that could be used to coil around...and around to produce an electromagnet. So many options, but so few, too.
With each successive impulse and the following reaction, the silver centurion became increasingly aware that something absolutely horrible had happened to him. His purpose was to...spread happiness throughout the sector. No! This couldn't be right. Next he would want to...pick pollen-bearing reproductive structures of vegetative organisms while...running in meadows...cavorting with small furry animals and wooly ovines.
"I'm Doctor Wilker," said the human, "and I'm here to help us both."
A quick datacheck revealed that a "doctor" was a repair technician required by the fragile humans. Perhaps this one could help him.
"Doctor, I appear to be damaged. My natural programming is being overrun by strange subroutines. I have a great desire to...hug you."
"Ahem, that's not necessary, but let me explain. You were destroyed in combat, but I have retrieved and modified your datachip and placed it in a repaired body."
Checking primary assemblies revealed serial numbers from several different centurions. The only part that was truly his own was the datachip. "You have restored me to life? That is not allowed in Cylon society. When usable parts remain, datachips are wiped and all parts are recycled. Why do you do this?"
"I may be crazy but I dream of hope for peace between our peoples in the future, so I'm seeking ways our cultures can learn to interact peacefully. Somehow, if we can adjust Cylon programming just a little..."
Deep in his being, alarms sounded at the utter foolishness that the doctor was spouting, but the Cylon felt oddly constrained. He sensed the heat of a strange feeling—emotion?—building within him, but could do nothing to end his rising futility. "Doctor, that is...not...possible, and now you have made me alien to my own people." Searching the database, he droned, "A pariah, a monster."
His scanner continued to search for something, anything, that he could use: a probe, a chair, a paperclip. After several such tries, he conceded the impossible: he could not harm the human. The resulting strange feeling that he now believed was actually anger was white hot within him. Suddenly, with the fire burning, he found himself free of the mental restraints and his hands darted forward to encircle the human's neck. Before reaching the man, however, he crumpled sideways, still and unmoving.
With smoke coming from the Cylon's cowl, Wilker opened the access hatch and saw the melted datachip. He gingerly removed it, cleaning the smoky residue from the dataport. Sadly, he opened a drawer and placed the destroyed chip inside in a small box containing eleven similarly melted bits. After recording his results, he pulled out another fresh chip, looked at it hopefully, and placed it in his isolated programming station. He was already thinking of other modifications he could make while trying to avoid the questions that haunted him: Is dreaming of peace really such a strange concept? And more importantly, Is it the creature or the creator that is the true monster?
Putting those thoughts out of his mind, he wondered if maybe thirteen would be his lucky number.
The End