The sound of the jet cross-fades us to a passenger liner hurtling through space, where Mary McDonnell is being briefed about the decommissioning ceremony by her assistant. Said assistant looks to be about twelve years old, so I'll be calling him Lackey Howser. Mary listens patiently to his random blather for a few minutes, and then suddenly bolts for the bathroom, where she sobs and feels herself up. Yes, you read that right.
Back on Earth, the blonde Cylon babe from the opening scene is taking a nice afternoon stroll through that one building complex in Vancouver that's been in just about every science-fiction show ever made. I think we're probably supposed to be shocked to see Number Six alive after she got blown up on the space station, but I was too busy trying to remember all the shows that have filmed at this place to notice. Mulder met Deep Throat here, for God's sake. The Stargate guys met the Tolan here. And while we're talking about Richard Dean Anderson, I'm also pretty sure this building was MacGyver's home office. Do people even work there anymore, or do they just rent the place out to film crews? In any event, Number Six spots a cute little baby resting in her stroller, and starts making small-talk with the kid's mother. They gush and coo for a bit, and then Six asks for permission to hold the baby. Dude. I don't even like it when people borrow my lighter, but Ma hands over her child to a total stranger without a care in the world. "So light…so fragile," observes Number Six. The baby starts bawling, but Six assures her that she won't have to cry much longer. And that particular line is finally enough to register on Ma's Susan-Smith-O-Meter, because she takes the kid back and returns her to the carriage. Then she looks away, perhaps distracted by the sight of David Duchovny and Chris Carter patiently waiting their turn to use this camera set-up. Number Six takes advantage of this to reach down into the stroller and snap the baby's neck. And she totally meant to do it, by the way, even though some people have speculated that it was an accident. I mean, how would we know she's supposed to be evil if she doesn't kill a baby?
Commercials. For some reason, I still feel weird every time I type that.
We come back to a shot of a TV show already in progress. And just in case that alone wasn't meta enough to suit your advanced, twenty-first century, Age of Irony tastes, the show in question features our old pal Baltar, checking his watch and looking really bored. Heh. He's apparently a guest on a futuristic version of the Barbara Walters show, and the host delivers so much condensed exposition about his background as Caprica's leading scientific genius that the camera has enough time to do a full 360-degree pan around Baltar's lakefront condominium before eventually settling down on Baltar himself, just as the Poor Man's Amanpour finally gets around to asking an actual question. Baltar blathers some sort of response, but we're obviously not meant to care about what he says, because Number Six has just walked into his house wearing nothing but a see-through dress and black pleather underwear. I'll say this for the Sci-Fi network: At least they know their audience. Baltar tells Poor Man's Amanpour that he thinks the Colonies should get back to the artificial intelligence research that was banned after the first Cylon war, and then we get a sudden jump-cut to Baltar and Number Six, macking future-style in the foyer. Incidentally, in the future, everyone will keep their goldfish in an Erlenmeyer flask. An octagonal Erlenmeyer flask, no doubt. Baltar and Six keep going at it, and he eventually leads her into the bedroom, where he rips off her dress because today's nerds have no patience for the merely see-through. I gotta say, Tricia Helfer is hot, but the black pleather panties aren't doing her any favors. They definitely looked better on Libby. Which actually brings me to the one good thing I can unreservedly say about Ron Moore's take on Battlestar Galactica: If nothing else, he's at least managed to bring over everything I like about Carnivale without any of that constant, pesky unwillingness to advance the plot. I mean, we've got hot pants, dirty people, characters coming back from the dead, inappropriate sexual relationships, and enough bizarre psycho-religious allegory to shake Moses' extra-phallic staff at. If they'd just made Apollo into a midget, it would have been absolutely perfect.