sell yourself to everything
All of the answers are in his hands.
Dramatic, maybe, but true. He carries his salvation in a manila envelop, stuffed full of photographs and maps and calculations. He's stayed in the Nexus a month after whatever deadline he supposedly had in order to gather more information on Earth. This is because-- for one of the few times in his life-- Gaius Baltar has decided to tell the truth.
"The theory of transdimensional travel isn't unheard of," he imagines himself saying (and by 'imagines', we mean 'says aloud'), "Given our current circumstances, the fact that I found such a portal, in turn leading us to Earth, can very well be considered a..."
"This isn't your path, Gaius." There She is again, out of the woodwork. Always with the nagging. Isn't She ever going to stop?
"I'm not listening to you," he says pointedly, shifting the envelop under his arm. The road back to his portal is about two miles long, scattered with bushes and chestnut trees. On this Tuesday night, no one else is around. By virtue of being in the Nexus, a man conversing with himself doesn't look quite as crazy, but still, Gaius is thankful for the lack of people.
His hallucination's dress is a cool blue today, tight at Her hips, with several straps resting around Her neck and shoulders. She follows behind him. Her shoes click on the cobblestone.
"God won't forgive you. You think you're doing your species this great favor, but in reality, you're pulling everything apart. Everything we worked for."
"I'm not listening," he says again. He glances back at Her, but otherwise strides ahead, picking up his pace. "And who's to say you know what God wants, anyway? You're a machine. Your view of religion is fallible-- as anyone's view of religion is fallible. Words are passed down, passages are lost, aimed at the audience... I bet you wouldn't want God's plan to succeed if it involved the humans winning, would you?" He says this last part with a laugh in his voice, striving for confidence but only sounding nervous and off-balance.
"That isn't true."
"Oh no, of course not," he says, waving a hand. "Same play, different actors. Humanity's had their turn, and it's the Cylon's chance this time. Listen. There's no such thing as fate. There's nothing saying that I can't change--"
But then She grabs his arm and pulls him back hard, wheeling him around with a force he forgot She had. She's inches from him, now, and he swears despite everything that he can feel Her breath on his face. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, but then realizes that no, he needs to keep control, remain calm, and so he meets Her eyes.
"Are you willing to sacrifice our child?" She asks, voice trembling.
That's a problem.
That's his problem.
"Our child," he says, willing his own voice to remain steady, "will grow up on Earth. She'll have the ground underneath her. She'll know sunshine and seasons and--"
"Not if you go through with this, Gaius." She's shaking her head, but She doesn't take Her eyes off him. "Not if you ruin everything."
"I'm not ruining it," he says, desperate now. "All I'm saying is that--"
But She's gone, swept up in the space between his blinks. He stands there with his hand outstretched, mid-gesture. He lets it fall.
"You'll see," he says. "I will do this, and you'll see that everything is all right. I won't let anything ruin our life together. You have my word." He pounds his chest once, and then hesitates-- there's always something off about talking to Her when She isn't visible.
It almost makes him feel crazy.
It doesn't take much longer for him to reach the end of the road. The portal ripples and dances in the autumn air, almost like flames. I can turn back now, he thinks. But instead of turning back, he tightens his grip on the envelope. It's all right. He'll be a hero. He'll be safe.
When he steps through the portal, the first thing he's aware of is the heat. It feels like he's walked into a creature's throat. A sauna. Hell. It's dark, too, not at all like the bright hallway down on Causeway C, the portal he used to enter the Nexus. The world is so loud he can hardly hear himself think.
The PMQ lied. That's the only explanation for it. He's fumbles around, blind, looking for a light-switch. That's when he realizes that his hands are free now. The envelope is missing.
No.
Oh no.
"Oh gods," he says, because he's never sure which one he's supposed to be believing in anyway. In the darkness, he drops to his knees, frantic. So frantic, in fact, that he nearly knocks himself over, suddenly aware of a weakness pulling at his body. His arms and legs are heavy and uncoordinated. His ears are ringing. He realizes, belatedly, that the reason why it's so dark is because his eyes have been closed. With a disconcerting amount of effort, he opens them.
He's in the base of the ship.
He's in the base of ship alone and he can hardly stand up. Now that he can see again, it's obvious enough that the envelop is gone. There's a blur just under his face and-- when he reaches his hand up to feel it-- he realizes he has a beard.
It's then that he starts screaming.