Natalie, like any good Virgo, protests that the sentience of the Raiders is part of the divine plan in their design; she returns to the valid concept that he's butchering the Raiders whether Boomer is cracking up or not. "We're reconfiguring them," Cavil states, a familiar rephrasing whether you're living under the current Roslin administration or our own. "You are not God," hisses Natalie, and Cavil gives a pretty solid answer: "No. I'm a mechanic: the Raiders were designed to do a specific job, they stopped doing it, I'm fixing that. And when the cutting's all done, they'll go back to being happy warriors..."
(The Eight looks at Boomer, her heart breaking -- "Sharon, we love you and we always will," she thinks; "'Tis not my nature to join in hating,' she thinks -- and Boomer nods almost imperceptibly: happy warriors. What she used to be, before she shot the old man, before she was murdered again and again, in her turn. Happy warriors.)
"...So let's move on, all right?" That's Cavil all over: that's New Caprica, that's DEMAND LOVE, that's all of it. Let's forget this unpleasantness and return to the business of business, the machinery of machinery, the search for Earth by my means and divine logic and nobody else's. Six of one. And Natalie, breathing loudly and coming in close before taking off: "I'll pray for you. I'll pray hard." Which, if you've ever met a Six, means his ass is stone cold frakkin' dead. And I cannot wait, frankly.
A PLACE TO SPREAD FORTH NETS
(In which we find Claps both Slow and thundering, Zeus changes his Mind, and Gaius makes a New Friend or two.)
Helo enters the Officer's Mess with an old wooden box, ready for the first of five rehearsed goodbye ceremonies for Lee Adama. Racetrack and Hotdog are playing strip Triad, and I think we can all agree that that's a good thing on all sides. Sam's joking at another table with pilots who have no idea, and the Adamas are standing in the corner, because they are actually kind of dorks. Helo pulls out some old shot glasses and starts setting up ambrosias. Narcho takes a stand and shuts everybody up, so they can say goodbye to "the best damn jock you pink-ass cones will ever hope to see." I don't know what that means, exactly, but Lee -- as Athena laughs, beautifully -- tells him to shut up. "I already have a drink!" he dorks, and Narcho's like, "Don't once again piss on the fun, please." Oh, but Lee Adama's not even thirsty. I swear, this kid. They finally get him to take a drink, and he toasts Galactica, and downs it to applause. He toasts the men and women of Galactica, and they all cheer. He toasts the Admiral -- Bill smiles just wonderfully at his son -- "who commands the men and women of Galactica." Everybody drinks. So say we all. And finally, he toasts our "sweethearts, husbands, and wives."