She keeps using that word, over and over, because that's what she's been fighting since she died, and even before: not "words," not the pathetic squeezed-down guttural utterances, but the pictures and the feelings and the smells and the beauty that they mean: the red, blue, yellow eye of the storm, in Remembrance wax and painful childhood and drunken painting. The later painting, of the comet against the planet that was Leoben come back to her in the detritus of the civil war. Every single godsdamn thing that happened on the stinking Demetrius was words and how they limit us. This is what Cavil was talking about; this frustration and her understanding of it is how she reaches out to Sam now: not the knowing, but the words. Nobody understands the knowing, or acting on the knowing: they need words. Calm and patient words.
Compress the world down into language, all those memories and truths into simple ugly utterances; simply accomplish that thing Gods and Oracles and Hybrids and Angels can't manage, and has almost gotten her killed every time she tried. That's all. She knows this part by heart. "If I can just complete the circle, I can get the words," he says as they wheel him away, trying to explain what's going on inside him; trying to use think science to talk about think reality. Thinking about thinking. Gerard's like, "He has a remarkably clear image!" He points at the scan, and her horrified face opens on him, like a flower.
Four months ago, the Hub goes down in a hail of fire; Boom joins John on his Baseship, the original one, where her Raptor still sits from before the civil war. He greets Ellen with a drink -- of all infinities, count on her love of liquor and Saul, two constants in a world of madness -- and stares down at her wigging. She takes him in, and looks over at Boomer as she clears the cobwebs away. "Something's happened," she realizes, and sits up in her bed, crossing her legs. She's been a hostage of hate for fourteen months; this is the first change in routine. She laughs at her son when he tells her what the 268s have done: "Begun contemplating your mortality?" She takes a drink; it belies her tone.
"More than that. Our extinction." She's sick of him now, reminding us that this isn't one long conversation but a year-plus captivity we're only seeing bits of, and hoping -- as they spend every conversation hoping -- Boomer's listening, taking it all on as she always does: "Always so dramatic!" Cavil gets as close as he's going to, to begging for her help rebuilding, reinventing resurrection, before this self-inflicted genocide finds them all. She's sick enough of him to wish him luck and grin.