"She's gone. I've lost a son, and you've lost a daughter. But I can't condone a suicide mission. So let it go." Tears well up as he steps away; Helo sniffs and jumps into anger, grabbing him: "You want me to let it go? You're the one who can't let go. Painting over the holes in this bucket? This ship is dead! But my daughter might still be alive..." Billl never liked it when they called her the Bucket, dear Liza; he likes it even less now. "I understand your pain, Captain, but don't lecture me. You're here to take orders. Do you understand?" He's watched Laura do this a million times, play the bad guy and shut it down; he used to be a soldier and it came naturally. Now it just seems sad for everybody. Helo's grossed out by himself for about three seconds, back on military time, and apologizes... Then he's right back to begging. It's the worst thing I've ever seen. He pleads for the suicide mission, for any chance to do anything. Bill can't speak. Helo's never looked so young, that's the worst part: the Admiral squeezes his shoulder and walks away, and Helo deflates like a balloon, looking younger than he ever has.
Caprica weeps, putting out the candles for a service for her sisters. Ellen speaks. "For those that we have lost in the past, and for those that we are burying today, we must remember: There is a higher purpose."
Over her, in the launch bay, Adama speaks. "They gave their lives to save this ship. Casualties, as much as any soldier fallen in battle."
Paulla puts a string of beads on an altar. Gaius speaks. "And so we mourn the passing of our friends..."
The services merge, and converge. Henry Beston spent a few years on Cape Cod, in a house not unlike Laura's cabin, and not unlike Galactica: he called it the Fo'castle, because the ten windows and its position on the beach made him feel like the captain of a ship. It was his home. Later, he called it the Outermost House. He wrote about it for a year or two, before returning to Quincy Mass in September 1927, and proposing marriage to another writer, Elizabeth Coatsworth. Talk about angels: she said she wouldn't marry him unless he turned his pages and pages of notes and essays into a manuscript, to mark the time of his life on the beach. "No book, no marriage." That is a person who understands writers. And wouldn't you know, by April he'd got it done, and The Outermost House was published in October. They honeymooned at the Fo'castle. He wrote this about it: