Socrata takes Kara Thrace's hand, weak and soft like paper in her daughter's strong hands. Spring returns to Sicily. The flowers unfold from the cold ground, and the sun shines down. Kara weeps, and holds her face against that hand, and somewhere a door flies open, wide. And the bugs stop jumping, as Socrata Thrace dies, with her daughter by her side. Kara cries. It's hard.
Leoben: "See, there's nothing so terrible about death. When you finally face it, it's beautiful. You're free now. To become who you really are." (Okay, no. Death is not beautiful. Her mother just died. I know this. It's also not always death, though, so I'll give him a bye for now.) On the threshold of revelation, coming faster and faster, heading for the asymptote, into the curve, always a pilot, always on a vector, with the whistling and the rain, sparks flying from her approaching dawn: "You're not Leoben."
"I never said I was."
"I'm here to prepare you to pass through the next door. To discover what hovers in the space between life and death." At the end of the line, where enjambment sings: zero's the number of the Fool, the shape of the storm. It's the beginning and the end, depending on where you start counting. It goes around and around. This Leoben's just another messenger. Like any other Leoben, like anybody else at all. God has to wear masks because you're not prepared for a faceful of infinity, but that's not the secret. The secret is: how many masks.
The wind on her exhilarated face, there in her mother's house, in the bug room, becomes the hole in her cockpit canopy. The whistling wind brought by the dawn, a portrait of the womanchild cavern of the soul under pressure-heat ratio ides of evolutions have buried their fears end of line. Kara Thrace wakes up, eyes wide, lightning everywhere. I mean to say that Kara wakes up in a storm.
No. I mean to say that in every house there's a little room we don't know about. And on the other side of that door, there are insects and darkness and the sound of scratching, and a hot red heat at the back of your eyes. And a lot of us don't ever open the door. But if you can, if you can burn off what doesn't work and step to the door and open it, if you are strong enough to accomplish the impossible, you learn an amusing fact. On the other side of that door you find the Temple of Five, the Great Hall, Heaven, Elysium: a room bigger than the universe, filled with light and singing, and all the gods and heroes you could ever want, welcoming you in. And the joke of the bugs: to think that once they were terrifying, to think that once you were so scared that they were real -- that Cylons are evil, that fear is worthwhile, that hatred is an option, that anger or violence are ever appropriate, that there are moments where God looks away, that there are times when you're alone, that anyone's destiny or fate ever went wrong, that the unfolding can be disrupted, that there's a dimension that doesn't include love, and laughter -- when those bugs are just so small, and silly, and made of plastic. That stupid joke, to think your life is a story being told by anyone but you.