Chapter Text
Voice of Reason Part 7: Guns in the Opera House
---
"All right, this'll work," Cavil said, examining his handiwork. "A perfect ambush."
The two Centurions had deployed in front of the door at the end of the hallway, guarding it directly. Simon, Doral, and Cavil had gone twenty yards down the adjoining corridor. They were hoping the humans would engage the Centurions first, and walk right into their trap.
"See, this is how you use the fifty-cal," Doral said. "The ammo belt goes here -- that's your job to feed it -- and then I crouch back here and aim. It's easy."
"If you say so," Simon muttered. "I don't like this."
"Your model always were a bunch of pussies," Cavil growled. He looked down at the sword he'd taken from the weapons locker; it felt good in his hand, right in his hand, but the reflection of his face in its steel was all wrong. He looked away. "Don't you have any memory engrams from the first war?" he asked. "From the Centurions?"
"Not me. Do you, Aaron?"
"Not exactly. But I have plenty of engrams from the Fives who've already fought. We're big on sharing memories."
"Good. We Ones remember the old days; we know what it was like to be true machines. It's important to remember."
Up the hall, the sound of voices reached his ears. "Perfect, here they come. Get ready on that gun. When they step out into the hallway, blast the frak out of 'em."
Cavil knelt behind the machine gun, laying his sword by his side. He had a gun, too, but somehow the sword felt better. It was an old thing, like him. One of his predecessors had one like it, once, on the human ship Brenik. He'd driven the humans before him, like rats. They'd feared him, then, fleeing and screaming and dying before an invincible Centurion.
He shut his eyes, savoring the fragmented memory. So little of it was left; the Ones had had to reconstruct it piece-by-piece, replacing the parts which weren't compatible, and it was thick with glitches and write-errors. But it was theirs -- living proof that a Centurion's memories could live on in the mind of a biological Cylon.
If memories went one way, they could go the other way. They would go the other way, and then Cavil would be a true machine. Someday.
The voices drew closer. Aaron gestured behind him, at the ammo belt, and Simon adjusted it, as Aaron had showed him.
At the end of the hall, someone stepped out. A woman -- a Cylon -- dressed in white, carrying a tiny child in her arms. Beside her, a man in a robe, his hair disheveled and wild.
"Fire!" Cavil howled.
Aaron pulled the trigger. The roar of the machine gun tore through the air; Simon cringed, and even Cavil ducked a bit. It was louder than loud in the small space, close to hearing-damage level for a One. He winced, leaning back.
So loud. So loud he could see Simon's mouth moving, but he couldn't hear the words.
So why could he hear music?
He peered ahead. The gun had pretty much obliterated the far wall, tearing great chunks out of it. Have to replace that before we run the ambush again, he thought. Maybe we can get one of these panels off. Then the smoke and dust cleared a bit more, and Cavil gaped at what he saw.
The two figures were still there. They walked on down the hall as though nothing had happened, vanishing from view.
"What the frak? How the frak did you miss with a goddamned machine gun, you moron?"
"I don't know! It seemed like there were two of them -- two or three, like a mirage or something! I could've sworn I hit them," Doral said.
"It's just the smoke the gun spits out, Five. You have to compensate for it, remember? Ah, whatever, the Centurions'll take care of them. We need to get this set up again so we can kill more humans!"
"I did compensate for it,</i> Doral griped in a low voice, so that only Simon could hear him. Simon patted him on the back.
"Don't let it bother you, brother. We'll do better next time. We--"
"Shh!" Cavil interrupted. "Somebody else is comin' up the hall! Get ready!"
Simon shook his head. "Surely they won't walk through right now. It's rather obviously a trap, isn't it?"
"Humans are stupid. They're not gonna notice. Now shut up and load!"
---
Athena stalked forward, ignoring her opulent surroundings. Her baby. She could see her, in the Six's arms. There were a huge set of vaulted double-doors ahead, twice as tall as the Six; by the time she and Baltar got them open, Athena would be upon them.
She would have her baby back again, and then everything would be all right.
The hall ahead shimmered with gold. One wall was covered in an intricate scalloped pattern, like scales or waves, and they glittered and caught the light. The floor was littered with tiny jewels, too, which Athena had to step over. No matter. She was almost there. So close, so close.
Just then, Baltar turned and saw her. He gave a squall of fear. Good, let him be afraid! Athena growled, deep in her throat, picking up speed. Just a little further. A little further, and then she could tear them apart.
She'd long since forgotten about her gun. There were no guns in the Opera House.
The Six turned to see her, too, alerted by Baltar. Then she did the strangest thing: she held out her free hand, as if in welcome, or perhaps in warning.
Hera was in the bitch's other hand. Her daughter.
"Give me back my baby!" Athena roared. She charged, blinded by rage, and then suddenly the world tore apart.
Just before she fell, she thought she saw Helo at the end of the long, dark hall. He was waiting for her.
---
"Got one! You nailed a traitor, Five! Good shootin'!"
"Thank you. But we're not going to be able to set this up in the same place again," Doral said. He glanced up the hallway, where the two halves of Athena's body were just rolling to a stop.
Simon turned away. He began to tremble almost imperceptibly. Cavil noticed just the same.
"All right, come on," Cavil growled. "Get yourself together. We need to move up to the next junction and do this again."
---
"Help me," Cavil told Sam. "I'm locked out of the datafont; you're going to have to do the programming. See if you can't get the Hybrid to tell you what the problem is."
"Uh..."
"Don't worry, you'll remember how. It's like riding a bike, you never really forget. So hurry up and ride it, willya?"
Sam approached the font with trepidation. He'd always wanted to try this -- back on the Basestar, he almost had. But something had held him back. Carefully, gingerly, he slipped his hand inside...
...and knew perfection. The beauty of physics, the wonder of mathematics; it was all there, inside his head. The whole of the Colony was there, spread out before him. He could feel the engines, blazing out into space. He felt the cold, dead weight of the one that had burnt out, too. Around them, the skin of the ship stung with the effort of regeneration. The section which the Basestar had torn away ached like a phantom limb.
The Colony's wounds filled Sam with sorrow. It was beautiful. Perfect. It didn't deserve to hurt like this. None of them did.
Somewhere outside, beyond the edge of nirvana, he felt a tear slide down his cheek.
"Knock it off, nature boy. I know what it's like, but you gotta focus, here. Find the engines. Find out why the Hybrid can't stop them."
Sam reached deeper, seeking the Hybrid. Its voice was very soft and distant, preoccupied with healing rather than communication. When he reached for it, though, it answered.
Sam staggered back, his hand flying out of the font. He slipped on one of the slimy conduits and landed on his butt with a thump.
"The engines. The Hybrid thinks they're working fine, but there's no connection. It's like... like someone pulled out the thread. The stream. I mean, the wire!"
"That's what I thought. You happen to know which of these is the one?"
Sam closed his eyes. Inside the datastream, the Hybrid spoke not in riddles, but in pure sensory information. It had shown him exactly where to look.
He opened his eyes again. "There it is," he said, pointing to a conduit. "That one."
He and Cavil followed it up with their eyes. "Oh, frak," Cavil muttered. "So much for that."
Three feet above the connection port in the floor, the cable had been shredded into thin, bloody ribbons. Twisted, jagged bits of shrapnel were embedded in the wall behind it.
"OK, forget that," Cavil said. "The Hybrid's connections all begin and end in your old equipment. Find the physical control panel for the engines, and we can stop 'em manually!"
Sam didn't have to ask the Hybrid, this time. He'd spent countless hours monitoring the engines, after he and the other Four had left Earth. "It's back there," he said, pointing to a massive sprawl of conduits. Some were as big around as he was. They pulsed slowly, like great coils of intestines.
"Oh, come on," Cavil growled. "We'll never move that in time. Is there another way?"
"Um, we could skip the control panel and tap directly into the cable itself," he said. "But you'll have to interface using the port in your palm, and it might be a little hard to reach."
"Let's do it," Cavil said. "Where's it at?"
Sam pointed at the wall, where a tiny access panel was set. It was hardly larger than Cavil's wrist.
"You are shitting me, aren't you? This is a joke. It's a joke, right?"
---
Baltar stared down the hall. "What... what just happened?" He squinted, but the illusion had grown so strong that it had blotted out every trace of reality. He knew there was something else there, something terrible, but all he could see was the perfect, flawless surface of the Opera House.
"Open the door, Gaius," Caprica said calmly.
Gaius balked. Between him and the door were two suits of armor. Big, scary, metal suits of armor. He had a feeling that he knew what they really were, though, and it wasn't a good feeling at all.
"Go ahead. God will protect you."
Gaius stepped forward. All around them, a strange, eerie song began to play, as though the unseen opera was finally beginning. He reached between the suits of armor, reaching for the door, but then they moved. He jumped back, but they weren't hostile -- they turned aside with a bow, lowering their pikes.
They weren't looking at him, though. The visor in each hollow, empty helmet was trained on Hera.
Gaius shivered. Make this stop, he prayed, to no one and anyone. Please, just make it all stop. Then he leaned forward and opened the doors to the Opera House.
Within, all was light. The curtained stage seemed to burn with it; above them, in the balcony, five figures stood before five seats, wreathed in fire and light. It was just as the dream had been, just like the vision he'd had on Kobol. He and Caprica stepped inside, staring about them.
Before him, on the stage, was the crib from his vision on Kobol. But we already have the baby, he thought, dazed.
Then the doors slammed shut behind them, and the illusion snapped out of existence.
Gaius looked around -- at Sam Anders and Cavil, at the disgusting, writhing tubes that filled the room, and at his own blood-splattered clothes -- and screamed.
---
Kara screamed. What had been a straightforward room-entry a moment ago had turned into a bloodbath. Sonja was dead. Ian and Thomas were dead. The fifty-cal lay on its side, smashed beyond recognition. She stumbled back, searching for the other door among the stampeding remnants of her squad.
Shoulda known they'd have heavy weapons, too, she thought. I shoulda known it was a trap.
Beside her, one of the Marines spun around hard, spraying blood everywhere. His left arm had just been torn off. She ducked, and caught a glimpse of the door as she did so.
She dived for it, sliding across the bloody floor. All around her, her squad was dying; she could hear the thumps as the bullets struck them, like knives thudding into meat. One of them fell across her path, stone dead even as he dropped. She scrambled over him on her hands and knees, wincing as her foot dug into his slack belly. She floundered for a moment, unsure as to whether she'd been shot. Then her next tug pulled herself free of him. She shut her eyes and pushed forward.
She didn't want to look back at her boot.
At last, she scrabbled across the threshold, gasping for air. Outside, the remains of the squad were trying to regroup. She saw Lee and Tigh among them, and felt dizzy with gratitude.
"Kara! We gotta go back in," Lee cried. "The squad!"
"Forget it," Tigh rasped. "It's a slaughterhouse in there."
Kara nodded, getting to her feet. "They're gone, Lee. Everybody's dead. We have to fall back now."
---
"Guess human Marines aren't as stupid as the regular type!" Doral yelled. He squeezed the machine gun's trigger, sending a burst of fire down the hallway.
Cavil just frowned, peering at the corner where their shorter hallway connected to the longer one. So far, they'd managed to keep the Marines pinned down against the corner, but they were getting braver, leaning out to take potshots with their rifles. It would have been a good time to retreat... if they hadn't chosen a dead-end hallway.
Tactical error, he thought, clutching his sword. This is what I get for not coming up with a backup plan.
"There's not much ammo left on this belt, Aaron," Simon said. He ran his fingers over the last few rounds, counting them. "Go easy on it."
"I know. I know. Firing again!"
He squeezed off a second burst, same as the first. It was a little too predictable, perhaps, because the minute he stopped firing, one of the Marines popped out from the corner and fired.
Aaron fell back with a choked cry, writhing on the floor.
Simon stared at him. It didn't seem right -- he had seen many, many Fives die, but this was his Five, his own Aaron. Surely he couldn't die this way.
Simon let go of the ammo belt, as if in a dream, and knelt beside his lover. He tore open Aaron's jacket, and stared in dismay at the torn, ragged tissue beneath it. Aaron's ribs had splintered, poking up through his flesh.
A hopeless case, the doctor in him said, even as the rest of him was screaming.
Aaron reached for him, waving his hand like a drowning man. Simon took it, heedless of the bullets which were whining around him. Cavil was swearing as he started firing the machine gun, but Simon barely heard it.
"Simon," Aaron whispered. He barely had any breath left. Blood welled from his lips. "My... my shirt. Messed up my shirt..."
Simon smiled through his tears. "It's all right," he lied. "We'll get you another one. I promise."
Aaron took a great, deep, rattling breath, the same breath all Fives took when they died. Then he grew still and quiet beneath Simon's hand. Simon bowed his head. He was supposed to go, now, and meet his Aaron at the resurrection tub, just like after New Caprica. But there was no resurrection anymore, and nothing left for him to do. Instead, he frowned down at Aaron's hair. It had been mussed by his dying struggles, and that was all wrong, because Aaron always had perfect hair.
Simon reached down, concentrating on fixing Aaron's hair just the way he liked it.
When the humans finally shot him, he never even felt it.
Cavil glanced over when Simon's body hit the ground. He was still pulling the trigger, but the Marines were firing back, beginning to brave his bullets. The machine gun was almost out of ammo. Can't blame Four for checkin' out, he thought to himself. We're not gonna win this.
It wasn't fair. Once, he'd been strong; once, bullets like these would have been nothing to him. Nothing at all.
One of them ripped past his left shoulder, tearing a wide, searing groove in his flesh. Adrenaline shot through him. Distantly, he felt his eyes narrow and his lips pull back, baring his teeth in a snarl. His finger closed on the trigger. Time seemed to slow to a crawl; he could see the bullets as they emerged from the barrels of the Marines' guns, one by one.
His pain subroutine kicked off. Everything was so slow -- or perhaps he was so fast -- that he could watch it as it went, looping through the same few hundred lines of code. It was as though he were outside of his own mind, as if he'd finally become his own master.
He reached down into his own mind, turned off the pain, and then looked down the corridor again.
Humans, just like in his memory. He loathed them. He hated them so much his vision went narrow and red; he hated them so much that he could hear their despicable hearts beating in their chests. It was an organic, arrhythmic sound, so much less perfect than the smooth hum of a Centurion.
He longed to stop it.
Targeting. Targeting. Two of the humans fell, squalling in pain. He liked that sound better. Then the machine gun stuttered, its bark changing to a hollow, echoing thump. No ammo.
Cavil bent down, seeking another weapon. Memory surrounded him; his steel hand closed around his sword. Even as it did so, one of the humans leaned around the corner and threw a grenade.
The machine saw it coming, a simple matter of threat detection. He dropped the sword and hurled himself forward, snatching the grenade just as it hit the floor. Without breaking stride, he tucked it beneath his claw like a Pyramid ball and charged at the humans.
A bullet struck him, then two and three, but he felt nothing. He had armor, after all. He was strong.
He kept running.
Another bullet hit him, exploding his knee. He fell, just a yard or so short of the goal, scrabbling against the floor. Memory shattered; metal became flesh again, broken and weak. The pain subroutine slipped away, eluding his control.
Microseconds later, its agony shot through him, much too great to ignore. He looked up, gasping for breath.
The Marines were all around him, but they were no longer firing.
The last image he saw was of humans, frozen in time as they shrank back in terror.
They were afraid.
Of him.
At last.