"Obviously it was just half-truths," he lies. "My motives aren't that pure, nobody's are! No matter what they claim, and you should know that by now." She doesn't understand him, not a word. And she doesn't care. None of it matters, because his guilt and his grace are only lies he tells himself. She swears she knows what she is talking about, this time. Imagine complete, unending love, lighting up every shadow and accepting every secret. Imagine absolution: Grace. He can't.
"I want you to be real! I want you to be her! And my real wife would never forgive me like that. She would call me on my crap and walk straight out that door and probably never come back. And you know what? I would deserve it. I would deserve it."
She says his name; it doesn't describe him. She updates, it doesn't help.
Turing can be bested if you never tell the truth, but she doesn't know how to lie yet. Her personality, her soul, is only what he's agreed to let her be. The roles she's forced to accept, and the parts of his life she's allowed to occupy. Your daughter was never a terrorist, you never left your husband. A perfect world, floating like a sheet of paper.
The word for floating world, in the Edo period, is a homophone and a joke, but the joke is on all of us: Say it with a different grin, and you mean to say the world of suffering. All delights are built on suffering and all suffering is raised up to someone else's delight. He catches her between the two, like a glint of love or a forgotten memory. Like grace itself.
She updates. He wants her to live there and to not live there simultaneously: To be dead and alive, free and circumscribed. Updating, updating, updating. Faster than her husband can see. To generate her wild algorithms, to love him and to hate him, not OR but AND, to give and to get the approval they need from each other, while also rising above it. To be better than him, but never any greater than him. To predict the responses he wants, and then the ones he needs. An impossible task. She blinks out of existence, twisted out of logic, screaming in static. He throws the holoband across the room like a bottle, like a bomb, like a ship made all of wood.
The Guatrau's seen the Cylon, in its testing sessions, but doesn't trust it yet. This is about his dead son, his grace; not about Tauron. Without corruption there would be no Guatrau. "Like any other weapon, it's only as intelligent as the hand that wields it." Sam swears he could turn the rebellion around, and that the scam would go unnoticed by their Graystone. Guatrau points out that the rebels, with their high-minded principles, would not be kindly disposed toward the Ha'la'tha regardless of how much of their dirty money saved the revolution. Ha'la'tha means "always faithful to the soil"; that soil includes Caprica now, because they are the diaspora of hateful civil unrest.