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Okay, so...do you have a spare three hours so I can tell you what happened in this episode? First off, we find out that, yes, the Cylons are still following close behind the fleet. Roslin, who's been having gold-tinted dreams about Sharon and Hera and Six, suggests asking Six for help, and it's Tigh who gets sent to do the asking. Six's ChipGaius-assisted attempts to bond with Tigh over how they've both loved and lost is both ill-advised and awesome, the latter being because they punch the hell out of each other. On the bright side, she does willingly share that the Cylons are following a radiation signal emitting from a fuel ship. On Lee's suggestion, Adama sends the fuel ship off course to lead the Cylons astray.
The following people, meanwhile, are freaking the hell out: (1)Tigh, who keeps hearing a phantom radio signal playing The Song Of I Had To Kill My Wife, gets heroically blitzed just in time to testify at Baltar's trial, and gets goaded by Lampkin into admitting he killed Ellen. (2) Tory, who tries to strong-arm Baltar's prosecutor, snaps at the press, shares A Look with Anders (cannot wait to see what comes of that), and is eventually told by Laura to shape up and brush her hair. Seriously. (3)Lee. See, Lee figures out that Roslin's back on the chamalla (hence the trippy dreams) and agonizes over handing this information, which would impeach her testimony against Baltar, to Lampkin. But after having another blowup with Dad and quitting the military in one heck of a snit, Lee cross-examines Roslin himself and brings up how she went all religious fanatic two seasons ago while on the junk. He gets her to admit to taking chamalla again -- after several painful reminders of the Laura/Lee friendship that actually drew this recapper into the show in the first place -- but she also reveals why: her cancer's back. This, by the way, THIS is what finally gets Dualla to leave Lee. Hey, whatever works.
Also, Gaius has apparently garnered a reputation among the plebes of the Fleet as a faith healer, which I'm sure will lead to nothing good week. And we act out on Crazy Tigh "discovering" that the crazy-making radio frequency is coming from inside the walls of the ship. I have no idea what that's supposed to mean. Want more? The full recap starts right below!
Previously, Tom told Laura that Gaius's tribunal would be the death of us all, but she didn't want to be his girlfriend anymore anyway because she already had two of those. Tory acted sketchy as shit, and to this, she and Dualla, among others, tried to fix the election. Another one of those, Saul Tigh, has been edging ever closer to becoming an actual no-shit salty-dog sea pirate, but has not as yet crossed the line. Sam tried to make friends. Lee cried for two whole weeks about losing his boyfriend, then bent over for the creepiest old guy he could find to call him "son," just like retarded twinks have been doing since the first gay caveman invented house music. (Vocal by Kylie Minogue, strangely enough, which helps with my theory that she's one of the Final Five.) Roslin was making scarier and scarier decisions, because she had to; Saul poisoned Ellen and she accepted gratefully, because they had to; Adama clipped his son's wings after Kara died, because he had to.
to that, Laura Roslin received visions from the Gods, and they pointed the way to Earth, and they caused a division in the Fleet that took months of pain and death to repair; those that followed her dreams of hope knelt down, and she walked among them, laying her hands on them and blessing them, as a prophet. Now, Gaius Baltar has walked among the enemy, and learned to think like them, and brings a new kind of hope, a new way to lay down burdens, and rest. It's not the first time he's tried it. He's causing a division in the Fleet that may never be repaired, the roots of which stretch back two years, and ten thousand more before that.
Previously, Gaius Baltar won the election, and Tory and Dee (and Saul) tried to take it away from him. He won by the Fleet's decision, because they wanted to go home. He won because he needed to win, and he screwed Gina, Laura, Lee and Bill in the process, and these were all equal for him, because he needed to win. As a result, Cloud 9 was lost, and the Cylons came to New Caprica and forced a surrender, and by the time humanity was freed almost 6,000 people had died. As a direct result. And when the Cylons came, and their oppression increased, so did the force of revolution, and the stakes got higher, and the losses greater. Duck murdered 200 people at the SS graduation; Three forced Gaius to order 200 executions in turn, including Tom Zarek and Laura Roslin. It was only a technicality, an existential ass-cover, but what it took from Gaius, and Gaeta, still hasn't been recouped. Laura and Tom lived, and Hera lived, and Cally, and the Chief, and Tory and Saul and Kara and Sam. Ellen died, though. And Maya.
Now, Laura Roslin is beautiful. She stands in a gold room, wearing a green dress with a kimono collar. It's the Kobol Opera House, last seen freaking you out with God and before that freaking you out with Crazy Six Baby Math. She walks down the corridor, and spots a little girl, running, her face hidden, wearing a cute Madeline dress and chuckling quietly as she goes. It's Hera -- Hera grew legs, you guys! -- wearing a little hat. Laura's bewilderment turns to anxiety, and she begins to chase the child, but Hera's always one step ahead. Across the gallery, across a long, swelling staircase, Laura sees someone else: Sharon Agathon, in uniform; Hera's mother. That's three, bound by miraculous blood and ugly atrocities. If Bill sees Athena as a daughter now, then what is she to Laura? There's competition in the air. Laura and Sharon break, for the stairs, and make their way down together, apart. At the foot of the stairs, Hera stands for a moment, and breaks away. She runs into the arms of a Six. God's house, with a child at stake: it's got to be Caprica. This is Laura, and the women she's imprisoned. All of them made to love, and to be loved in return. The mother of the child, the maiden who loves children, and the crone, who took her away. And in the center of it all, as always: Hera. Starbuck should have been here for this. I don't know how we make it work without her. The mother and the crone stare, as the maiden Caprica takes the shape of things to come into her arms, and steps across the anteroom of Heaven, into the light.
Laura awakes, shaking, gasping; on the threshold of revelation.
On CIC, they're repairing and refueling the Fleet, just three more jumps to the Ionian Nebula -- which is where the nova was telling them to go. No sign of the Cylons, for now, in pursuit: they've left a trailing Raptor every time they've jumped, and so far nothing. "No dradis contacts, no sightings, nothing." The Admiral tells Gaeta to tell the last Raptor to wait an additional six hours, before catching up. There's something in the air, I think -- I would imagine out of all of them, the individual ingredients of doom in the bouquet of fear become quite distinct. He knows something's up, inside the Fleet and out, even if he doesn't know what it is.
At Joe's Bar they're dealing, pulling it together: the pilots play Pyramid, Saul Tigh drinks and tunes a radio. Skulls calls Sam Anders a nugget (!) and they shout. Tigh comes closer and further from the signal, through the static, straining to hear. Anders and Seelix face off on the tiny impromptu court; without even turning to look at Tigh, Sam points one finger: "There. Go back. You almost had it." They don't look at each other, but they both know what they're talking about: the sound across the water. It's awesome, the way it's shot and acted: the way they act in concert, on the same side that nobody else can see. Seelix is confused. "That song," Sam explains. "You don't hear that song?" She doesn't. They shake it off, they keep playing. Tigh keeps listening.
On Colonial One Tory meets with Cassidy, the one-sandaled prosecutor. Tory's intense, and not looking quite as lovely as she did last week; there's a hardness, a roughness we're not used to. She and Maya were the prettiest under-40s on New Caprica: what is going on here? "Baltar was instrumental in the Cylon attack on the Colonies," Tory Foster harshes out. "The President wants him charged with genocide." Cassidy knows damn well she can't make that stick. There's no evidence at all. Tory shakes her head: "The President saw him with one of the Sixes on Caprica. Before the attacks." So, Cassidy sums up, Tory wants her to put Laura on the stand "to testify about her drug-induced visions." Do not talk that shit to Tory Foster, girl! You'll get airlocked! Tory's two modes are Normal, and Laura/Tory Lockdown. They had to be. For a year and a half, they had to be. "What we want is for you to do your job, and convict him." It gets worse. That's already worse than it should be: it gets worse. "If you can't do that, we'll find someone who will." Tory's lost. If you can't decide who you're going to be, if you can't keep the law safe from your own fear and love and anger, then you're controlled by something darker. That's what we're looking at here: can you love the law enough, can you love the Fleet enough, to stay the person you agreed to be? Even Laura can't be around for this; even Laura's terrifying will won't crack at the places Tory's cracking. Again. "This is a courtesy meeting, not a strategy session. I am charging Baltar with what I can prove." Tory looks down at her, all angles and planes. "Of course," Cassidy says, realizing this is a standoff, "I do serve at the pleasure of the President. And if she decides to replace me, I'm sure there are other lawyers willing to take up the case." She leaves, and out the door implies the finger: "If there are any other lawyers." Let's ask Captain Kelly!
A woman comes to Baltar's cell, small and intense; when he sees her press pass he begs her to leave. She's bashful and amazed, in his presence. "Dr. Baltar, I-- I want you to look at this picture. This is my son. He's sick, and I want you to bless him." Gaius's eyes pop out of his head: even for him, this is a bit too much. He calls for the guards, promising her he's no God: "The God, or God of any derivation thereof... " I wouldn't be too sure about that last one, Gaius. He apologizes as she continues to beg: "I don't have any special powers." Nor that. He begs for privacy: "I'm on trial! For my life?" She swears that she believes in him, and he's flattered, and as they rush her away he pretends to be offended, to be aghast, but he's not, really. Nobody has ever believed in him before -- at least, not when he didn't believe in himself even more strongly. He takes the photo; she swears that he can save him. "I'll do my best," he says, putting on a face for the Marines. Once he's alone with the photograph, our song begins to play.
"How many is that now?" asks Chip Six, a smile on her face. That's five. "Not including the thirty or forty who've written letters," she grins, scary, and he nods. He walks a line between wanting to believe and wanting to appear above belief; he switches back and forth between the Gods and the God, between atheism and prophecy. Whatever makes him look least silly, at any given time: "Well. I suppose it can't be helped. Celebrity trials invariably bring out the crazies." But Six knows better: Six always knows better. Six always knows how he'll twist and turn, how you give him the rope to hang himself with. How you tell him the words to explain it to himself; the inner dialogue he can repeat over and over until he believes again. He's strong, blameless, a hero: this is what he needs. "So you think they're crazy? See, I saw a woman in pain. I saw a woman who can see you more clearly than you can see yourself. Even if they kill you," she nearly whispers, "Your name will live on forever." Even if it was going to do that anyway, it's heavy stuff, especially for a man like this. When you don't know where you're standing, all you have are the whispers in your ear; he's a lot like Lee right now. I wonder how much Six had to say about this Marxist revolution?
Racetrack and Skulls sit in trailing position, in good old 289er. CIC tells her to have fun watching their asses; Racetrack tells Tigh to have fun watching Baltar's ass get nailed in turn. Twelve hours total, waiting on the enemy that never comes; "like bait on a hook," Skulls describes it. She laughs and they deal: twelve hours of Triad and then home.
"How do we measure loss?" Cassidy searches the faces of the tribunal: Adama, Franks (Tigh's real-life wife!), three other ship captains. They are not yet bored. "How do we measure loss? We measure it in the faces of the dead. The faces that haunt our memories and our dreams. How do we measure loss? We measure it in our own faces. The ones we see in the mirror every day. Because it has marked each of us. So how do we measure loss? When the scale of it becomes too hard to absorb any other way, we use numbers. How many killed. How many maimed. How many missing. And when those numbers become too vast to comprehend, as they did two years ago, we had to turn it around. We began to count the living." She turns to a whiteboard (!) and begins the cold equations.
"Those of us who survived to continue the saga of the human race: 44,035. The sum total of survivors from the Twelve Colonies who settled on New Caprica with President Gaius Baltar as their leader and protector." (This number actually includes the ~4,800 people who stayed in orbit, no matter what she says or implies.) "38,838: Our number the day after we escaped." (This number doesn't include the ~2,600 military personnel in the Fleet, based on the survival count for "Collaborators." You know I could give a fuck, but it's like, dude, you're writing a show with a serious Asperger's contingent, second only to like Lost -- think you could not send them screaming? Actual whiteboard, with actual numbers, which actual viewers obsess over every week. Come on. On the other hand, I'm so sure that they fought this out in the writer's room, or at least Taylor did some double-checked math on this, so it's presumably just another way of looking at them. Or Cassidy's as dirty as the rest of us. However: that means that around 5,523 were lost between Cloud 9 and the Year in Baltar's Hair, and only 2,592 died during the Occupation and Second Exodus: she's right by being wrong, because actually that's 8,115 people he's killed in the last two years alone -- besides, you know, almost the entirety of humanity. But given the charges, she can only indict based the civilian casualties of the Occupation and Second Exodus, so I guess that's where her numbers ultimately come from, and they're not that far off.) She subtracts one from the other: "And the missing number, the one that no one wants to face. 5,197. 5,197 of us killed, left behind, or simply disappeared. 5,197 of all that remains of the human race. Lost."
Her voice goes out across the Fleet; the people nod. She's getting them. "The citizens of the Twelve Colonies entrusted their fates and the lives to Gaius Baltar. What we received was a reign of terror that staggers our minds and breaks our hearts." We linger over the tylium refinery, the fuel that keeps the Fleet jumping, the belts keep rolling, under dirty hands: "Instead of governance, we got tyranny. Instead of justice, we got oppression." Wait, who are we talking about? What were we talking about again? "Instead of a president, we got a murderer."
Back to the trial. "Today, humanity holds him accountable for his crime. Gaius Baltar is not a victim. Gaius Baltar chose to side with the Cylons and to actively seek the deaths of his fellow citizens. For that...he must pay the ultimate price." Cassidy cedes the floor, and Lampkin begins his opening statement, using his crutch like a champ. "Your honors, the defense would like to change our plea to guilty."
The gallery murmurs; Gaius chokes. Franks is not amused. "What choice do I have? I mean, it's obvious my client is guilty. He's a traitor and a killer. He's no better than the Cylon, and what do we do with them?" A man in the gallery (or Mary McDonnell doing a very gruff voice) shouts, "Throw 'em out the airlock!" That word still makes me giggle in this context, and the voice is kind of hysterical and shouty anyway, and though I do love the law, not even jurisprudence can stop the church giggles once they get going. Lampkin stomps his cane. "That's right! Throw 'em out the airlock! This man sold us to our enemy. This man is our enemy. And if there's one thing that's good in war, that is right and just and proper, it's slaughtering our enemy! Getting some righteous payback! What are we waiting for? Let's just kill him now!" Guns in the temple. He turns back to the tribunal, his voice moderate: "It'd be easier, wouldn't it? Simpler. Justice of the mob. It's what they want." Your people: these are your people. What they want is revenge: do you give it to them? Do you lay yourself down before that, in them and in you, or are you worthy of your position?
Laura Roslin enters, and seats herself in the stands. "Especially her," he says, pointing. "She's been wanting this for over a year now, ever since he beat her in a free and fair election of the people. Now she gets a chance to exact her revenge upon a man whose only real crime is bowing to the inevitable! Gaius Baltar saved the lives of the people on New Caprica -- where Laura Roslin would've seen us all dead, victims of a battle we had no hope in winning! I don't know about you, but I'm glad she wasn't the president when the Cylons arrived and said, 'Surrender, or die.' I owe my life to Gaius Baltar and the decision he made that day. And so does Laura Roslin." And he's right by being wrong: if Laura Roslin were President, they'd never have settled. That was the point of the election. But the higher point of all elections is something she schemed to take away, and only a last-minute save from Bill kept her and Tory from going there. This whole season is just one question: when you preserve humanity, what are you preserving? When you put guns in the Temple, when you steal the election, when you kick Cavil dying in the dirt, when you toss Jammer out the airlock. When you co-opt the judiciary, when you tell Chief he matters, when you tell a woman her child has died, and send her out into the Fleet. When you look your father in the face and tell him you're doing this because you love the law. You're killing somebody for stealing a box with nobody inside, and that's not war. That's getting lost and needing desperately to find your way home. The Pegasus is with us still, and only something massive and unexpected could ever save them now. This whole season is just one question: why do you do the things you do, and how strong can you let yourself be, in the name of what is right?
Raptor 289, trailing: Racetrack informs Skulls that she, like Hotdog before her, is well aware of the masturbatory habits of her fellow pilots. "That's called self-healing!" Skulls protests. That's exactly what it is. They laugh and turn to their consoles; five baseships jump into the sky. Racetrack screams as her ECO spins up the FTL. There's a beautiful, just amazing, shot of 289er jumping out just as a missile reaches her location.
On CIC, Adama's stressing â his first thought is that they've somehow placed a tracking device on one of the ships, during the Occupation. Roslin suggests asking Caprica, and Tigh scoffs, but Roslin's sure she'll help: "She does not want to see Hera go back to the Cylons." As a nation, the Cylon have every right to Hera, every right the humans claimed â that's the nature of being a "half-breed whelp," as Tigh calls her: you live in both worlds. Like Gaius, like Sharon. Like Caprica, now. She belongs to Sharon and Helo, sure, but that didn't matter when Roslin kidnapped her any more than it did to Three and Gaius Baltar. So for Caprica to come across with Athena, and bring her to the humans, to save the future from her own people: that's the jump she's been waiting to make. God and children. "I have a feeling she'd lay her life down for it," Roslin says. A feeling? And in the immortal words of Boston and my friend Wyatt playing Guitar Hero: "It's more than a feeling." It's the threshold of revelation. It's the map home. It's the shape of things to come. Roslin and Adama hustle away for a sidebar, and Lee watches them; moving slow, he sniffs Roslin's teacup, stunned by the bitterness. Laura and Bill return, and Adama sends Saul Tigh to question Caprica. "With pleasure!" he says. Lovely.
Tigh enters her room with a contingent of Marines. "The President, Gods bless her sunny optimistic soul, thinks you might want to share how your buddies have been tracking us. So I'm here to ask the question, and listen to your lies." She's languid at first; tired. In the last fight, the Cylon discovered that the fueling ship has a unique radiation signature; they must be tracking it somehow. Saul gets a little salty in the brogue, asking what other secrets are "rattling around" in her "mechanical brain." What other songs she hears across the water. It's the angel that answers, for starters. "Don't be intimidated by him," says Chip Gaius, bringing sexy back as usual. "He's just using you to exorcise his own pain." That's all they're ever doing. "Poor old sod, he lost someone close to him. Oh, you know how that feels, don't you?" That's all she knows. "I know a lot of things," she says. She does. She stands. The housecat leaves and the shark comes in; this is the Six that asks if you're alive. This is the Six that takes ovaries, the Six that never really thought Eight was all there. The Six that brought down vengeance on Gaius, the night Hera died. "You want to know one thing I know?" she asks Saul. "I know about your loss. Hurts, doesn't it? You wonder how you can even survive it." He's onto her, tells her it's not going to work, but it is, and nobody knows that better than Chip Gaius: "She was his world. Of course, he only realized when she was gone." She looks Saul in the eye, unwavering, scary, doing this wrong. Still a Cylon, not enough human. This is Chip Gaius failing at the immediate, getting us ready for the long term. "Did she know? Did she know how much she meant to you? Or did you wait to tell her till she was gone?" Almost. Almost gone. "Bet you made her think that she was a burden. A millstone around your neck. But then you humans always destroy the ones who love you, don't you?" Her head spins nearly around, sickening, as he bashes her one across the face. She nearly grins as she smashes back; it's fairly fucking awesome, this scene. But now the interview's over, the shackles return, Tigh heads for some serious drinking, and Six wonders how you pop a jawbone back.
Saul's wavering on the stand, eye at half-mast, so Cassidy repeats the question: "As the leader of the insurgency, did you ever hear of an instance in which Baltar stood up to the Cylons or tried to disrupt their plans?" How could he have? Nobody heard directly from Gaius, or the administration, in the entire time of the Occupation. Like Laura before and after him, he had buffers out to here. But that doesn't ever stop the people from filling in the blanks; it's what the people do best. Human psychology is based on projection. "Oh, no! Never. He never lifted a frakkin' finger to help us. Ellen did more. At least she was trying to... to help us... " It's clear he's drunk; to the people that love him, to Lee and Bill and Laura, and you and I, it's clear. "Yeees," Cassidy says, "yes, Ellen. Your wife. Another victim of Baltar's Cylon allies." She gets the hell out of there. Before standing, Romo asks Lee what happened there, so we can be sure Lee doesn't know what really happened. So we can see Romo putting it together for himself. "She used to work for one of the Cylon administrators," Lee explains. "I presume she died in the exodus from New Caprica." Lampkin nods, and stands, and goes for it.
"You dislike Gaius Baltar because you consider him to be a traitor. Is that correct?" That, and a coward, and a mass murderer, yes. "The suicide bombing of the police graduation. Gaius Baltar was the intended target, was he not?" Again, yes: "And if he'd had the guts to show up that day like he was supposed to, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation right now." Heh. "So," Lampkin summarizes, "you ordered the killing of, what was it, thirty-three other men and women, just for the chance to kill Gaius Baltar?" But Tigh's been through this a million times: they were all traitors. The whole SS. "Anyone who put on that uniform." Lampkin turns on his heel, like a boy. "What happened to your wife?" Cassidy takes exception to this, asking the relevance of Ellen, but Lampkin and the tribunal -- excepting, of course, Bill Adama, who's even worse at objectivity here than we thought he would be -- agree that the door was opened during her questioning. He asks again, and Tigh begins to curse at him. "Isn't it true that she collaborated openly with the Cylons? That she actually worked for them?" If by "working," you mean the twist and swirl: "She was faking it. Making them think that she was working for them." But then, Lampkin points out, you wouldn't say Gaius was faking it, either. And that's not what he was doing, in any way except the one Lampkin needs. Maybe these military types, these survivors, these orphans, just honestly cannot understand how weak the man truly is. Admitting his humanity would tarnish their own.
"And you blame him for her death... Have you been drinking today, Colonel?" Long shot on Bill, Tigh in the foreground, tricks with focus: "I had a drink. I haven't been drinking." Lampkin surmises that Saul used to drink with Ellen. He can't know the glory of it, though, the way their loved burned so hot. He can't understand what he means, what he's saying, when he says they used to drink. Tigh loses a bit of composure and the camera follows, swanning off sideways. The static and the sound, across the water: "You hear that? They're playing music in here now?" Not looking good for the prosecution, there. "Gaius Baltar didn't order the death of your wife, Colonel. That was somebody else." That was Sam Anders, recent widower, recent cuckold, newborn nugget. That was Colonel Saul Tigh, constant murderer, recent poet, constant cuckold, newborn... what? What music is he hearing? "Who was it, Colonel? Who killed Ellen? Come on, Colonel, we're waiting. Tell us. Who was it? Who killed Ellen?" He breaks, on the rocks. Runs aground. Begins to sing. "I did. I did. I did. She was giving information to the Cylons. A lot of good men died. She was my wife. It was my responsibility. She did it for me. That's what she said, to save me from going back to prison, so they could tear more pieces off me." His eye, traded in for something new. Something we aren't at the correct angle to see yet, another hallucination, another way the world goes south on you. "So I killed her. All because of that thing over there. All because Gaius frakkin' Baltar didn't have the guts to stand up to the Cylons. Because he handed our fates over to the Cylons, I had to kill my Ellen." Because you held the temporary goals of the insurrection, and the Circle you knew you'd create, above the simple fact that you don't put guns in the Temple, and you don't play with scapegoats unless you're prepared to back it up.
Half the Golden Bough is about scapegoats. More: three-quarters. Baldur, Baltar, and Billy Keikeya. Iphigenia and Gina Six. Christ, Kara, Kore; Azazel, Aslan, Athena. Boomer, before her. Saddam. Three, lying in the waters of the resurrection for the last time, as an infinity of Cavils walked away into the darkness. Everything that breaks the world apart and realigns the universe happens on that altar. On the tenth day of Tishri the high priest presents a ram for a burnt offering, and two young goats for our sins. One's for JHVH, and the other is for Azazel. About God we know everything and nothing, but Azazel's like the Grace Kelly of the unseen, a mysterious celebrity. The devil of what happens after the world ends. So the high priest lays his hands upon its head and confesses the sins of the people, and they hand Azazel's goat over, and he's "led forth to an isolated region," and let go in the wilderness. That's how you do scapegoats. That's how you forgive, and wipe away the lines of salt that divide you, and knit yourselves back together. Grownups can remember it's only symbolic; it's children that don't realize the power of ritual in and of itself, and beg for concrete blood. This trial is evil before it even started. To kill something that's eaten the sins of a nation? A world? Twelve worlds? That's not just bad magic, it's bad faith. It's nuclear. You take what should be a funeral and make it a bloodbath, but funerals aren't for the dead: they're for the living. And the reason it's such a big deal, the reason scapegoat rituals are the scariest, wildest magic of all? Same reason that Tory's love of Laura, that Bill's love of Lee, that Laura's love of her people get so fucking scary all the time. Same reason I'm so insistent that the personal is not political, but that the political is only ever personal. Same reason I call you citizen, same reason I love Sarah Porter, same reason I weep for Lee Adama. See how tired Bill and Laura are getting, carrying that weight. Nobody was built to carry that. Even Three was blinded and burnt out: how much weaker is Gaius? Or Lee? Or Kara? This isn't just his trial; it never was.
"So Gaius Baltar made you kill your wife. That's why you hate him. And that's why you'd say anything to see him die... " And Tigh steps right inside: steps into that scapegoat trap again, thinking that revenge is ever appropriate. "You're Godsdamned right I would. I would do anything, say anything...to see that man die a painful death." No further questions. And across the water comes a song that only Tigh can hear; as usual, he mistakes this for the world, and thinks everyone else can hear it too. Getting closer to the Nebula, all the time. (I have no foreknowledge of whether that matters, but so far that kind of thing tends to be important.)
At Joe's Bar you can hear the news: protestors, arrested on other ships, being put down by Marines. This has all happened before and will all happen again. At least this time Tigh's too drunk to get involved. And also crazy. Tory wanders in and wonders if this is what the common people do all the time, and if so, doesn't that explain a lot. "I don't know what I want," she snaps at the bartender. "You figure it out, you're the bartender." He's not Joe but he's a lot easier on the eyes. "Tell you what, I'll surprise you." Please, no more surprises for Tory! She's having a rough one! You can tell by the hell they've managed to make her look like! Sam and his fellow nuggets shout and play, but Tory only notices them when the song comes across the water, on the radio Saul was playing with. She and Sam lock eyes, and there's more information than I can decode in that look, but that's three people that can hear it, and a shipload of people that can't, and they all happen to be people I care a lot about.
What if crazy is catching? What if Kara's Heavy Raider was the first wave of something really scary? What if all my pseudo-psycho-intellectual bullshit is really wrong this time, and human psychology is not in fact all about projection, and somehow terrible things are happening in everybody's heads? Or in certain people's heads? One from Command, one from the Administration, one Civilian-turned-revolutionary-turned-nugget? What's missing is a Prole, one of Chief's people, because of the whole class-war/upstairs-downstairs thing surrounding Gaius's current fuckuppery. Cally should totally be a sleeper mind-controlled monster or something, that would be awesome. I guess maybe Sam stands in that role. But still: All three of them were at the top of the Insurgency, and all three of them are close to the President and/or the Admiral in one way or another. What if this is all science fiction after all? What if Chip Six isn't an angel at all, but just this same exact thing, looking a certain way? What if Lee's just not letting on that he's gone crazy too? Oh my God, what if Romo Lampkin is Tyler Durden and that's the reason everybody is being so shitty to Lee? WHAT IF SUNDAY NEVER COMES?
Just kidding, I'm totally spoiled. By no less august a personage than Ronald Dowl Moore himself, for which he will never EVER be forgiven -- although the total balls-out awesomeness about to happen on Sunday night mostly makes up for it. In other news, back to the trial. Roslin tells the story of her execution roundup one more time: it was late, she was "grading papers" (by which I think she means "planning sedition and Baltar's murder" and/or "toking up"), they grabbed 200 people that were on a list with Gaius's signature. "Let us be crystal clear on this fact. You are saying that the defendant, Gaius Baltar, ordered your execution and the execution of 200 other people?" Roslin does that thing she does where whatever she's saying, no matter how banal or untruthful, seems like the truest thing you ever heard. I think it's in her eyes. "That's exactly what I'm saying." Everybody gets to muttering, Lampkin tells Gaius they need to talk, and I just figured out why this is boring. It's not just Cassidy's over... whelming... ellipses... or her plodding, overdone rhetoric (I swear if that lady asked how we measure loss one more time I was going to measure some bitchslapping up and down that courtroom); it's not even the fact that Hogan for once went over the top with his pirate impression and made Saul's hugest scene, maybe ever, seem scenery-chewing and silly. It's the fact that this trial is about one person, and until he's onstage, this is all unimaginative and particularly repetitive foreplay. Lotta hustle, going nowhere fast enough. First-of-two bloat, in other words.
Baltar and Lampkin discuss the immediate discrediting of Laura Roslin and all the strength and character and wisdom and beauty for which she stands. "She's a fanatic, right?" is a particularly awesome line. Lampkin finally looks over at Lee, who's curled up on a sofa, looking dyspeptic. "You're awfully quiet." Lee doesn't really have much to say, but he doesn't have to: Lampkin's a thief. "See, your problem is that I'm a really good liar? And you're not. So let's have it." Gaius -- no slouch at lying either, as long as it's about himself, to himself, or to anybody else about himself, not that he would know he was lying -- catches it too, in his voice. Gaius is kind of hysterical all the time now? But in a whole new way where, like, instead of everything being the end of the world, it actually is kind of the end of the world, for him, so he had to bash up through the previously established ceiling of acting squirrelly and build a whole new floor of crazy at the top, and that's where he lives now. "It's probably not even true," Lee protests, knowing damn well it is. "I like it already," Romo says, making the point once more that they're here to do their job, no matter the cost to their souls -- which is fine, as long as you're honest about it.
"It's a personal matter. I doubt she'd ever say anything in front of me," he says, teasing them, teasing himself, backing out with his eyes open, waiting to be asked. Gaius goes shit-nuts, howling and begging, and Lampkin's mouth orders him to shut the hell up. This is about Lee. "Enjoying yourself so far? Having a good time sticking it to the old man, defending the most hated person in the universe?" Lee lies and says that's not why he's doing this. "No, you just decided to stand up for truth and justice and all those other lovely things we inscribe upon courtroom doors." Lee's unassailable and self-assured: that's Lee at his most destructive. Fighting for truth contains an element of yearning, not this arrogance. This is what led him to follow Roslin the first time, yes, but it's also what led him to start a firefight on Colonial One, the White House of humanity -- which is to me more "guns in the Temple" than putting actual guns in the literal Temple -- and to generally act in such a way that not even Laura could fully commend his actions, even when they were on her behalf. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm doing. Because I believe in the system. I really believe. I even believe that our lowlife pond scum of a client actually deserves a fair trial." Maybe if Dee hadn't left him earlier, those words wouldn't trip across his tongue quite so glibly; maybe if the rules weren't all he had left he'd be able to step up and be the man Romo Lampkin's begging him to be: the kind that signs with the Devil, but does so with eyes open. Because right now, Lee's writing himself a Baltar pass, signing it with a flourish; he's strapping on the Helo Suit, and that's not how Lampkin plays. Your betrayal means nothing, if it doesn't hurt you as much as it does your father. It's not the pretty picture he wants but the cracks in the canvas.
"The 'system,'" he says to the petulant child Lee is being, "requires that you tell what you know, which leaves you with one of two uncomfortable options. First, share the information, and in so doing, uphold the very principles that you claim to hold so dear. Or second, keep 'em to yourself, and prove once and for all your only purpose here is to jab your father in the eye and make a mockery of the entire justice system." Apollo responds to even this total, abject, horrifying honesty with a cocksure grin and astounding smugness: "That's very nice. Very, very nice, but I know why I'm here. I don't need to prove it to you, or to anyone else." This is what they all do, but it's especially what Kara used to do: get knocked down, lose another pillar, and you reduce yourself to as few dimensions as possible. The simplest possible identity. He's got nobody to tell him who to be now, and the person's he relying on is withholding, trying to get him to imagine it himself. The one thing he can't do yet, and he never could: Lee Adama never learned to breathe. You go looking around, for the source of the smell, the sound, the terror, the problem -- can't be you, you're just doing what's right -- you could go crazy; you don't know from crazy until you realize the smell's coming from you. You're the one that's singing, or screaming. And everybody knows it. That's horror. That's what he's asking for. That's what he's putting on display. Nobody cares where you came from, what arcane random rules you've decided to follow: they care who you are, and what you do, and why. He's so close to his existential crisis but it's him, he won't get there yet, because he's still got somewhere to stand, but it'll go like this because it always does. Nothing you do matters, so all that matters is what you do. Until then, it's lies all the way down to the part that stinks: the part that needs to punish Bill for Kara's death, no matter how little sense it makes.
"You're wrong. You need to prove it to yourself, or you leave that courtroom out there knowing you kept a secret that could've saved that man's miserable life. Now unless I greatly misjudged your character, that's not something that Lee Adama wishes on his conscience. So what'll it be, Major? Sit on the sidelines mouthing pieties, or are you gonna get in this trial and give us something we can use?" Or are you going to take it one step further than you need to, burning bridges and jumping off edges with aplomb, because that's what self-destruction looks like from this angle, now that you can't get anybody to hurt you quite like they used to? Because even your father's given up on you taking any amount of responsibility at all? Because from this angle, a disappointed romantic looks a lot like a sulking menace? Because without the romance of "Captain Apollo, Defender of the Universe," with all the cracks you can't ever face when the chips are down, what are you? The destruction of Captain Apollo is accomplished in three quick acts, each leading inexorably to the , with a sort of dramatic unity that would make Aristotle proud. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions... but not too good. Joseph was right.
First the setup: Bill helps Saul into bed, groaning, and looks down at his dear friend, and begs him to stop drinking. The bad nights, when he gets like this. He can't take it after a moment or two, and changes the subject. From death, and hate, and all the other poems Saul Tigh can sing, in a single grunt. "Got some good news today. We found the radiation signature on the tylium ship. Just like the Cylon prisoner said we would." Good job, Saul. He's like, "Great, awesome." Adama continues to speak brightly. Well, for him anyway. He's not actively glaring, so the overall effect is that of Tony Basil doing back-flips around the place. "Being repaired as we speak. Mr. Gaeta estimates the Fleet's nine jumps away from the Nebula. Considering how long it's gonna take to fix the tylium ship, we're out...maybe three days. Three days out from the clue on the road to Earth." Tigh's not so much interested in the road to Earth right now. Caprica stuck him a lot deeper than she meant to, because she doesn't know any better. Still. Saul begins to weep, pulling everything closer in, his senses deranged by time and loss and sounds across the water. "Can't smell her. I can't smell her anymore, Bill. I kept her clothes...but her smell is gone now." What do you say to that? Nothing. Not your story. "I gotta go, Saul. Gotta retire." ("Do you honestly believe the Fleet will ever be commanded by somebody whose last name is not Adama?" asked Gaius. "Do you see what's happening? Jobs are starting to be inherited," said the Chief. "He's hanging by a thread," said Romo Lampkin. And all his children, he's losing them one by one. Gotta retire.) Tigh apologizes, weak and tired as a kitten, and Bill puts him off, kindly. "I embarrassed you. Made you look bad." Adama takes his hand firmly; Saul holds on as tightly as he can. "You're my oldest friend, Saul. You never embarrass me. Get some rest." Saul holds on, as tight as he can.
Act Two: Lee's being nice enough, not snotty like usual, making -- as "a former CAG" -- the tactical suggestion of using the fueling ship as bait to lure the Cylons away from the Nebula. The Admiral is cool with him: "It's a good idea. I'll take it into consideration. Is there anything else?" Lee asks after the President, earning him a look of scornful shock. "Is she okay? She looked a little rattled in court yesterday." Bill exhales and tries to figure out a way where they don't have this conversation. "We can't talk about the trial outside of court," is the best he can do, following up with the obligatory "You know that. Or you should" dig. Lee thinks we're playing a game; Willow used to do this all the time and it drove me nuts, that yearning in their eyes to go backwards and for you not to be mad at them anymore. He's like, "I totally wasn't asking about the trial! I was asking about our happy family, silly!" Bill tells him to go fuck himself. "After what you did to Tigh, you're the last person I would consider to confide in." Lee's honestly confused by this one, and not in a disingenuous way either. "I didn't do anything to Tigh. He was drunk. It's really not my fault." Adama clarifies that he means Lee told Romo about Saul killing Ellen, which nobody knew but Saul and Bill, but which Romo figured out in a quickness because he sees the weak places best. Lee protests and is brutally rebuffed. "You're calling me a liar?" And a coward. Who didn't have the guts to "go after a man himself," but put "the shiv" in a stranger's hand and let Romo stab Tigh in the back. Which is lexically confusing, and also doesn't make sense. How on earth was Lee meant to be "going after" Tigh period? When Bill says "Tigh," does he mean "Bill"? "And for what? Traitorous piece of garbage Gaius Baltar. Doesn't even deserve a trial." Scapegoats, again. Bill's hanging by a thread. This is anger, not justice.
"Are you done?" Most assuredly, Bill is done. "Then so am I," says the former CAG, taking off his wings and putting them on Bill's table, with a clash. My stomach flipped over; I started crying. Lee's a good boy. This is awful. This is a monstrosity, born of nothing you can fight; it's a question without an answer, it's a horror made of grief and loneliness and Romo Lampkin. "I will not serve under a man who questions my integrity." Bill takes the insignia in hand and snarls, "And I won't have an officer under my command who doesn't have any," tossing them in a drawer without even looking. I hate that. I haven't really felt that bad about the Admiral and Apollo until now, even though it's clearly been a big deal for awhile, but this literally makes me sick to my stomach. It's too wrong, it's too dumb, it's too much. It's too inevitable. "I'll see you in court, Admiral," snots Lee, and takes off. Watching these kids get consumed by their...
When I keep saying it's not just Gaius's trial, I mean that literally. I mean that there's no difference between the Maelstrom and what just happened, what's continuing to happen to Lee. To Chief, throwing himself again and again on the engines he built with his blood. To Laura, or Bill. To Tigh, or Sam and Tory, whatever that is. This is what it looks like from Lee's angle: daddy issues, the law against the government against the military, "Apollo" and everything he means. Zak in the background, Kara in the foreground. The rules principles he hangs onto, his very oxygen, turning in his grasp like a serpent, changing shape like fire. His father replaced by this strange lying thief. Dualla leaving in a scene or two... That's all of it, right? Everything that makes him who he is? Turn the glass a bit and you have Three, dying to be reborn -- just one fraction of an angle difference and it's the same story. Boomer, going down in a hail of bullets over some other woman's crib. Helo, who finally made it back to Galactica after a lifetime of struggles, only to find it changing shape around him every week. Kara, flying faster than she ever had before. The Admiral's Lie of Earth, in which he now believes, gone rudderless in her absence. And Laura? You bet your ass. Her more than everybody, and the hits coming from the most surprising, the most damaging places imaginable.
Act Three. Lee whispers into Lampkin's ear: "Let me do this." Romo asks "the Major," and don't think that wasn't intentional, if he's sure. Lee, looking beautiful and deadly in his lovely suit, smiles ruefully. "It's 'Mister' now. And yeah, I'm sure. It should be me." (This too, borne of his principles, his father's accusations ringing in his ears like a sound across the water: no knives in the back. Be a man.) Gaius complains that a glorified "security guard" (and don't think that wasn't intentional) will be serving however briefly as counsel; Lampkin shuts him down without even a look. "We're waiting, Mr. Lampkin," says Franks, and Lampkin introduces his "associate, Mr. Adama," who will finish the questioning. Adama spits nails; Franks allows it. This trial, I tell you what.
"Madame President, aren't you alive today because of Gaius Baltar?" She looks at him with that smile, the one that barely reaches her eyes but still comes off so soft. "I'm alive today because the insurgents managed to stop the execution." Right, from the firing squad, but: "Wasn't it Baltar who saved your life when you were dying from cancer?" The prosecution asks for relevance, and Lee begins to flounder (Bamber is fucking excellent in this scene; he always is, when he plays against McDonnell), so Lampkin mentions how Laura's a hostile witness, and asks for lenience. Adama spits actual bullets, but Franks again allows it. Lee stumbles to the point. "Um...did Gaius Baltar save your life when you were dying from cancer?" She admits that "Dr. Baltar" (and don't think her emphasis on his title -- not President, not Mister, but the thing he was at the time he was saving her -- is unintentional) and his "scientific knowledge" did save her life, indeed. Lee asks for specificity. "How did he save your life on that occasion?" The gallery is shocked into murmurs by her response: "He injected me with the blood of a half-Cylon, half-human baby." I still don't know if the Fleet knows about Hera, but I'm guessing they would, at least by the time Sharon was commissioned. They seem to have dealt with that well enough; if not, Helo's going to hurt Lee later, which will be nice. "And your cancer vanished." Completely. "During your illness, what sort of medication were you on?" She gives her best press conference grin, the one that says you and I both know and you're going to get a fight. It's her scariest grin, but in some ways her most beautiful: this is how she does warfare. This is when she's Adama's equal on the field; Athena is a goddess of tactics and strategy and justice. That smile is the schoolteacher leaving, the lioness coming in. "You know [the you little shit is implied], I was taking a lot of medications at the time, and I don't remember all their names." And did she take chamalla extract? That little hum, the little "hmph" she does, the one that means, "Here we fucking go." The one that means "another part of the world's about to fall down."
The gallery mutters some more, as Lee asks about the hallucinations that are -- from the disquiet -- well-known side effects of chamalla; Laura agrees that she's heard that, that they're possible, that there are all kinds of possible, if improbable, side effects. She's getting better and better at this. I'm proud of her but I hate it too. I think the reason she scares me so much this season, why I've felt so much less connected to her since the Second Exodus, is because A) she hasn't been around, but mostly B) I can't tell when she's lying anymore. "Isn't it also true that the visions that you once described as messages from the Gods were actually the result of a pharmacological reaction from taking chamalla?" Roslin splits the hair, but it needs splitting; words are her realm: "The chamalla did enable me to see certain things that were foretold by the Scriptures. Things that will help this Fleet find its way to Earth." And back to the original hair-splitting, the first line of salt: "You of all people should know that, Major." It's a plea and a warning, and he can't hear either; his senses are deranged by the need to prove something very complicated. "Mr. Adama. Where are you going with this?" Lee asks the judges for just one more question, and draws close to her in the stand. She's so small sometimes.
"Please don't do this," she whispers, her eyes on his. Not for herself, not for denial. She's not denying anything to herself, that's the gift of a year in the schoolhouse, of admitting the possibility of a cabin near a river. She's not afraid of death anymore, and she's through hiding anything. She learned, a little, how to live, when Gaius Baltar saved her from dying. That's his gift, and she's still got it. She treasures it. She's not begging for herself, she's begging for him. For the two of them, the love they still have for each other, the understanding, that's telling her right now that he's about to attack. For the Fleet, and the hopes of her people -- her people -- in the face of so much uncertainty, she will not answer this question until it is asked. She will give them what strength she has to give. But that doesn't mean by asking the question, you're not breaking her heart. Not for herself, but for their people, she puts her forehead at his feet: "Please."
"Madame President, are you taking chamalla at this time?" Her voice is tiny, her eyes welling with tears and frustration, so small in her chair. "Captain Apollo. You remember that?" He's dead. "I always thought it had such a nice ring to it." It was perfect. He was her Aurora: what Kara was to flight, to the warrior in Bill, Lee Adama was to truth and reconciliation. The first name across her lips, knowing that Bill still hates Joseph, was still Lee's, because her love for, and belief in, him are still so terribly strong. "I am so, so sorry for you now." Me too. He's a good boy. Captain Apollo is dead, in only three acts.
Louder now: "Chamalla, Madame President. Perhaps dissolved in your tea? To mask the bitterness?" Not even Oracles can handle that awful taste. Adama's face is crushed with anger. "Don't answer. I'm putting a stop to this right now." The defense points out that if the witness is on drugs, it goes to credibility; Adama dismisses her altogether, near standing, near screaming. Objectivity was never his strong point, I know, but it hurts from another direction. Lampkin objects, calling it a cover-up. Bringing down the columns around them all with a simple question; Adama tells him to stop talking or face contempt. The other judges wow about how Bill has lost even his tenuous fake pretense at objectivity, and tell him to settle. "Madame President," again, "are you taking chamalla again?" She admits that she is: stares at it, doesn't look away. Lee looks away first, because there's more storm coming and he knows it, like a sound across the water. He wants to run. "No further questions."
Over the din she speaks. "Mr. Adama, aren't you going to ask me why?" It hits his shoulders first. "I'm sorry?" Then his eyes. "Why am I taking chamalla again?" Then his mouth: "It's not strictly relevant," he says, wanting more than anything to go home, but he doesn't have one anymore. "Well. Perhaps it's not relevant to you, but it's relevant to me." Lee Adama begins to cry. He's mourning her, mourning Kara Thrace, mourning Captain Apollo. All these different kinds of love, burning up between the stars. "Go ahead. Ask me why. Finish what you started." There's not even anger in it, that's what hurts the most. The lioness is gone. This is a deal Laura's making with herself: can she be strong enough to break open another of the Fleet's dreams, tell them they're not safe again? Take on her most hated mantle? "Why are you taking the chamalla again, Madam President?" That old bad penny. The Dying Leader. The crowd screams; another part of the world falls down.
Dee's shoving shit in bags without looking at it; she's angrier than I've seen her. Of course she's leaving him now, even though a real person would have left him actual years ago; even though a respectable person wouldn't have married him in the first place, but whatever. I've learned you don't think too hard about why people get married or if you think they're up to it, because that makes you a jerk. So I retract that last statement. But it still does kinda piss me off that she has zero actuality in this scene. She's never been a hugely subjectively real character, she's always been a prop for some other character's mega-drama -- Bill, Lee, even Kara -- but this is kind of a joke. The only thing that makes it okay, to the extent that it is okay, is that one of Dee's finest hours was the whole "You think I'm going to make out with you after you ruined my ship?" fight with Billy, back to which this harkens, however circuitously. Lee's whining, dontcha know. "The fact that she's having hallucinations is relevant to Baltar's defense! That's the way the system works, Dee! The accused has a right to challenge the credibility of witnesses against him! That's just the way it is." All true. "The system is broken, Lee. The system elected that man to be President, and the system's trying to let him walk. That is not a system that deserves to be defended. It deserves to be taken apart and put back together again." All true, and not something she's ever been secretive about believing. She did her best to break it before and I hope she tries again, and again, and again, until they get it right. She's Sagittaron. I hope she and Tom Zarek become the fifth column. He prays to the Gods he could make her understand, and instead of slapping him into Cylon Heaven, she just explains once more: "Um, I do understand, Lee. And it's why I'm leaving." And she does! Awesome! He screams and bitches and whines and moans about how she doesn't, but that's because Captain Apollo isn't running this show, and their marriage depended on both of them believing that he did. He never was, but as long as you don't ask the question you don't have to hear the answer.
Press Conference on Colonial One, Tory standing by. The reporters ask how long she's known: about a week. No telling how advanced it is yet. They ask if she'll be bleeding the baby some more and she gets official. "You know, this is the kind of detail I'm not gonna go into now." Too ghoulish? Too hard to spin? "You know, we're looking at a game plan. I'll let you know when we have one." A reporter asks how her treatments will impact her job: "So far, it hasn't at all." Still smiling; still the schoolteacher she's conditioned them to see. "Are you currently taking chamalla extract?" Don't answer that, hisses Tory. "How often do you hallucinate?" asks another reporter, and Tory flips out. "All right, enough of this crap. We're done here." Roslin says her name once, quietly, but loudly enough that we can see this happening and know that Tory's not on message: that the cameras can pick it up, and take it to the whole Fleet. This isn't Laura Roslin, your President speaking. She was only ever kind and sweet and strong. "... You vultures can go pick over another carcass... " Tory nearly shrieks, and the other schoolteacher -- the voice you shiver to think about, the one from being a kid -- comes out. "Tory! Come here. I'll see you inside. Thank you." She sends Tory backstage, and smiles again, chuckling. "I'm sorry. Temperatures are running a little high in the fleet these days. Who's ? Karen." Karen Fallbrook, a lovely reporter, decides to go for it: "Madame President. How long do you have to live?" Not classy, not on message, not worth going there yet: this is a dying leader, not a dead one. She's only just come to terms with coming out of remission, only just dedicated herself to living after so long running, in fear -- and you're going to go there? And the teacher's gone, and the lioness is back, and Roslin leans over -- in my memory, impossibly far over -- the podium, staring straight into Karen's soul, with a smile that says it all: "How long do you have to live, Karen?"
Afterwards, she's sitting down to her paperwork. Tory congratulates her: "You handled that well." Laura informs Tory she sure as fuck didn't. "'Pick over another carcass'? As opposed to mine? That's gonna look good in the press." Tory stutters, looks like hell some more: she doesn't even know why she said it. I know why: for the same reason Lee called Racetrack "Starbuck." Because mourning and grief and fear -- after all that running, after all that dying, those miracles, she gets handed this again? -- tangle up your tongue. Tory's senses are deranged. "What is up with you?" Laura finally spits. "You've been off your game for days. You're distracted, you're exhausted, you're just... you know, frankly, you're plain obnoxious." Tory's sadness falls, just as it did when she lost the baby and couldn't sleep for all her guilt -- this time it just has less distance to fall, due to looking like shit already: "I just haven't been sleeping very well." Roslin begs her to get it together. "Or I can find someone who can handle the press. As well a pull a comb through their hair once a week." DAMN! Tory about falls over in shock after that shit. Me too. Laura doesn't say stuff like that. She's going nuts here; this is her trial too. (On the podcast, and from the previews, it looks like canon that Sharon and Laura started this episode having the same dream -- actually sharing the dream, of Caprica taking Hera into her arms -- and you know I want more of that shit.)
Tigh lies on the floor of his quarters, sound through the static, broken. Too much music and too many memories, and hurtling closer to the nebula with every drink.
Gaeta welcomes Helo to the CIC -- a new day, a new job for Helo. XO! That's hilarious. I'm serious about the lunch lady thing now. Helo swears it's temporary and assures Gaeta that the Colonel's going to pull it together. In all his time aboard Galactica, Gaeta has never seen anything remotely like that, so he's being as nice as he can when he expresses as little suspicion as possible about this theory. Down on the war table, Gaeta explains Part Two of Two. The tylium ship leads the Cylons to X place, opposite the Fleet, then recalibrates their FTL and jumps to rendezvous at the Ionian Nebula. No Cylons following the fuel ship -- so I guess the whole five-basestar freak-out was successfully avoided by 289er's jump, which explains Bill's order to leave a bigger space than usual between 289er and the Fleet on that last jump -- and they've forgotten about Galactica and the Fleet, too. We're down to three jumps 'til they presumably lead the Cylons straight to the Nebula, and thus the road sign to Earth, and everything goes haywire and changes forever, like every season.
Yep, I was right. I can tell from the look on Helo's face. So can Gaeta: "Uh, anything else, sir?" No, he was just thinking. Thinking about the weather on Caprica, how sometimes you'd get this smell in the air: "I mean, the sun could be out, not a cloud in the sky, but you'd pick up this smell and you knew that, um, something was just over the horizon. Weather's changing, Felix. We need to be ready for it. There's a storm coming."
Well, Jesus, is it a storm of anvils? Cute, can't exposit for shit.
And in Tigh's quarters, the trial continues: He scrabbles around in his cell, curled and skinny, scrabbling with his hands and fingers. His hands scratch out the beats, on his cell wall. His eye is gone. He scuttles like a spider. The song's coming, louder and louder, so clear you can almost hear it. The camera goes sickening, swooning again, all over, Hitchcock-style. He smells like shit and torture. He finally knows where the sound is coming from: it's coming from the ship.