"Wait, listen, Kara, that was ..." She doesn't even look Sam in the eye.
"So now what? Gonna give orders at gunpoint?" Kara nods. "You're right, Helo. I never should've ordered Demetrius to jump to the Baseship. Too many lives to risk on a gut instinct." So, then, Karl reminds her, Demetrius goes back to the Fleet. Again she nods. "Missing a Raptor. I'm gonna take Leoben back to the Baseship. See if his story checks out." Two madmen in a tank, headed toward devastation, full of nav coordinates and jump technology? "Are you insane? The two of you alone?" But Sam knows she's not going alone. Somebody has to protect her from the monsters.
"This is crazy," Kara says to Athena, "But I need you." Athena's surprised, of course, and terrified. "I need someone that speaks their language. If this is a trap, I want to know about it." Of all the languages she speaks, Eight and Six are not among them. Seelix is overjoyed: send all the Cylons home, Raptor or no. Athena agrees to the plan as well, without really acknowledging Seelix's bullshit. As you should. "No, listen to me. Your Raptor doesn't have enough fuel to get back to Galactica." Kara reminds him that the Baseship will. "We were sent out here by the Admiral to complete a mission. Not for me, but for the people of the Fleet. And if I'm right, the payoff is Earth."
Hotdog gives them a window of fifteen hours and seven minutes, Helo agrees, and they set the clock. It begins to tick down. And somewhere Felix lies, in blessed sleep.
FLAME LIKE THE WHIRLWIND
(The native hue of resolution is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought.)
39,675 souls in the Fleet. Roslin and Tory pack up their Galactica offices, ready to return to Colonial One after the next couple rounds. When she's alone, when she's with Tory, she can take the wig off, let her skin breathe. Of all the itching and the burning she can find some small relief. "So I guess just pack up everything that's here, pack up all these drafts. I'm gonna have plenty of time on my hands over the next couple of days, so ... pack it up." Tory's eyes are lit with kindness; she reminds her President that the worst is over, that after two more diloxin treatments, she'll be over the hump.
Tory likes it best when you can see the end of the line, when there are no more cares and no more worries; she looks at the next hump and thinks it's the last. It's how she kept them both alive, on New Caprica. But there are humps Laura doesn't want anybody to know about, and she hates to let them see her sweat. Chemotherapy is the French Revolution: something wonderful, and something ugly, that kills as it heals. That says, "This is gonna hurt," and then hurts you like war.