The birds sing, outside in the sun. She cleans up the boxes from the shower. Just a little bit. She feels herself join the orphans. Her family is gone.
Chapter Seven: "The raft was not as seaworthy as I'd hoped. The waves repeatedly threatened to swamp it. I wasn't afraid to die, I was afraid of the emptiness that I felt inside. I couldn't feel anything. And that's what scared me."
Without shoes, without closing the door, in her pajamas she walks out into the city. On a mission, in her robe and pajamas. At the edge of the fountain in a busy center square, looking out past the spray and the water and the families and the children, going on about their days as though nothing's happened. As though the world hasn't ended. They stare at her, staring, and she looks down into the calmness of the water. They are too loud.
In the center of the fountain is a large rock, as large as a car. It could cradle you. With the spray of the fountains, like water on the hull of a small yacht crossing a vast lake, splashing up against your face. The sound of it, and the smell, and the rock cradling, and the water falling down, like a curtain around grief. It makes sense to her, she thinks, it makes sense. She walks across the water toward it, toward the anchor and the curtain, and slowly they begin to watch.
She leans back against the rock, hands up in supplication. The water pours down. She holds her head in the shower of the blast, holding her arms straight out, letting everything go. Steady as it goes. Only here. Not in the house, with the boxes and the bottles of champagne. Not where you can still smell them, where you're surrounded by pictures of them. Only here, between the rock and the water. Day breaking. The rush of rain, like tears. She can weep.
The showers become an IV drip; Laura's unconscious for now. Resting peacefully. Cottle and Ishay go on about their day, adjusting her while she sleeps. As though the world isn't ending.
Lee administrates the breakdown, the razing of Galactica, all the requests for her parts and for her heart. Bill Adama is retiring his Battlestar. They're taking her away from him. Steady as it comes. Dealino distracts him a moment: they want to strip the launch tubes of their magnetic accelerators. They have a civilian use, Lee explains to him, but that's not the point: "A Battlestar's whole purpose is to launch Vipers..." Lee nods, seeing him for the first time. "I kind of know how you feel. Part of my heart's here too. Tell you what, make the accelerators the last thing your men take out. Then turn out the lights and let the old girl die in peace." He looks Dealino in the eye, like a good president. Dealino thanks him and leaves; Lee nearly cries.