NOTE:
Battlestar Galactica and all related characters, themes, and entities are property of their respective owners. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of character or dialogue to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental and product only of the author's imagination.
This is my first go at a fic, we'll see where that winds up. I hope you'll have as much fun reading as I did writing.
1.
Shift work meant exactly what it was supposed to in the humble opinion of Junior Helmsman Ensign Matthew Carver's mind. People work shifts, and when it's time to come onto your shift, you arrive on time. Or early, even. That would just be displaying some common courtesy. But to arrive late should be considered a trespass punishable by torture or something similar, he thought. Carver rubbed the side of his face – the growth of stubble crackling against his hand. He had, in fact, arrived early – at 1745 hours Caprica Mean Time to assume his position at the helm of this particular Battlestar. As a courtesy.
Carver glanced at the clock – it was 0607 CMT – and Senior Helmsman Lieutenant Gabriel Arnold was seven minutes late. Carver sighed and glanced at the helm's controls before him. As they had read all night, the Battlestar Aria had held her position on the outer system – outside of any orbital range. His job – as was the tardy Lieutenant Arnold's – was to make sure the vast expanse of ship did not move anywhere.
"Mr. Carver, you still with us?" said a voice from behind his plush pilot's chair.
"Yes, sir," Carver made an attempt to sit up straighter in his chair – his wrinkled uniform telling the story of the previous twelve hours.
The voice belonged to none other than the ship's commanding officer. A resounding "Oh Shit" went through Carver's head as the authoritative sound of boots approached his chair.
Commander Scott Mason could sympathize – slightly – with the junior officer before him. Late people annoyed him just as much as they did any man. He stood behind and slightly to the left of the chair occupied by one Ensign Carver – staring out of the solar shielded window unique to his Battlestar. Black space greeted him, as it did every morning.
A quiet brush of the CIC's door opening and closing announced Lt. Arnold's arrival. Carver gave the senior officer a slight look before restoring his controls to default position. Arnold slid into the chair and checked onto watch – his control layout coming up to the screen.
"Thank you Mr. Carver," Mason said after a sip of coffee. "Mr. Arnold, it would be wise of you not to be late to watch."
Arnold swallowed hard, "Understood, sir."
Mason chuckled slightly. So began another morning on his Battlestar – a fully armored interstellar ship of war – measuring a kilometer and a half from bow to stern, and half a kilometer wide with launch pods closed. She stood just under half a kilometer from keel to top deck – all the while cutting a terrifying figure to any enemy – foreign or domestic – who chose to take disagreement with the articles of the twelve colonies.
Mason accepted a document handed to him by his yeoman detailing the happenings of the previous watch. However, he set this on his navigation table alongside his mug of coffee and faced his Executive Officer – a Lieutenant Commander by the name of Garrett Emory.
"How was it, Garrett?" Mason asked informally, rubbing his eyes.
"As it's been for the last two nights, sir," Emory replied. "Uneventful."
"The CAP?" the Commander inquired to the status of the Combat Air Patrol.
"Nothing noted – last wing was skids down about ten ago," the XO replied. He lowered his voice. "Scott, how long are we going to be here patrolling empty space?"
"I honestly can't say," Mason replied. "Nothing from the Admiralty yet. We'll proceed as we have, running drills and staying sharp."
Emory nodded, "Guess that's all we can do for the time being."
Mason also nodded, sipping coffee, "Get some rest, Garrett."
"Aye, sir."
Mason again glanced out of the CIC's window at empty space. The CIC quietly hummed with activity around him – his crew going about their normal diagnostic checks and scans for the morning.
"Mr. Arnold, sitrep," Mason took another long gulp of coffee.
"Heading two-seven-niner degrees, speed zero, sir. Holding as ordered," Arnold was quick to reply, hoping the Commander wouldn't make eye contact.
Mason ran a hand through his brown and gray hair – betraying his young age of thirty-nine. How he had come to command a Battlestar at this young of an age was a story unto itself. What mattered, however, is that he looked the presence of a commanding officer – his black, polished boots planted firmly before his navigational table and DRADIS readout – pressed, dark navy blue duty pants, and buttoned coat displaying Commander's insignia on his collar, and Viper wings above his left chest pocket. Also displayed to a watchful eye were medals in the form of the Distinguished Flying Cross, Distinguished Service Cross, and Combat Wounded. His left sleeve showed four hash marks, one for every three years on deployment – his right showed three for his nine years spent home. Although he really didn't consider these hash marks as marks of home. His home was on his ship.
The CIC's hum died slightly, as his crew knew what was next after he inquired with his helmsman – orders for the day.
Mason obliged, "Make your course two-zero-zero degrees, ahead one quarter sublight. Tactical, give launch orders for the CAP – standard patrol."
"Two-zero-zero degrees, ahead one quarter, aye sir."
"Launch the CAP, aye."
Mason leaned against the nav table and sipped his coffee as the ship hummed with authority underneath his boots. The launch pods were being extended – extending the breadth of the ship on either side. A flurry of activity began – the Battlestar's primary function of launching and retrieving strike fighters was something that Mason's crew of just under twenty five hundred souls were well practiced in.
The Commander smiled and sipped his coffee as the buzz filled the CIC
"-standard patrol order confirmed-"
"-affirmative, two niner-"
"-dradis readings negative, clear space ahead-"
On the flight deck, the buzz was supplemented with the whine of sublight engines, shuttle vehicles, and the general din of one full squadron of twenty Mark VII Vipers. The crews absolutely roared at each other to be heard as the nimble fighters were loaded to launch tubes.
"-watch the rail!"
"-two nine loaded – go flight!"
"-heads up you frakkin' moron!"
"-weapon is hot!"
"-good hunting you frak!"
"First and second flights loaded, sir," reported Captain Erik Hopkins. As the Aria's senior tactical officer, Hopkins was directly responsible for the primary defense of his ship and whichever assignment she was charged with.
"Aria – viper zero-one, Valkyries are hot," crackled the speakers in the CIC. Mason smirked. While the comm traffic wasn't exactly…protocol, he chose to let it pass. Viper jockeys would be Viper jockeys. He knew.
Hopkins yielded giving the final launch order out of respect for Mason. In two years' service under the commander, he had grown to respect the man who was only nine years his senior in age. However, Mason had never demanded this respect from Hopkins, nor anyone serving under him. He had simply demonstrated his ability to lead. In the short span of two years, Hopkins continually was amazed by the poise of the commanding officer.
"Mr. Hopkins," Mason nodded to him.
In a flash, Hopkins dislodged the receiver and keyed up – "Valkyries are a go."
Waiting in Viper Zero-One was Aria's Commander of the Air Group. A recent replacement that actually still had yet to formally meet the commander. She had started yesterday, and was known to most simply as "Artemis."
She sat in the idling craft with her arms folded, waiting on the launch order. She hadn't made it a point to really get to know the squadron over the past twenty-four hours. Much of it had been spent unpacking and preparing for her duty station. She had been shown to her quarters by Emory, who had her sign something and had dashed off quickly, but not without a poorly veiled sweep of her figure.
Artemis rolled her eyes and damned the gods for making men the way they were. She didn't let it trouble her. She was used to it. The men aboard a Battlestar routinely lost their minds about two weeks after leaving port – which was to say nothing about the crew of the Aria, who had been on patrol for the better part of a year. Artemis imagined just about any woman walking in the corridors was enough to make the men cause self-induced cervical spine damage.
"Valkyries are a go."
"Zero-one, roger roger," she smiled and slammed the throttle forward on her Viper. The Mark VII belched blue-white flames out of its three triangle-formed sublight engines. She glanced to her right at her launch control crewman, gave the customary thumbs-up and salute, which was returned. The next instant, she felt the sickening punch in her abdomen as her Viper strained to escape the artificial gravity generated by the Aria.
And it was instantly gone, replaced by the weightless feeling of space. Something Artemis had always savored. She rolled her Viper three times and came about hard, as was standard. She looked over her left shoulder and saw the other nine Vipers flung from their launch tubes into space in short order.
"Crash, take your people and start for Beta sector, regular reports, everyone else on me," Artemis said over the comm.
"Roger roger."
She looked through her cockpit's windscreen to see a group of ten Vipers split from the formation she spearheaded.
"On you, Artemis."
She looked to her right as the remaining nine Vipers formed up on her wings. They flew tight – she was impressed. Privately, of course. She nodded to the sender of the transmission, a pilot she knew simply as "Corndog" – he had apparently lost the card game the night before and was forced to volunteer himself as the new CAG's wingman. The spot was revered and hated. To fly on the wing of the CAG was to be under constant scrutiny – however, it afforded the best assignments in the squadron. And if this Artemis was really the type of Viper pilot everyone rumored her to be – it would be a front-row seat to witness the craft at the hands of a master.
"So that's the famed Artemis?" Mason said, mostly to himself. He watched the CAP break away into its two flights on the dradis screen. He had given her file a cursory glance the night before. Most of what he knew about her was from Viper jocks loaded with ambrosia in local pilot's watering holes. Their tones were hushed when the spoke of her. Mason, as he had always, decided he would judge for himself.
Had Artemis been the kind of person who smiled much, she would have at the sight of the massive Battlestar. She had not had a chance to fully appreciate the ship the day before – she had jumped in expertly next to the landing pod, and had thankfully arrived when the pattern was clear. Now she beheld the ship through her cockpit – the towering white letters spelling ARIA on the side of the launch pod, the lights blinking into empty space.
She cruised slowly in a wide arc around to the front of the ship. As she rounded the port bow, she saw the exclusive panoramic window on one side of the CIC. And one man standing in front of the nav table – his arms folded as he reviewed her flight.
Now she really did smile.
"Viper Zero-One, Aria control," was overheard by Mason. He glanced to his left at Lieutenant Andrea O'Reilly – who's job definition was technically senior space traffic controller. However, she was simply known as the "Air Boss." Not a single craft landed or took off from the Aria without her direct knowledge. She reported to Hopkins, who set his coffee down and walked to her station. Mason remained planted, looking out the CIC's window.
"Viper Zero-One, Aria control," O'Reilly tried again. This was somewhat unprecedented. As most good Viper pilots knew, it was either answer the air boss when called, or expect a short flight followed by a long time grounded.
Artemis, of course, knew this. However, she wasn't perturbed. She nosed her Viper around, finishing the wide arc. She now was head-to-head with the giant ship. Her Viper was a speck on the map by comparison.
"Zero-one, one-three, uh…ma'am…"
Artemis ignored the prompt by Corndog.
"Viper Zero-One, Aria control on fleet comm."
Artemis gave a quick thought to her career, and decided to answer.
"Zero-one."
"Frakkin' finally," O'Reilly sighed before keying up. "Zero-one, please alter flight path fifteen degrees to avoid collision."
"Aria control, you were broken."
"The hell I was," the young lieutenant muttered, giving a glance to Hopkins. Hopkins, in turn, glanced at the commander. He had moved from the nav table – and was standing in between the navigator and lieutenant Arnold's helm control, staring out into space.
Artemis smirked, and pushed her throttle cyclic all the way forward. Flame roared out of the end of her space superiority fighter, launching it forward. Her flight wing had little choice but to follow suit.
Corndog watched the new CAG stomp on the gas toward the looming Aria.
"You've got to be kidding me," he said to himself, before glancing over to the pilot who was until a second ago on Artemis' left wing. He shrugged. Corndog shook his head in return, and laid the throttle down.
"Viper Zero-One, you are ordered to alter course fifteen degrees!" Hopkins barked into the comm. "Viper Zero-One, Aria Tactical – respond!"
Mason still said nothing. He remained standing on his CIC, unmoved.
A shrill siren filled the CIC as dradis flashed collision alarm.
"Warning – Collision Alarm – Warning – Collision Alarm – Warning."
Artemis rolled over, and buzzed the CIC – looking directly up – or down, rather – through her windscreen, looking straight into the eyes of Mason.
Mason stood, looking up through the glass at the Viper pilot. Her flyby was perhaps a second in length – and had there been any air in the void of space to create a sonic boom, the whole bow of the Aria surely would have shuddered. However, the pass was silent, as things were in space. He simply looked up as Artemis passed by, and smiled in return.
Artemis was satisfied. The Commander hadn't moved. At least he was man enough to put on a brave face for his crew in front of his fancy window on his CIC. She righted her Viper, and made for the normal CAP route.
Mason almost laughed. He turned, "Cancel collision alarm. Mr. Forte, get me their channel, please."
"Aye, sir," was the reply from Communications Officer Ensign Jordan Forte. "Channel is yours, sir."
The CIC held its breath, waiting for the Commander to drop the hammer on the new CAG. This was going to be ugly. Like a car accident, though, no one could look away.
"Viper Zero-One, Aria actual."
Well, Artemis thought. That was quick.
"Go, actual."
"Nice trick, Artemis. Reminds me of the same thing I pulled on the Cathedral ten years ago. Resume your normal patrol and think about some new tricks while you're out there. That will do with the fly-bys for today. Actual out."
The CIC was quiet, save for a snicker here or there. Mason drained his coffee.
"Conn is yours, Mr. Hopkins, I'll be in my office. Send the new CAG by when she's through," the commander said.
"Aye, sir, I have the conn," Hopkins was smiling. He enjoyed watching the commander work.
"Commander, I've got Admiral Nelson for you," Forte called from comms.
"In my office, please," Mason said as he strode out of the CIC.
"Scott!" roared a beaming Rear Admiral Adrian Nelson.
"Good morning, sir," Mason nodded to himself, speaking into the phone.
"And how are things out in your sector this morning, Scott?"
"Operations proceeding normal, sir – nothing of significance to report. The crew is in good moral," Mason reported, leaning back in his chair.
"Very good, commander, very good," Nelson still chuckled, obviously having partaken in the traditional shot of ambrosia in his coffee that morning. Mason had resigned to himself the fact that he would never understand anyone who hailed from Saggitaron.
"How is Wendy? And the kids?" the commander asked politely.
"Ah! Wendy is spending all of my money and the kids are obnoxious as ever!" Nelson reported. "Little Brody was involved in a – er – slight altercation at primary school yesterday. His instructor said – under no uncertain terms – that he had punched the lights out of the school bully. I had to take him home, for his mother's sake, you know."
Mason snickered slightly.
"I'll let him sweat it a little before I tell him just how damn proud of him I am," Nelson continued. "But enough about my life, Scott, I have new orders for you."
Scott sat up in his chair, "Yes, sir, go ahead."
"Commander, I have an odd one here. Fleet dispatched a raptor with two viper escorts from the Oddesy yesterday to scout a passing asteroid for mining prospects. They never checked back. I know you're holding position on the outer edge and running patrols, but I would like the Aria to check on this one. Sound good?"
Nelson had afforded Mason the opportunity to refuse the assignment, which the commander appreciated. However, he couldn't bring himself to say no, especially to the friend he had in Nelson.
"Of course, sir, we'd be glad to check on them," Mason replied.
"Thank you, Scott, I appreciate it," Nelson said to him. "I'll send the coordinates with your orders."
"Our pleasure, sir, I'll report once we arrive," Mason said.
"I don't call you my best resource for no reason, Scott, good hunting," Nelson replied, using the traditional Viper pilot's farewell. Mason knew that the term "good hunting" meant much more than a successful mission. It meant everything – be careful, come back safe, I love you, give them hell – all of the above.
"And you, sir."
"Mr. Hopkins, recall the CAP," Mason said, striding into the CIC.
"Aye, sir," Hopkins replied, almost hiding his raised eyebrow. It was somewhat unusual to recall the Vipers after such a short time in flight. O'Reilly keyed the frequency and began the recall orders.
"Begin prep for FTL jump," was Mason's next order. He said it as matter-of-factly so that he may have been commenting on the weather. This brought the CIC to a near standstill. Almost all the crew stopped what they were doing to look at him.
Mason wasn't bothered, "Was I not clear?"
Immediately his crew was back to work – racking their brains for the faster-than-light jump procedures.
"Sir?" Hopkins had stepped close to him. "A FTL jump?"
"A FTL jump," Mason nodded. "I know it's been awhile, Erik, but we've been dispatched on an assignment from Admiral Nelson, and I intend to take care of it as soon as we can."
Captain Erik Nelson nodded, hesitantly. After a moment's consideration, he drew himself up and strode across the CIC, "Coordinates are as follows – One, niner, niner, eight, - oh, please people, this isn't a museum, let's go!"
Mason glanced up to the dradis in time to see the CAP forming up in landing patterns. He hadn't authorized combat landings – not for this particular situation. The Viper pilots were patient and waited their turn as the automated landings proceeded slower. The young commander wished it was like the old days - when he was still in the cockpit. There were no automated landings. In the day when he was still called "Bishop," he held the record for most successful non-automated landings – with one exception given to a pilot known as "Husker" from the now-decommissioned Valkyrie. The ship's namesake lived on through the Viper squadron now assigned to his Aria. He smiled slightly at the irony.
"Zero-One you're at three klicks, call the ball."
"Roger, Artemis has the ball," she radioed in return. As she had done five hundred seventy three times previously. She also had a distaste for automated landings. While safer, admittedly, it took the control out of her hands. She didn't like that.
"Artemis, paddles, Commander wants to see you once you're aboard, ma'am," Spoke the Landing Safety Officer – who's informal title of "paddles" was a carryover from days of aircraft carriers long ago.
"Roger," she replied. A small beep informed her that her Viper had been passed over to automated landing. She let go of the joystick, reluctantly. She folded her arms after cycling the landing skids, and waited.
"Coordinates confirmed, sir," Hopkins reported crisply, trying to hide his unease.
"Retract the pods," Mason ordered calmly. The ship hummed as the pods retracted, however the thrum of the FTL drive resounded around the Aria's bulkheads – causing the uninitiated's heads to perk up and look around.
"Pods are in, sir, drive is spun," Hopkins said.
"Jump."
The ship seemingly disappeared from the very spot it occupied, destined for parts unknown.
"Captain Cassandra Schaefer reporting as ordered, sir. Permission to come aboard, sir," said Artemis as she was invited into the commander's cabin. She had now formally requested and received permission to be on the ship, even though she had been serving informally for the past forty-three hours. She enjoyed tradition in the service, and embraced it where appropriate.
"Granted. Have a seat, captain," Mason said, glancing up only once from her file. He mentally stopped himself from doing a double-take, and forced himself to look at the regulation photo that had been copied to the face sheet.
What he had saw in the cursory glance, though, took him by surprise. While fleet photos always left a little bit to be desired, this particular Captain Cassandra Schaefer had far outstripped any expectation Mason held for her.
The live version of the photo now sat across his desk from him, and politely refused coffee.
She looked slightly younger than the age of thirty-four, as reported by her file. She wore her uniform proudly, and it fit her frame nicely. She looked at him with green eyes, slightly calculating. Her brunette hair was pulled back, as per regulation. She wasn't smiling…but she wasn't not smiling, either.
"Artemis," he began, "that will be enough of unauthorized flybys, am I clear?"
"Yes, sir," she replied, revealing nothing.
Mason wasn't quite sure how to respond.
"I understand you had your choice of duty stations, captain," he continued, glancing down at the file to confirm what he already knew. "Why did you choose my particular ship?"
"I drew a name out of a flight helmet, sir," she answered, truthfully.
"No shit?" Mason cracked a slight smile.
"No shit, sir."
"Well," Mason leaned back in his chair. "Then I'll tell you what I tell every officer who comes aboard to serve under me. I'm not a hard man to work for, Captain, and I only demand one thing – and that is excellence."
It was Artemis' turn to blink slightly hard. She looked at the Commander – who returned her gaze, equally revealing nothing. She caught herself staring slightly at the famed Bishop – one of the best pilots to ever jock a Viper. She thought he would be taller. He seemed to be older than he appeared – his hair, brown and grey, bore a somewhat unnatural volume that made it stand slightly. His deeply blue eyes met her gaze, not intimidated slightly. He seemed to be the type of man who knew exactly what was happening around him at all times – completely confident in himself. It triggered something in her she couldn't quite place.
"I understand, sir," she decided to reply.
Mason paused for a moment, "Any questions for me?"
"Yes, sir, one," she replied, finding her confidence again. "How many successful combat landings?"
Mason had to smile at her. A hint of a smile formed around her pale pink lips.
"Nine hundred ninety seven," he replied.
"Three short?" she asked, referring to the famous "Husker" and his one thousand landings.
"Had a gear malfunction on the ninety eighth," Mason recalled, relaxing slightly by just talking about flying. He always enjoyed it. "Had to bring her in on her belly. The admiral happened to be touring that day, and I…er…skidded my Viper into his Raptor. He wasn't very happy with me."
"Which admiral?" Artemis inquired.
"Your father, of all people," he replied, with a slight gleam in his eye. Not many people could say they wrecked a Viper into Fleet Admiral Adam Schaefer's Raptor. At least not any officers currently serving.
Captain Schaefer's demeanor broke and she caught herself laughing. She had never heard this story from her father. She tried, mostly in vain, to downplay the fact that she was the Fleet Admiral's daughter.
"You got me, Commander," she said after collecting herself. "I was happy to pull the Aria's name out of my helmet."
"Because we're the furthest away from Caprica," Mason finished for her. She narrowed her eyes, looking at him and smiling.
"How'd you know?"
"You don't want to fly in the shadow of the Admiral. I get it," he said. "You want your skill to speak for you – not your name. A lot of my crew won't make the association."
She put on a face that didn't reveal how impressed she was that he had read her as easily as that. She had always been a hard read – even for people adept at the art. Artemis enjoyed this about herself. However, her current Commander had just upended it. Perhaps he was one of the few who saw through her.
"Something like that, sir, yes," she replied.
"Commander Mason to CIC. Commander Mason to CIC," the intercom buzzed.
Mason continued to look at her as though he hadn't heard the message. He understood her situation – as he did with many of the crew who sat across his desk.
"Well, Captain, I can't say that I'm not glad to have the famed Artemis aboard," he said with finality. "It will be good for morale – and I'm sure you can teach the air wing a thing or two. I usually invite new officers to dinner when they arrive – are you available tonight?"
If Artemis hadn't paused before – she did now.
Did Bishop seriously just invite me to dinner?
"Of course, sir," she replied, politely.
"Nineteen Hundred," he said, tossing her closed file onto his desk. "That will be all."
"Report," Mason said as he walked back into CIC.
Hopkins was quick on the uptake, "Arrived at the coordinates as ordered, sir. Flights are loading now. Initial scans show nothing."
The commander nodded, glancing first at dradis, then out the solar shield. He had been in this sector a few times previously, and recognized the giant green planet below – although the name eluded him.
"Who's in the tubes?" he asked.
"The eights, sir," Hopkins replied, not glancing up from his dradis readout. He was referring to the eighth squadron of the ship – nicknamed the Aces n' Eights.
"Good," Mason said with a smirk. The eights were a breed of their own – often found on the flight deck carousing and generally raising hell. "Go for flights, and send recon raptors – standard flight time. Regular reports, please."
"Aye, sir," replied the captain.
Mason had, again, disregarded the change in watch. He usually allotted a time in the mid-afternoon (Caprica Mean) to retreat to his quarters and review the day's happenings. But that almost never occurred. He always had fallen asleep in his chair, as he had that day. He sat with his coat unbuttoned at the top, breathing heavily.
His quarters were simply, however solidly, decorated. Dark, stained wood was common – the walls, his desk, and the trim. Dark navy blue carpeting – matching his uniform – ran the floor, emblazoned in the center by the silver colonial fleet crest, with BSG 73 Aria shining proudly. The walls were adorned with photos, mostly, of a younger, smiling Mason in the dark green flight suit worn by Viper pilots. Displayed in a lesser precedence were his medals – almost as though he had been forced to hang them on the wall, despite objections.
It made no difference to the napping commander. The lights were dim – he had distaste for the harsh, overhead lighting provided by the ship. He favored lamps, or the light provided by a nearby star as it shone through his small window above his bunk. His cabin held authority – but it also yielded quiet comfort to him.
"Action stations, Action stations! Set condition one throughout the ship! Action stations!"
Mason jumped out of his chair at the blaring warning. He struck his knee on the side of his desk ("Frak!") as he sprinted for the door.
"Report!" he said sharply as he entered the CIC. His voice wasn't raised, but the collected staff of the CIC did a double-take. The commander had arrived. And whatever had summoned him had best be un-frakked within the next five seconds.
"Sir, dradis contact, unknown type, big, bearing one-three-seven and closing," Hopkins shot back.
"How fast?" Mason asked, glaring at the dradis. A large blip had appeared, with the multi-million cubit computer saying nothing but "UNK CONT 01 137 3125 111."
"Pretty slow, sir," Hopkins reported. "But she's closing."
Emory arrived without fanfare and barked in Mason's place, "Interception course for the CAP – ready the alert five Vipers."
"Gun crews to stations, Mr. Hopkins," Mason added. "Hold fire until commanded."
"Aye, sir."
"Mr. Forte, anything?" Mason then asked.
"Negative, sir, scanning known channels," Forte replied.
"Attempt standard colonial hailing, Mr. Forte," Emory ordered.
Mason finally began to collect himself. Although he had been awakened by condition one alerts before, he still didn't enjoy the experience. It reminded him of the old Cylon war – catching sleep in the cramped crew quarters in between Viper hops.
"No response on hails, sir," Forte reported.
"Goes straight to voicemail, then," Emory cracked with a slight smile over to Mason.
Mason smirked in turn. His confidence level was high. He wasn't hoping that his ship of war would overcome this new threat – whatever it was. He knew it would. It was a difference that he stressed to his men and women. Being confident was one thing. Cocky was the other. And he had no tolerance for the latter.
"Miss O'Reilly, how close are we?" Mason asked, referring to the CAP flight speeding towards the contact.
"Matter of seconds, sir," O'Reilly replied, coolly.
"Put me through to Scooter," Mason said to no one in particular. He was referring to Captain James "Scooter" Harley, commanding officer of the Aces n' Eights. A pretty good pilot in Mason's eyes – which meant he ranked within the top ten guns in the fleet.
"You're through, sir," Hopkins reported.
"Scooter, Aria actual," Mason spoke into the hard-wired phone.
"Actual, Scooter."
"You should be in range soon, what do you have for us?"
"Nothing yet – can I confirm weapons status?"
"Weapons tight, Captain, do not fire unless fired upon."
"Acknowledged, sir. Dradis shows this thing right in front of us but we can't see a thing."
"-Scooter, Peach, we'll break high and left-"
"-it should be right here-"
"Sir, alert Vipers are loaded and standing by – fifth squadron," Hopkins said quietly in the direction of Emory.
Emory nodded, listening with Mason to the viper chatter. Mason nodded as well, silently acknowledging.
"-what the frak is this-"
"-this some kind of joke?"
"The hell is going on, Garrett?" Mason asked quietly. Emory looked at him and shrugged.
"Aria, Scooter."
"Aria actual, go Scooter," Mason replied.
"Commander, I don't know how to put this, but there's not a thing out here."
"We're closing in now, sir," Hopkins said, nodding his head towards the dradis readout. It showed the Aria, her swarming squadron of Vipers, and the unknown contact. By all purposes, the Aria's bow should have been ramming into whatever it was.
"Well," Mason hummed. He stepped away from the nav table. His friend and XO trailed behind him as they approached the solar screen.
The two men folded their arms and looked out into empty space. The Eights cruised slowly by in loose patterns, their pilots confused. Some cracked jokes and loosened up on the formation, performing stunts.
"I know better than to ask, Scott, but perhaps a cloaking device?" Emory had to almost laugh at himself.
Mason smiled, but also nodded. His XO was covering all the bases, which was why he was in the position he was in.
"No, I don't think so," he answered. "Even if there was anyone but else to travel this far out, there hasn't ever been a way to hide a ship. Ever."
Emory nodded and continued to stare into empty space.
"If there was piracy out this far, though…" Mason mused, trailing off.
"They definitely wouldn't want to pick a fight with this ship," Emory replied. "Not even I would on a good day."
"Nor would I," the commander said. Then, turning to Hopkins, "Secure from condition one, Mr. Hopkins, resume normal course and operations."
"Aye, sir," Hopkins said. He flipped up a corded phone with flair, as if he had done it several hundred times previously. "Secure from condition one, secure from condition one. Action stations secure."
"Let's have the raptors scout ahead by a jump and see if they can find anything else," Emory added. Mason nodded, absent-minded. Such was the trust the commander had for his executive officer. Emory could order a crewman to shoot Mason in the head, and Mason would be hard pressed to disagree.
"The fifth can stand down from alert five for the time being – but tell those guys to stay cool for the moment – at least until all the raptors are back in our airspace," Mason said to Emory in a low voice.
"You bet," the XO replied. "doesn't feel good to me, either, Scott."
Mason grunted, frowning slightly.
"Mr. Hopkins," Mason turned, summoning his tactical officer up to the nav table.
"Sir," Hopkins arrived in about half a second. He bent over the table to speak with the commander in a low voice.
"You ever see her talk like that, Erik?" Mason asked, referring to the dradis computer.
"No, sir, I can't say that I have," the captain replied.
"You've started diagnostics?"
Hopkins nodded, "Nothing as of yet, I'll let you know as soon as we find something."
"Who's on it?" Mason asked.
"Saylors, sir."
"Good," the commander was pleased that Warrant Officer Saylors was running the diagnostics. He had signed his approval to promote him to information technology supervisor two months prior.
"Yes, sir," Hopkins agreed. Mason nodded to him, informally dismissing him.
Artemis sighed with boredom as she flipped the page on more pilot performance analysis. She had a rather strong distaste for the administrative portion of her job as CAG. She sat with her legs crossed in one of the overstuffed leather chairs in the pilot's ready room, using the fold-away desks on the chairs on either side of hers to hold stacks of files.
She thought back to her meeting with the commander. It had lingered a little longer than she would have liked in her mind. The captain sighed, annoyed. She had work to do.
"Ma'am?" came a voice from behind her.
"Yes?" Artemis turned, her brunette hair swishing slightly against her flight suit. Before her stood the only other female Viper pilot in the air wing – a Lieutenant Naomi "Nike" Emerson.
"Hey Nike," the CAG nodded to the open chair beside hers. The pilot sat down.
Artemis dug her file out from the stack beside hers. She was silently appreciative of the other female pilot beside her. Even though Artemis was, technically, the fleet's top gun, she still needed to go shot for shot with the boys at the bars, cuss just as colorfully, and enjoy the traditional cigar just to make sure no one frakked with her.
"So, Nike, goddess of victory," Artemis nodded as she rifled through her file, looking at nothing in particular. "Good callsign, I like it."
"And I like yours, ma'am," Nike replied, slightly nervous for her first performance review with the new CAG. She was literally sitting inches from the best pilot in the fleet.
Artemis could almost hear Nike's heart beating. Her next question caught the younger pilot off guard.
"Does anyone give a halfway decent manicure on this flying man-cave?"
Nike sputtered before laughing.
Artemis smiled, glad to break the ice.
"Yes, ma'am, they fly someone in from Caprica every two weeks or so – depending where we're at."
"Good," Artemis said. While it didn't scrub her entire month to go without girly things, she did have an appreciation for such things from time to time.
She continued, "Nike, your combat landings look good to me, you're shooting within the thirtieth percentile, no major emergencies noted at all in your logs – I don't really have anything else. Keep kicking ass."
"Thank you, ma'am," Nike replied, suppressing the urge to smile.
"Anything for me?" Artemis said as she signed the file with a halfhearted signature.
"Um," Nike mused for a second. "If I may, ma'am…and I hope I'm not out of line here –"
"Frakkin' please," replied the CAG as she handed the younger pilot her file back.
"Ok," Nike smiled again, beginning to relax. The new CAG wasn't so bad. "The guys couldn't help but notice your flyby. They're actually pretty impressed."
Artemis didn't convey the immense satisfaction she felt at these words.
"Well, it was a bad example to set," she said.
"Like anyone gives a shit, it was awesome," Nike laughed. "None of the other guys would have the stones to try that with the commander on watch, anyway."
"Yeah, he was real impressed," Artemis laughed. "Called me into his quarters straight after."
"You," Nike's eyes went wide. "You got called to his cabin?"
"Well, yeah," Artemis replied. She enjoyed the informal conversation – thankful for a distraction from work.
Nike flushed slightly, "Wow."
"What?" Artemis raised an eyebrow.
"It's," the lieutenant started. "What's he like?"
"You've never met him?" the CAG asked.
"No," she said, trying not to smile. "I passed him in the hall once. He said 'hi' to me, and I…I ran into the bulkhead."
The two women broke out into laughter.
"Smooth," Artemis said.
"I was so embarrassed!" Nike said. "There's the commander, and I run straight into the wall! It's bad enough when you frak up in front of a superior officer, much less the commander, and much less someone as hot as –"
Nike stopped short, feeling her face get warm.
Artemis smirked.
"I – uh," Nike said.
"It's ok," the CAG said. She had been trying not to admit this to herself. " He…is kind of easy on the eyes."
Nike remained silent, embarrassed. She nodded, however.
"Anyway," Artemis tried to clear the awkward air. "I'm late for…something. Want to grab a drink later?"
"That sounds good," Nike replied, standing quickly. "Ma'am."
Artemis nodded her dismissal, gathering her files.
Artemis rushed down the corridor, buttoning her dress grays as she ran. A readout read a very digital "1904" as she ran forward to the senior officer's mess.
"Frak," she whispered to herself, damning the uniform's pencil skirt for not allowing her to run faster.
She skidded to a halt in front of the door, which was slightly open. She knocked anyway.
"Come in," came the voice of the commander.
Artemis killed the power to a readout just outside the door and vainly stared into the glossy black screen. She ran an hand over her somewhat frizzed brunette hair – worn down – in a failed attempt to get it to lie flat. She sighed silently in frustration before entering the dining room.
"You're late, Artemis," the commander said.
"My apologies, sir," she said, stepping in and saluting, as was customary.
Mason glanced over from the mini bar. He once again forced himself not to stare. Emory was right about something for a change. His XO had promptly informed him that the new CAG – the Fleet Admiral's Daughter, no less – was about to be the best thing to ever happen to this ship of war.
She stood in her dress grays, her skirt hugging her thighs, and her fitted coat gracing her torso nicely – doing so without revealing too much. He returned the salute.
"Please, captain, we may drop the formalities," he said. "I believe we are having steak – red wine ok?"
"Cabernet?" she replied, still standing at ease.
"Yes," the commander replied. He had forgone his dress grays for this occasion, still wearing his navy blue duty uniform. He poured two glasses. "Please, be seated."
Captain Schaeffer took the seat offered by Commander Mason. He placed both glasses of wine on the black marble dining table – just as the phone rang.
Mason's brow furrowed slightly as he strode over to the phone, picking it up. Artemis sat at the table, the wine untouched.
"Mason," he spoke into the receiver. He listened for a moment, "Come on, Garrett, you can't spare an hour…very well, I understand…no, it's fine, really. Get it done."
He hung up the receiver, turning slightly. He looked over his shoulder at the CAG, "Commander Emory was supposed to be joining us, but he's hung up on the dradis diagnostics."
"I see," Artemis replied, remaining as polite as possible. She allowed her eyes to linger at the commander's turned back. The uniform was designed to accent features admired in military personnel – wide shoulders, trim waist, and so on. He wore it proudly. Artemis also noted that the commander appeared to still take in his share of exercise on the vessel.
"No matter, he'll just have to have his steak cold," Mason quipped. He sat at the table, glancing over at Artemis. He held her green eyes for a moment too long.
He cleared his throat, grabbing the wine glass in front of him, "How did the guys do with the condition one?"
"Flawlessly," she replied, recognizing the desperation move to talk business. She played along. She also had held his deeply blue eyes for a moment too long. "The eights were already on the flight deck, most of them anyway."
"Not surprising," Mason replied. "Probably trying to prank some poor bastard, right?"
"They were trying to spray-paint Scooter's Viper's markings pink," Artemis replied, a slight smile to match.
Mason suppressed a laugh.
"It's handled," the CAG reported, deftly.
"I'm sure it is. Scooter is a big guy – not one I'd like to mess around with," said Scott "Bishop" Mason.
"Indeed," said Artemis, attempting to keep the conversation formal.
"So you're adjusting well to the new position?" Mason asked, taking his turn at playing along.
"Yes," she replied. "The paperwork…"
"Is bullshit," Mason finished for her. "It doesn't get any better."
She smiled and laughed, delicately grasped her wine glass, "To bullshit?"
Mason smiled and touched his glass lightly to hers, "to bullshit."
She sipped the wine – and was immediately impressed.
"Commander," she said after pursing her lips.
"Please," he held up a hand. "Formality has its place on my ship. So does informality."
"Bishop, then," she narrowed her eyes, a hint of a smirk on her face.
"Perfect."
"Bishop. I understand you're in your late thirties?"
"Thirty-nine," he replied, nodding.
"And Nelson tossed you the keys to a Battlestar? The Aria nonetheless?"
"I'm still trying to wrap my head around it," he replied. "I know I'm young to command a Battlestar. I'm the youngest commander in the fleet, by far. I took this command three years ago and am still some days getting used to it."
"How did that happen?"
Mason considered for a moment. After a sip of wine, he began:
"I worked my way up through command on the Cathedral. The overhead was comprised of a lot of guys who were counting the minutes down to retirement. They kept retiring – one just a few months after the other. Admiral Nelson had a serious problem keeping up. Before I knew it, I was thirty-five and had been the XO under Commander Weissbach for two years. And then the Aria was commissioned. Nelson made the call, and I couldn't turn down my own command. I wanted the Cathedral –but I've grown to love this ship, and her crew."
Artemis nodded. The yeoman had come and gone, serving them both.
"However," he continued, "There are some days I wish I was only a lieutenant, flying my bird and not worrying about much else. I'm sure you understand."
She nodded. It was something that only Viper jocks understood. They both quietly worked on the meals in front of them for a short time.
"How's home?" Mason asked. His feet had not left his ship in over a year. And while he didn't mind this in the slightest, he was curious of things occurring terrestrially. Unfortunately, the happenings on the warm, safe surface of Caprica often dictated what happened on his Battlestar.
"The usual," she replied, not quite hiding her condescending tone. She had the place to say so – she had spent her time away in the fleet. "Dad is busy posing for pictures and going to meetings. The people around fleet are too busy being blissfully ignorant of what's happening out here."
Mason laughed. His CAG had just established herself as someone who had just as strong of distaste for hanging around fleet command as he did. He knew she was right. Aside from Admiral Nelson – he was of the opinion that everyone had drank the spiked ambrosia that seemed to make them forget what it was to serve the colonies. Mason did, however, have the foresight to realize that people like this were a necessary evil to maintain a functioning military. He was thankful to be where he was – on his ship, left relatively to his own devices.
"The callsign," Artemis said in her alto voice. She looked at him with a curiosity. "How'd you get it?"
"On the Cathedral," Bishop replied. "Kind of a cliché. But it was Weissbach himself who gave it to me."
"Why Bishop?"
"In his terms, because everyone held me in reverence on the Cathedral," he replied, smiling slightly because it sounded somewhat ridiculous to him.
"And something else," slight laugh lines formed around the corners of her eyes as she smiled at him.
"Ah," Mason hummed. "Yeah…"
"The Bishop's Hat," she finished for him.
"Yeah," he said, sheepishly. Artemis was referring to a combat maneuver invented by the very man sitting across from her at the table. "It's too dangerous, though. I still kind of regret inventing it."
"I don't think so," she replied.
"I wasn't aware they were still teaching it," Mason said.
"They're not," said Artemis.
"So how do you know?" he challenged, in a friendly way. He smiled at her. Holy Gods, Bishop, are you flirting?
"Nothing's too dangerous for me," she replied, staring straight back at him. She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, brushing his leg in the process.
Mason wondered why he focused on that. Then he remembered to breathe.
What the hell, Bishop?
Artemis felt the ventricles of her heart contract rather forcefully.
What the frak was that, Artemis?
"That's a bold statement," he replied, only then remembering what the conversation was about.
"I don't think so," she said. "There's a difference of knowing you can do something and thinking you can."
Bishop had to smile, "Indeed there is."
"So are you going to show me?"
Bishop forced himself to clear his throat. He broke the target lock Artemis had on him with her eyes – reluctantly.
"Maybe…er…at a later date. When we aren't on an assignment from the admiralty," Bishop said. The hardened command officer in him demanded that he chastise Artemis for being so forward with him. He could tell what she was thinking, and he was thinking the same thing. However, words such as insubordination came to mind. Not to mention words he would hear such as conduct unbecoming, and dereliction of duty. "You understand, of course."
"Of course," she said, keeping a face as if she knew that this exact thing was coming – it revealed nothing. She smiled and finished her wine, "Duty calls."
"Indeed it does," Mason mumbled.
"Thank you, sir, for dinner. I look forward to a productive cruise here," Artemis said, standing.
Mason stood as well, straightening his jacket, "The pleasure is mine, Captain. I'm glad you're here on my ship. Very glad."
She made for the door, and Mason inhaled the scent of her hair and perfume as she strode past him. Her shoulder brushed his chest. The customary salute was exchanged.
Mason shut the door and listened to the sound of her heels as she strode down the hallway.
He turned his back to the door and looked at the ceiling.
"Frak."