"We surrender."
Gaius Baltar knew it was the end. Someone would kill him—his own people or the Cylons. The President of the Twelve Colonies was simply too visible and too vulnerable to survive. Physically, he could not be protected from the Cylons. The three human models standing in front of him were proof enough of that. He could see clearly that problems would arise and that he would be held accountable by the Cylons. It was only a matter of time now before the awful, inevitable end. Of course, it might not be the Cylons who delivered the final blow. His own people were restive. Some among the thirty-five thousand-odd souls on New Caprica would blame him for this sudden, catastrophic turn of events; even as some blamed him for the problems humanity's dirty, truculent last flock had been facing on this untamed world up to the arrival of the Cylons.
God, how could You do this to me? I'm supposed to be Your instrument, damn it!
Baltar was familiar with all three models of human-imitating Cylon that had come to the office of the President to demand the surrender of the last remnants of Colonial humanity. The rather short, fair-skinned, fair-eyed, and brown-haired man on the right had called himself Doral when he had posed as a media man aboard Galactica. In the middle was the model the Galactica's crew had known as Sharon Valerii. She was slight, dark-haired, lightly olive skinned with almond eyes. Even as Baltar felt himself drowning, paralyzed, in an icy wave of despair at the hopelessness of his situation, a detached portion of himself considered the irony surrounding the young. She had sabotaged Galactica when she thought she was human; and she had saved them time and again when she knew she was Cylon. There was something to that—something he would have to exploit if ever the opportunity arose…if he survived any length of time at all.
And the third Cylon was her. Baltar's heart pounded every time he looked at her. It had taken a supreme act of will for Baltar to keep his buckling knees from giving way completely when she walked into his office in the company of the other Cylons. Oh, the memories! And her eyes--! Those gorgeous blue, soulful windows were full of sympathy and remorse while the other two Cylons showed nothing but a contemptuous, calm sense of triumph and finality. Baltar could tell the moment he met her eyes that she remembered it all: the years on Caprica; their steamy, sultry love in Baltar's sprawling lakeside home; her exploitation of his trust that had led to the deaths of billions and the destruction of virtually the entire civilization of the Twelve Colonies; and the searing connection Baltar never imagined he could have with a woman. But then, she was no woman. On Caprica, the tall porcelain-skinned blonde had been called Natasi. Among the twelve models of human-like Cylons, she was Number Six.
The Cylons had come after a year of struggle, loneliness, and desperation on the surface of New Caprica. For Baltar, it was yesterday that he had wrested the Presidency from Laura Roselin, who had held that post throughout the flight of the Colonials from their homeworlds. For Baltar, it was yesterday that the world on which he, his people, and the Cylons who had come to deliver terms stood was discovered by accident in the midst of its protective nebula. For Baltar, it was yesterday that he advocated abandoning the search for Earth—the search for the lost thirteenth colony of humanity—and settling on the marginal world the Colonials came to call New Caprica. For Baltar, it was yesterday that a version of Number Six known as Gina killed herself (and thousands with her) using a nuclear warhead Baltar had given her to demonstrate his love and good faith. The electromagnetic pulse from the blast had led the Cylons to humanity's refuge. While the electromagnetic radiation from the blast spent a year racing through space to its rendezvous with passing Cylons, Baltar languished in the dungeon his quarters had become. Now the circle was complete. Hadn't she known the blast would attract Cylons? How could she do this to him?
It hardly mattered that the Cylons claimed they wanted to shelter and protect humanity's remnants on New Caprica. The Colonial fleet, which had spent the last year orbiting New Caprica under the control of skeleton crews, had fled when the Cylon base ships appeared, damn them. With them left Baltar's only chance of resisting the Cylons. Although the Cylons claimed they wanted peace, Baltar had no faith in the future. Sooner or later, the Cylons would change their mind. Baltar had managed to escape the holocaust on Caprica. One of fifty thousand survivors of a civilization of billions, he had managed to survive intrigue aboard the Colonial fleet and hundreds of attacks by the Cylons. He had maneuvered himself into positions of influence, and then he had captured the seat of power of the refugees. All for naught, Baltar thought. Since humanity would not universally accept Cylon suzerainty; and since Baltar would be held accountable for human misbehavior by the Cylons; and since his fellow humans would hold him accountable for the fact that humanity was on New Caprica and thus obliged to surrender to the Cylons to survive, Baltar knew he would suffer the deadly blow from one direction or the other.
How can I execute Your will if I'm dead?
Baltar felt the weight of expectation of the people behind him and to either side of him pressing down on his chest. His office, which was aboard the grounded light starship Colonial One, was overflowing with his staff's dread and their hope that somehow he, the famous Baltar, would find a way out for them. The Presidential security detachment in their razor-creased suits, the governmental ministers, Baltar's personal aide the former Galactica bridge officer Felix Gaeta, the other assorted retinue of the President's office—all waited breathlessly to hear how he, Baltar would save them. It would have been vexing if it weren't so ridiculous and utterly depressing.
The Cylons took a moment to savor their victory. Baltar watched Doral shift his weight and turn his head ever so slightly towards Valerii. It was a code, Baltar saw. The two of them were sharing their triumph without words. Distantly, Baltar wondered just how that was done. Then the moment of shared triumph was over for the Cylons, and Doral prepared to speak.
The man in white appeared.
Baltar was taken aback by the suddenness of the newcomer's arrival. The newcomer did not walk in or run in or slide in. He simply was there, standing behind the Cylons, just inside the doorway as though he were merely an observer. Though despondent over the events of the last few minutes, Baltar quite unconsciously discerned key traits that indicated the new arrival, whoever he was, did not belong to the Cylon entourage. He stood erect, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. His expression was one of mild interest. Baltar was certain he had never met the newcomer, who looked as though he could have come from Caprica: fair skin, short light brown hair, a long face with deep-set green eyes and a heavy brow, square chin and angular jaw, a close-cropped goatee-style beard that showed touches of gray, and a tall manly figure draped in a front-closing white jacket with a high flat-topped collar and a hemline that nearly touched the tops of his white shoes. No, the inexplicable nature of his arrival aside, this man was no Cylon.
Something about the newcomer changed everything. He made eye contact with the President of the Colonies and gave the President a tiny smile that Baltar found unreadable.
Baltar saw that the Cylons knew he was no longer looking at them. Almost as one, the three representatives of the machines turned and looked over their shoulders. The newcomer looked at them, looked back at Baltar, and said nothing. Virtually in unison, the Cylons turned their collective gaze back to Baltar. The President saw the faintest traces of annoyance and confusion in their eyes. He knew that the Cylons did not know who the newcomer was, either. Baltar perceived the Cylons decide the newcomer was a human of no consequence. They would push ahead with dictating the new order of things to Baltar and the rest of the humans.
Baltar's aide Gaeta attempted to restore normalcy. The dark haired young man stepped towards the newcomer and said,
"I'm sorry, these proceedings are off-limits. You'll have to wait outside."
The newcomer said nothing. He spared Gaeta a glance from his cool green eyes. Gaeta stopped, clearly uncertain now whether the newcomer belonged with the Cylons after all. The question clear in his eyes, the President's aide looked to his superior. Number Six and Valerii looked at Gaeta, then the newcomer, and then at Baltar. The harried President observed that they could see something was amiss.
"He's no Cylon, Gaius. He's not one of the Colonists, either."
Baltar had not heard Natasi's voice in his head in a year. Astonished, he turned to find the apparition of the Cylon woman who had used him to sabotage Colonial defenses standing among the presidential retinue. She stood, hands on hips, in a skimpy dress as she had appeared so often during the flight from the Colonies. She was not there, of course. She was there for no one but Baltar—and she had not been there for him since the day Gina destroyed herself. As if no time had passed and no explanation was due Baltar, Natasi was studying the newcomer with a gaze that should have scorched the man's flesh from his bones.
Forgetting entirely that the Cylons and his Presidential entourage were standing around him, Baltar asked tensely, "Then who is he?"
Natasi came forward a pace and said sharply, "I don't know. You'd better find out."
A touch of annoyance slipped into Doral's voice. "If you would prefer your people not be present for this, I suggest you remove him. I'm not prepared to offer you many courtesies."
Gaeta waved Baltar's protective agents towards the newcomer. Two men in suits detached themselves from the horseshoe of staff at Baltar's back and advanced towards the stranger.
In a low, clear voice that filled the President's office, the man in white said to Baltar, "I'd think you'd welcome any distraction from the terms the Cylons are about to give you."
"Distractions won't change anything," Doral said crisply, still looking at Baltar. "And since I'll need your full attention on how humans will live under us, you should have your people remove him immediately."
The agents closed on the newcomer, who did not react. Each agent seized one arm of the newcomer and appeared to try to turn him around to usher him to the door. The fabric of the newcomer's jacket moved and compressed under the hands of the agents; but if the newcomer moved it was not visible to Baltar. Taken aback, the agents put real effort into moving the man in white. The man stood with his hands clasped loosely at his back, completely unaffected by the two men tugging on his arms. A murmur went through the humans behind Baltar.
"Stop them," Natasi said.
Baltar ordered his subordinates to release the man in white. The agents fell back. Doral let one eyebrow flicker upwards.
"Don't antagonize us with delays," the Cylon said smoothly, his tone laced with menace. "If you can't or won't keep your people under control, we will do it for you."
"Which brings me to my point for being here," the newcomer said. "You have come to a critical juncture, Baltar, and I find myself obliged to intervene."
Baltar heard Natasi bark his name. Head swimming, he asked,
"Who are you?"
The stranger did not answer immediately. He let his eyes drift over the Cylons one by one. Without looking at Baltar, he said,
"For now, you may call me Remiel."
"Remiel," Baltar repeated. He sensed a life raft, and he seized it. "What exactly do you mean by 'intervene'?"
"I mean that the branch of humanity represented by the people who lately have fled the Twelve Colonies stands at a crossroads. Go down the path these Cylons intend to lay out for you, and you go to ruin. We cannot have it."
"'We?'" Valerii said.
Remiel gave Valerii a slight smile. "I'm not ready to speak with you, though I will be soon. I must confess I chose this time and place to speak with the humans because I wanted to see your faces when I told the humans they would not be conquered by you in this time and place—a bit of penchant for the dramatic held over from a previous life, I'm afraid."
"Enough of this," Doral said coldly. The Cylon man's expression went blank for a moment, and then he turned towards the door. Natasi approached Baltar's desk and dragged one fingernail across the smooth, shiny surface.
"He's bringing a centurion," the blonde vision said. "This should be interesting."
Baltar watched the open doorway. He felt as though every human breath in the place had caught. Something was happening—something the Cylons could not control. This strange man had no fear of the Cylons. Neither they nor Natasi knew who he was, and surely that fact alone was cause for hope.
Hope for what? Is this Your doing?
A metallic stomping filled the air outside Baltar's office. All at once a gleaming, hulking presence filled the doorway. The held breaths of the humans turned into gasps. The dully glinting android was much larger than a human. It radiated menace. The thing was a machine's version of a man, built for war. Baltar shuddered. Much more so than the three human-like Cylons who had come to Baltar's office to demand humanity's surrender, this terrible automaton that could have killed every human in the room represented the gulf in power that separated the humans from their prodigal children.
The centurion seemed to know what was expected of it. Its vaguely human head swung towards Remiel, single red eye sliding across its face. Moving smoothly and effortlessly, the machine reached out with one silvery, spidery, and immensely powerful hand to grip Remiel's arm. The hand closed on nothing. The centurion tried again, but its hand passed through Remiel as though he was nothing more than a hologram. Remiel gave Doral an appraising look. Abruptly, the centurion toppled. It landed with a resounding crash at the feet of the Cylon who had summoned it and did not move again.
"He's not human," Natasi said.
Baltar snapped at her. "Oh, yes! Thank you awfully!"
"You suffer from delusions," Remiel calmly said to Baltar. "However, this is not the moment to remedy that unhappy fact."
"What are you?" Number Six asked in astonishment.
"We will discuss that soon," said man in white. "For the moment, suffice to say that you Cylons have a journey ahead of you that may bring you to an understanding of who I am and why I am here. I am aware that some among you have begun to understand that the correct path takes you away from Colonial humans. Stay on that path. And stay clear of this place until the humans have evacuated it."
"And if we choose not to?" said Valerii, a chilly challenge in her voice.
Remiel unfolded one white-sleeved arm from behind his back and indicated the fallen centurion. "Any Cylon. Any ship."
The three human-like Cylons made no immediate move to depart. Baltar could sense their disbelief because it mirrored his own. Who was this being? Could he be taken at his word? Was this real?
Remiel said, "Shall I destroy one of your base ships to convince you? I believe you will need them soon."
Baltar observed a silent communication between the Cylons. With hard expressions and flickering eye movements, they seemed to conclude that there was nothing to be gained by pushing the matter at the moment. This was a dramatic and hard-to-accept turn of events for them. However, if Remiel's powers were not what he claimed, they could return. The Cylons could afford to wait, Baltar knew. They walked to the door of Baltar's office and filed out.
In the doorway, Number Six paused and gazed mournfully at Baltar. He felt the loss in his chest--a stabbing, spreading pain that stunned him with its intensity. Gaius Baltar had worked hard to put himself into a torpor in the year since the manifestation of Number Six called Gina took her life. The agony of losing her had subsided slowly—ever so slowly. There were other women, of course. Many wanted to be with the President who had ended the hardship of their Diaspora and who lived in relative luxury while the rest of humanity toiled to make something of New Caprica's marginal bounty. Lamentably, those women were merely placebos. Baltar needed Number Six, whether she was Natasi, Gina, or someone else. She was the flavor of food, the oxygen in his air, and the moisture of the water he drank. Without her, Baltar dwelt in a void that sucked the very soul from his breast. Better, far batter, the grey realm of shadows that Colonial One had become for him; and better what tepid comfort could be found in the arms of other, lesser women.
Now Baltar saw just how wretched and empty he had become. It was as if no time had passed. Tears rose unbidden to Baltar's eyes as Number Six turned to leave him again.
"Wait!"
Baltar stumbled around his desk, one hand outstretched. He caught Remiel's eye and drew up short, heart pounding. Baltar swallowed quickly, trying to compose himself. His breath had turned ragged, as though he had run a quick mile.
"Don't you think…?" Baltar faltered. His emotions were running wild, and he was feeling dizzy. With an effort, he affected a calm, deliberate façade.
"Don't you think one of them should stay? As a representative—an ambassador?"
"It was a Cylon who obtained the nuclear device that destroyed the Rising Star and alerted these Cylons to your presence here," Remiel said. "The Cylons will use this opportunity to infiltrate more of their number into the Colonial population, if they can. They are not your allies, nor can they be. Your entire purpose at this juncture is to break contact with them. Any Cylon traveling with your people, be she a representative or ambassador, can serve no useful end."
Baltar heard a slight pause before the stranger said "obtained". With a sickening drop of his stomach, Baltar knew Remiel perceived that Baltar had given the warhead to Gina. The man in white knew about Baltar's feelings for Number Six. The stranger probably knew the entire story of Baltar's role in the downfall of humanity and the events that had led to the colonization of New Caprica. Baltar didn't know how Remiel knew, but he knew. He knew!
Yet for whatever reason, the man in white was not going to give away Baltar. Part of the price of secrecy, Baltar understood, was that he would not be able to see Number Six again.
No!
He couldn't lose her yet again. Not now! Not with her standing in the doorway, waiting for him to call her back under any pretext…
"Don't you agree?"
Remiel's simple question pierced Baltar like a knife. There was no room for maneuver. If Baltar wanted to use the life raft thrown him, he would have to yield. Lowering his eyes, Baltar said,
"I suppose you're right. We must make a clean break with the Cylons. That is, after all, why we settled here."
There had never been a choice. The man in white could give Baltar away at any time. If the Colonists discovered that Baltar had given to a Cylon agent the warhead that had destroyed the Rising Star, killed hundreds, and betrayed their location to their enemies, the Colonists would tear him apart. The only unknown was how long it would take for Baltar to die and how painful that death would be.
Lifting his eyes to Number Six, Baltar saw that she understood everything. She nodded once, the pain and longing evident on her face, and left.
Gaeta shook Baltar out of the moment. "Mister President, what are your instructions?"
"I did hear you say we're to evacuate?" Baltar asked of Remiel.
Remiel nodded.
"Surely we could stay here," Baltar said. "It would be a shame to waste the work that has been done. You could protect us from the Cylons."
"Nothing good can come from your continued habitation of this world. Your destiny lies far from here."
Baltar felt his anguish turning to rage. "On Earth? Is that why we can't bring a Cylon representative? You've got to keep the precious secret of Earth?"
Remiel let a moment pass, then said, "Send the word for your people to leave this place."
"What if I choose not to? What then?" Baltar's voice began to rise into a screech. "I'm the bloody President, and I'll move my people when I'm good and bloody ready to!"
"How much time do you suppose you have?"
The question took Baltar off-guard. He was expecting a contest of wills, and Remiel's mild reply caught him flat-footed.
"What, you can't even guarantee us safe passage?" Baltar said with an exaggerated snort. "Some all-powerful savior you are!"
Evenly, Remiel said, "How many Cylons do you suppose are willing to allow humanity to survive?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"Guess. Do you think all of them will let you live?"
"I don't know. What does this have to do with my leaving New Caprica?"
Baltar felt his rage fading. Remiel was asking real questions—the kinds of questions the President of the Colonies should have been asking. He knew the answer Remiel would give.
"If not all Cylons are willing to let humanity survive, you face an unknown enemy. United, the Cylons destroyed your entire civilization. Divided, who can say what level of threat they pose to you?"
"You can, can't you?"
"I can't. Free will is notoriously unpredictable. That fact has led me to intervene. You, Baltar, have made a terrible choice. However, it is one that can be salvaged. The Cylons who so recently stood before you have made a poor choice that shows some promise. There are other Cylons who have yet to make a number of important choices. None of them will be of any service to humanity at this point in your history. Most of their options are detrimental to you. Therefore, you must remove yourselves from the radius of effect of Cylon choice."
Flabbergasted, Baltar said, "How do you know this?"
"How is it you don't?"
Baltar bit down his retort. He had forgotten momentarily the kind of leverage Remiel possessed. Baltar knew that if he failed to give the order to evacuate New Caprica, Remiel could expose him and have the next President move the Colonists.
"How do you propose we move, then? There aren't enough ships left to put all these people into orbit, much less move them to Earth."
With a slight smile, Remiel said, "Your fleet will return soon."
As abruptly as he had appeared, Remiel left Baltar and his people standing in the Presidential office. Baltar drew a shaky breath and ran one hand through his hair.
I suppose I should be thankful.