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.