Some time later, people have agreed to this for some stupid reason, and Bill's explaining how they're going to land civilians all over the globe, "to give them the best possibility of survival," and document all the locations for some reason. Romo nods in the direction of how stupid this is, and Bill tells him not to "underestimate the desire for a clean slate." Not good enough. Suddenly, Leoben is the spokesman for the 268s again, with his sexy goatee, and smiles that creepy fucking smile of his: "The Sixes, the Eights, and the Twos have decided to stay. See how we can contribute to the world before we pass into God's hands." Other dumb ideas: giving the Baseship to the Centurions so they can go "find their own destiny," because as Ellen feels it they've earned their freedom. Romo waves in the direction of how this means they will come back and kill us all, and Bill tells him that isn't going to happen, and they've earned it. Then the Fleet, the entire Fleet of ships, queues up in space so that Anders can pilot all of them into the sun.
SAMUEL T. ANDERS
Kara stands at his side, hand creeping toward the water, shaking a little, wondering what she is. His eyes close slowly in memory; he can feel her. He is all around her, and he can feel her everywhere. She is enveloped in him, in his arms, and can't even feel it. Her mouth crumbles with disappointment and she begins to cry. This is really it. She pulls at her dogtags, holding them in her hands like Caprica, and drops them into the water beside him, like a grave. Her other hand rests upon his shoulder, like a benediction. She stands at the river's edge, still: bringing life to the river and water to the shore. She leans in closely: it's still him, somehow. She kisses his lips, so softly; her tears run down his face. "I love you," she sobs, whispering. "Goodbye, Sam." Her tears are his; he's all around her. He sees all her angles at once. His eyes close again, slowly, in memory, and she steps back and away.
Sam weeps. "I'll see you on the other side," he says quietly, with a tiny smile.
Bill heads onto Galactica's hangar bay, far above the Earth, wearing his flightsuit. He closes the last airlock and spins up his Mark II; Husker flies again, and for the last time. Acceleration through the launch tube pushes him back, to Frank Porthos in an office as blue and bright as a Baseship bedroom. "Is your name William Adama?" Always. They adjust the cuff, the leads, the lie detector. "Are you an officer in the Colonial Fleet?" Always. It's only an hour of his time. "Are you a Cylon?" Bill jerks, and Frank apologizes: they're trying to work up a proper control question: "I need verifiable yeses and nos." Bill's never been good with those. "Have you ever stolen money from a cash drawer?" Bill's fists nearly clench, in his lap. He's getting bored. (They haven't even gotten to the tortoise yet!) "Have you ever stolen money..."