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.

Please accept my feeble apologies, reader, for the delay in following up the Aria's battle for survival. To be honest with you, one of my jobs is as a firefighter - and being that I live in the western part of the US, it's been just a little busy around here. Although I'm busy trying to keep up with all of the wildfires, my mind has been with Mason and the crew - trying to formulate where they go next, and how to provide you, dear reader, with a reason to return here. It's been difficult, trying to follow up such an exhausting battle. But, as promised, their ride isn't done yet. Perhaps now we'll find out a little more as to why the Aria found herself in such a tight jam anyway...thank you, as always, for coming along for the ride and sticking with the Aria.

9.

His cabin could almost be the anti-thesis of the commander's. The walls were a dark shade of red, the carpet beige. His desk was made of a lightly colored wood - sturdy and heavy in construction. Assorted documents littered the desk, among various paperweights and other mementos.

His walls, like Mason's, were covered in pictures of smiling younger men in flight suits, Vipers, and other pictures. A large picture, displayed with prominence, was placed in the center of the collage. It contained two figures - the first of a beaming, beautiful woman with flowing auburn hair, clothed in an immaculate white dress. The other figure, dressed in Colonial Fleet dress grays, was Lieutenant Commander Emory.

Mason remembered the day as he stared at the photo. A stunning Caprian spring day, the trees shedding blossoms by the thousands, the air fragrant. The temperature was perfect. Mason remembered standing behind Emory as he held the hands of this beautiful woman, saying the familiar words. He remembered unsheathing his sword, issuing crisp orders to the honor guard, and turning his blade to the wind as a grinning Emory and his new bride, Nina, strode underneath the arch.

He continued staring at the picture, motionless. The thought crossed his mind that she probably was still unaware of the fate of her husband. She probably thought that he was still out looking around for the lost Battlestar - unaware that the Odyssey had been taken, and destroyed. Unaware that several hundred of his fellow crewmen had suffered the same fate as him. Looking forward still to her husband's safe return.

He walked over to Emory's bar, his mind blank. He poured a frighteningly large amount of some smoky-smelling amber liquid into a glass. Mason slowly walked back over to Emory's desk, and sank into the XO's leather chair. He took a long pull of the alcohol, feeling the foul burn in his mouth, and then the warm sensation that crept down his throat, coming to rest in his stomach.

Setting the glass down, he opened the pull out drawer of the desk. From it, he pulled a thick, leather bound volume. On the front cover, embossed in rich gold, was the Aria's crest. Directly underneath, "Executive Officer's Log" was spelled in a commanding font. Mason guided the silk ribbon bookmark to the edge and opened the volume, the smell of parchment greeting him.

Emory's penmanship was achingly familiar to his eyes. He took another large gulp before reading the last entry.

"Engaged Battlestar Odyssey at 1430 CMT. Cmmdr Mason opted to stay out as fighter pilot in support. Unsure if Colon. Regs. allow for this. Have been placed in commd. of Aria - am intimidated by thought. Odyssey proving to be formidable opponent - unsure if Aria will win the day. Mason has backup plan. Am confident if all else fails, Aria will neutralize threat to colonies. Crew understands assignment. GME."

Mason stared at the initials ending the log. Of course Emory was right. There were no regulations detailing what he could and couldn't do. However, his place during the fight was rightfully on the Aria. Not jocking a Viper.

I'm sorry I put that on you, Garrett. That burden was not yours to bear. I'm sorry. I frakked up. Please, please forgive me.

Mason's eyes stung with tears again. He chastised himself for being selfish. For doing what he wanted to, as opposed to fufilling his duties aboard ship. Perhaps if he had been aboard, things would be different. Maybe, perhaps, he would not have had to send Emory at all.

He closed the log book slowly, the parchment closing on itself solidly. He sat for several minutes in the silence, staring at the mess of papers on Emory's desk. Mason almost expected Emory to walk back through his door - asking what the frak he was doing sitting at his desk, drinking his expensive booze.

Mason looked up slowly as a dark form entered the room. He stared at the figure of Artemis as she stepped into the dim light cast across the room from Emory's window.

She returned Mason's gaze, taking in the sight of him as he sat at Emory's desk. He was still dressed in his flight suit, the top unzipped and bunched around his hips. The bandages that had been applied hours before by the now-dead Nike were beginning to soak through to the surface in a dark shade of crimson. He looked most unlike the commander that everyone knew. He looked a man defeated. A man who had nothing left to lose.

She strode over to the side of Emory's desk and sat down on the edge, next to Mason's arm. He continued to stare down at the desk, his face blank.

She gently took the glass from his hand, and took a long pull of the drink herself. Her face was placid as she did so.

"We're pulling up to Scorpion. We'll be docking in twenty minutes," she said, almost whispering.

Mason blinked once, acknowledging her.

"You're not going to be able to do this to yourself, you know," she said after a moment's more silence.

"What would you have me do?" he replied, his voice burning.

"Return as a hero coming home," she said, taking his hand. "That's what you are."

"The frak I am," he said, his voice like a rumbling bass drum. "A quarter of my crew is dead. Garrett's dead. Nike is dead. Corndog is dead. They're dead, Cassie. I am not a hero. I am death to my men and women."

She grasped his hand in both of hers, looking towards the floor, "Yes, they're dead. But three-quarters of your crew is still alive. They sacrificed themselves to save us. We would have done the same for them. It's just how the cards were dealt."

"Is that the only consolation I can offer to their wives? Their husbands? Their sons? A card game?" he said, squeezing her hands tightly. "The cost is too high. It's too much. Too much."

"I know," Artemis said, her eyes stinging. "But that's what we do. You know that. We serve at the pleasure of the Colonies, and we are charged to protect them."

Mason sighed, and drained the rest of the alcohol in one gulp, "The Cylon War wasn't even this bad. I can't do this much longer. I always thought we'd all made it. That the death and heartache we saw then would never happen again. That we had given all we could."

Artemis stroked the side of his face gently, "It sounds like you want to quit, Bishop."

"Today I do," he replied. "I don't want to do this anymore."

She looked at him, sadly, turning his face to hers, "You wouldn't be the same person, Scott."

"I wouldn't?" he asked, his dark eyebrows raised slightly.

"No," she said, stroking his cheekbone with her thumb. "Someone told me once that this service is who you are. To quit would change you. And then you wouldn't be the Bishop that everyone knows. Not the one I know."

Mason looked away from her for a moment, "still doesn't make this shit any easier."


"Scott, my gods," Nelson rushed to him as the heavy docking doors on the Aria swung open. A variable army of medical staff, repair crews, and still others wanting to have a look at the ship crowded behind the Admiral.

"Sir," Mason pressed his left hand down on his cane, drawing himself up to his full height and saluting. Nelson hastily returned it before rushing closer to him still and embracing him.

"Commander, we're getting you to medical at once," Nelson turned, pressing his arm in the small of Mason's back, urging him forward.

"No, sir, not before my critical people are offloaded," Mason's hand gripped the Admiral's forearm like a vice.

Nelson looked briefly affronted as the rush of personnel streamed past them, "And what are you to do, then?"

"Stay aboard the Aria," Mason replied. "Where I will oversee repairs, and then be treated by medical when the time comes."

The Admiral looked at him sadly. He knew there would be no discussion about this.

"Whatever you need, Scott, let me know," he whispered.

"Yes, sir. You'll have the full report within the hour," Mason nodded before slowly turning. Nelson looked on silently as Mason limped back into the wounded Aria.


As the day wore on, most of the crew retreated to the shipyards and their more comfortable accommodations for much needed rest. The corridors of the Aria echoed with silence, punctuated by the occasional sounds of repairs, or the odd page for personnel.

Mason strode slowly down the empty flight deck. He had forgone the cane after a quick trip to the shipyard's sick bay. The doctor - some guy named Cottle - had told him he had simply had to tough this one out at let the thing heal naturally. He dressed the wound nicely and tossed Mason a bottle of painkillers before pointing him out the door with a lit cigarette.

The commander had waited until he was out of sight of the doctor before tossing the pills in a nearby scuttle bin. He had decided to simply walk through the pain - however long it would take him to do so.

Which brought him to the cavernous flight deck. The large space appeared even larger with the absence of the normal compliment running about. And, admittedly, a large amount of Vipers missing.

The air smelled of burned tylium fuel and smoke as Mason ventured further down the deck - back into the reserve Viper storage. His heart was heavy as he noticed the empty bays once containing extra birds. However, one shape caught his eye. A Viper rested in the corner, covered in a heavy canvas storage tarp. He walked slowly to the corner, puffs of dust emanating from his footfalls.

He raised an eyebrow, curious as he recognized the shape of a Mark VII Viper under the tarp. Mason grasped the tarp and pulled hard, the cover sliding off the fighter noiselessly.

His breath caught in his chest as he beheld the fighter craft before him. It looked factory-new, its paint shining, even in the dim light. The canopy was polished so the ten centimeter thick glass looked invisible. The most striking feature, however, was the custom paint - trademark of the Aria's vipers.

White feathered wings sprouted from the sides of the Viper - so intricately detailed that they looked soft to the touch. The feathers covered the entire side of the Viper - shaped in the almost glorious form of outstretched wings. Mason's eyes widened in wonder as they raked every inch of the craft. Aria was spelled with bold lettering on the side of the turbofan engine, which was out of character. Normally pilots opted to have the Battlestar's name emblazoned on the tail fin of their fighters, as was the normal markings on Colonial fighters. But not this pilot.

Mason's eyebrows raised in sadness as he read the stenciled name below the cockpit:

Lt. Cmmdr. Garrett Emory
"Angel"

"Garrett," he whispered, stepping up to the fighter and touching the name with his hand. He looked around quickly, spying the gear lockers along the wall. Dust fell slowly as he opened door after door - finally finding Emory's flight gear. Being of almost identical height and weight, the flight suit fit him nicely. And while he didn't necessarily know what it was he was intending to do - he couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to be off the ship, and flying.

He gritted his teeth as he climbed the ladder to the cockpit - his leg burning in protest. He braced his hands on each rail of the cockpit glass and lowered himself into the seat. His hands lightly touched the controls around him - all of them seemingly brand new, as if frozen in time.

Mason disregarded the normal start-up checks, choosing instead to fire the engines directly. He then remotely accessed the Aria's computer through the dradis installed in the Viper. He isolated the flight deck, and the gravity controls. He slowly lowered the intensity of the gravity on the deck, and fired the maneuvering thrusters.

The viper lifted from the deck, and slowly floated back down. Mason's eyebrows furrowed slightly. Launching a Viper without the aid of the launch tubes was cumbersome at best. He fired the thrusters again, and simultaneously pushed the throttled forward slightly - allowing him to guide the craft to the massive landing strip.

Mason pointed the viper's nose to the trapezoid-shaped end of the flight pod, and pushed the throttle forward to half. He took care to re-engage the flight deck's gravity and unlock his computer from the Aria's.

"Viper...wait...zero-two? Viper Zero-Two? Aria control, please acknowledge," came the confused sounding voice of O'Reilly.

"Aria control, this is Viper Zero-Two, Aria actual," Mason added on, identifying himself.

"Aria actual, control, um...sir, may I ask what you're doing?" O'Reilly's voice sounded almost timid.

"Just taking a quick flight, lieutenant," Mason replied, his voice grim. "No need for checks, I'll be staying well clear."

"Roger, sir, good day."

Mason guided the Viper out of the flight pod, remarking on the smoothness of the machine. He had known Garrett to work on his own Viper from time to time, but that was ages ago. Clearly he had kept up on his hobby quietly.

He glanced sideways at his ship as he flew slowly up and away from it. Holes and scoring littered the outside of the hull. The small flashes of welders were seen around the major damage points in the hull. Mason's heart broke to see his ship in such a broken state. He nosed the viper away from the ship and outward to the stars - away from the Aria, the shipyards, and Scorpion.


After quickly looking around the deck to make sure curious eyes were averted, Artemis opened the door to Mason's cabin, having long dispensed with knocking. She closed the door behind her, and called softly, "Bishop?"

Her brows furrowed slightly, hearing no reply. She glanced quickly around the cabin, determining correctly that Mason wasn't there. The wireless speaker on the wall crackled, having always been left on and scanning the air traffic and viper tac frequencies - something that sometimes annoyed her. However, her ears detected Mason's deep voice over the static -

"-staying well clear."

"Roger, sir, good day."

Artemis sighed, walking over to the window. Her eyes instantly locked onto the shape of a Viper launching rather casually from the front of the port flight pod. She shook her head, wondering to herself what he was doing. The last thing he needed to be doing, however, in her opinion, was to be flying around wounded.

She slid out of the cabin discretely, thankful that most of the ship's compliment wasn't aboard. She made her way quickly to the flight deck, concern for Mason and an irritation at his actions waging a quiet battle in her mind. She knew the commander was hurting deeply. His best friend had been killed before his eyes, and a large number of his people were dead. However she knew that he was stronger than the adversity placed in front of him. He was choosing to run from it - which didn't bode well with her. She had grown to know him enough over the past months to know that he needed to stop running and return to his former self.

Artemis arrived on the flight deck and grabbed her helmet.

"Aria control this is Artemis, request launch clearance from port pod," she said quickly over the wireless.

"What is everyone just taking joyrides now?" O'Reilly replied.

"Listen, Andrea, can I go or not?" Artemis asked, irritated. "You know what I'm doing."

Seated at Air Traffic, the young Lieutenant O'Reilly shook her head and sighed, "Yes, I do, Artemis. Pattern is clear, it's all yours. Good luck."

"Roger, thank you."


Artemis launched the traditional way, having rounded up a knuckle dragger to give her a tow to the launch tube. She veered sharply to the right, looking at her dradis intently.

"Captain, you may want to try looking two-eight-zero degrees, carem three-three-seven," O'Reilly's voice said quietly into her ear.

Her eyes snapped up and caught sight of three distant pinpricks of light. She turned slowly towards them and pushed her throttle forward.

"Thanks, control," she replied.

"No problem...bring him back, will you? We miss him."

"So do I," she whispered. She saw the transponder of the Viper pop up on her dradis after a minute or two of travel towards Mason. She selected it, and typed a direct message to him.

Set to Viper Tac 2 - Encryption .92 - Artemis

She hit "send" and adjusted her radio to the frequency she had selected.

"Hey" Mason said to her over the encrypted frequency.

"Hey," she replied, watching Mason kill his engines and fire a couple bursts on his reverse thrusters, allowing her to catch up with him.

She pulled alongside him, and momentarily marveled at the beautiful craft he was piloting.

"Nice ride, Bishop," she said, knowing who it had belonged to previously. "I think it suits you."

"I'm hardly worthy to be flying it...but I had to get off the ship," he replied, breaking his gaze away from her viper and glancing down towards his feet.

"Do you just wanna fly for awhile?" she asked, knowing the answer.

"I'd like that."

She nodded, giving her viper a little power. Mason mirrored the action, flying alongside her right wing.

"Scott," she began after a long silence.

"I know," he sighed. They flew in a wide arc - perhaps five thousand kilometers from Scorpion's atmosphere. The bluish light reflected off the planet and off the pair of Vipers, casting them in a surreal sensation. "I know. I just can't let him go. It's going to be the hardest thing I have to do, Cassie...and I don't know how to do it. I'm afraid."

Her eyebrows raised as she looked at him. He was staring straight ahead, his face stone. Her heart broke for him, "It's ok to be afraid. I'm afraid, too."

"Of what?"

"Of seeing this get the better of you," she said, flying as close to him as she could. She wanted to be with him now - to hold him, telling him everything would be fine. But she knew what they were doing was perhaps the best way for him to deal with his anguish. They were, after all, pilots. What they were doing was comfortable.

She continued, "You're too strong for this. I mean, you're Bishop. The Bishop. And that's just your callsign. It speaks for itself. But I thank the gods that I know the man behind the callsign. And he is so much stronger than the name. That's what I love about you. You're a rock. You're someone people can look up to. When I feel like I'm failing, I find my comfort in you, Scott. You're there for me. I love you for that."

Mason looked over at her, his eyes shining. Her face was almost pleading - but beautiful nonetheless, back dropped by the skies of Scorpion.

He sighed, "And I love you. You have your way of doing this...I don't know how you're doing it. You've got me locked on, Cassie...I hope I can be the guy you think I am."

"The thing is," she said. "You're better than I think you are."

"Y'know, when you stepped into my cabin the first day you came aboard, this is probably the last thing I would have expected us to be doing right now. I thought I'd be lucky to have you give me to the time of day."

She smiled at that, "And I thought you'd be too wrapped up in your job to give me a second look."

Mason smiled, "How could I not? Garrett told me..."

His voice trailed off, remembering his friend.

"Told you what?" she asked as they passed into the darkened side of Scorpion.

"He told me that things around the Aria were going to get a hell of a lot better when you arrived. Gods, what would he think of me now? Flying around here moping like this?"

Her lips curved upward slightly in a sad smile, "I think you just answered that for yourself."


Mason sighed and rubbed his eyes, attempting to lean back in his office chair as he did so. A fresh smolder of protest from his leg slowed the effort. He frowned at this.

The wireless beeped to his right. His frown remained as he picked up the black handset, "Mason."

"Sir, wireless from Admiral Nelson."

"Send it through," he replied, deadpan.

"Commander," Nelson's voice said into his ear.

"Sir."

"Commander, I'd like to meet with you today, if I could. Just to go over this debrief."

"Of course, sir," Mason said, his eyebrows slowly furrowing. He had been detailed in his report. Eighteen full pages of detailed. What question could Nelson possibly have? "I'm on my way presently."

"Thanks, Scott."

Mason rose, pushing himself up on the arms of his chair. He straightened his dark blue coat, heavily favoring his right leg as he stood in place. He sighed again, beginning the trek out of his cabin and down the long hallway toward the docking port.


Artemis sat in her cabin, staring at the keyboard in front of her. A stack of letters sat neatly on her desk. All of which read mostly the same, excepting details.

She exhaled forcefully with frustration. She had never been placed in a situation like this before. And while a writer who could hold her own, she felt wholly inadequate to her task at hand.

Dear Mrs... the letters would begin.

By now I am certain you have received news of your loved one's passing. I write to you knowing that no words of mine can be of any solace to your grief. I write to you simply to express my deepest sympathy and the distinct honor that was mine to have served with...

She would insert something about their service, usually.

I won't be so pretentious as to think that a letter will do anything as to replace them. However, please take some pride in knowing they died in service to their fellow man, and in the direct protection of the Colonies. Only a chosen few are called upon to lay such a costly sacrifice upon the altar of service. Please forgive me for saying that rather than mourn them, I will thank the gods daily that they lived.

Sincerely,

Capt. Cassandra "Artemis" Schaeffer
Commander, Air Group
Battlestar
Aria

She stared at the stack of letters, wondering if she was overstepping her bounds. While it was customary for a fallen soldier's commanding officer to send a letter to their family, the number of pilots she had lost made her feel as if she was simply burning off letters to fulfill a formality.

Forty seven. Forty seven letters. She wished she could convey that she missed the faces in the ready room - and missed the conversations around the card game and at the bar. Missed their skills and their personalities.

She stared at the letters a moment longer - feeling moisture beginning to sting her eyes.

The wireless buzzed next to her desk. She picked up the phone, "CAG."

"Ma'am, Fleet Admiral Schaeffer on the line."

"Ok," she replied, her voice thick.

"Cassie," rumbled the voice of her father.

"Hey dad," she sniffed quietly, bracing the handset against her shoulder and gathering up the stack of letters.

"Are you ok?" he asked, his voice wary.

"Yeah, I'm ok," she said, regaining composure.

"Can you come over to the yards? I'm here, I'd like to see you," he asked. Not in an ordering tone - but one that was genuine in its request. He asked as the father wanting to see his daughter.

"You're at Scorpion?" she asked, surprised.

"I had to come and see you, Cassie. And to debrief personally with Admiral Nelson. What happened with the Odyssey is unprecedented in the

"Sure, I'll be right over."

"Ok sweetie."


Mason walked slowly down the brightly lit hallways of the Scorpion Shipyards. Being a Colonial Fleet outpost, the yards not only served as a maintenance port, but also as a full on station - a central hub for trade and commerce. Many people, both civilian and military passed through the shipyards in the course of travel among the colonies.

The same held true for mason. He had lost count of how many times he had been to the station in the course of his twenty one years of service. Naturally, he avoided the main areas of travel. He was already getting enough astonished looks from colonial fleet personnel as he limped towards the administrative offices.

He kept his eyes downward as he walked, not really feeling like talking to anyone along the way. Whispers followed him as he strode through the doors of the Colonial Fleet offices.

"Commander," said a female voice.

He stopped, looking up. He drew himself up and offered a salute to Admiral Helena Cain.

An attractive but stern-looking woman, she returned the salute. Her face immediately softened, however, as she stepped towards him and briefly embraced her friend.

"Scott, my gods," she said, stepping back and surveying him as she gripped his shoulders. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied. "We took a beating, but we're ok. When did you get in?"

"We arrived a few hours ago," she said, dropping her hands and folding her arms. Cain leaned against the wall, looking at him sympathetically. "Is there anything the Pegasus can do for you?"

"Truthfully, ma'am, I believe we're doing well now that we've rested for a few days. The Aria will be here awhile, that much is certain," Mason said, shifting his weight to his right leg.

She nodded, "You did well, Scott. It's good to see you."

"And you, Helena," he said, addressing his friend by her first name. She offered a sad smile, squeezing his shoulder as she walked past him.

He turned, walking a short distance further down the hallway before knocking on a solid wooden door.

"Scott, come in," Nelson said as he opened the door. Mason nodded to him as he stepped into the office.

Nelson shut the door behind Mason, turned, and gripped the commander's hand warmly. Mason returned the handshake, and immediately drew himself to attention and saluted Fleet Admiral Schaeffer, who somehow appeared from behind Nelson.

Schaeffer returned the salute, and offered his hand as well. Mason shook it as well.

"Commander," Schaeffer said in his trademark bass rumble. "Well done."

"Thank you, sir," Mason replied, shifting his weight again. This didn't go unnoticed to the two admirals.

"Scott, gods, please, sit down and rest your frakking leg," Nelson said, gesturing to a group of thick leather chairs surrounding a table.

Mason nodded, taking a seat and accepting the cup of coffee offered to him by Nelson.

Schaeffer folded his tall frame into a chair across from Mason and also accepted coffee. After a sip, he looked at Mason, "On a personal note, Commander, thank you for bringing my daughter home safe."

A brief flash of emotion crossed Mason's face - a reaction the admiral had difficulty placing. The look didn't linger, however, as Mason replied, "She's an exceptional pilot, sir. The best I've ever seen. I highly doubt my presence did much to bring her home. In fact, it's direct testament to her that I'm able to be here to speak to you gentlemen today."

"Something that puzzled me and Admiral Schaeffer, Scott," Nelson said. "Is that fact that you didn't return to the Aria upon engaging the Odyssey."

Mason's face darkened, "Sir, I -"

"No matter," Schaeffer said. "I place my commanders in my Battlestars for a reason. Whatever lead you to make the choice you did, Mason, I won't question. You did what you did, and I'll back that decision."

Mason felt as though a weight had been lifted off his shoulders, slightly. "Thank you, sir," he replied. "That means alot to me."

Nelson nodded, "The fact that you came home with as many of your people as you did, along with the Aria is a testament in itself. You were faced with a formidable enemy, and the fact that you all weren't completely destroyed speaks for itself."

"It still cost us dearly, sir," Mason's voice was dark.


Artemis straightened her blue uniform jacket and smoothed her hair as she stepped into the Colonial Fleet offices. While she didn't garner the notoriety Mason did striding through the office - several people did double takes, partly due to the Battlestar Aria patch on her left shoulder, and partly due to the fact a beautiful woman was walking through the office.

She knew the way to the admiralty's offices better than most. Something she wasn't necessarily thrilled about, but something she took in stride. She walked quickly down the hall to the office her father usually occupied while he was in the shipyard. She knocked on the door.

She waited a full minute, and knocked again.

A passing yeoman paused, turning to her, "Captain, are you looking for the Admiral?"

She turned, looking at the young man with a confused expression, "Um...yes."

The yeoman stood, transfixed momentarily. He snapped out of his trance, blushing furiously, "He's - er - I mean, the admiral...I mean, Flee-"

"Where's he at, yeoman?" Artemis asked slowly, smiling.

"Admiral Nelson's office, ma'am," he stammered, betraying his eighteen years of age.

"Thanks," she replied, turning quickly and hurrying down the hallway, leaving the yeoman in a wave of vanilla and roses.


She knocked on Nelson's door moments later. It swung open instantly, revealing -

"Bishop?" she smiled widely.

He flashed her a warning look, shaking his head slightly from side to side. He stepped into the room, gesturing her inside. She surveyed the room in a fraction of a second, seeing her father standing with Nelson.

"Bishop?" the Fleet Admiral asked, his green eyes fixated on Mason, then Artemis, then back to Mason.

Mason tucked his lips inside his mouth momentarily, then opened his mouth to speak.

"Never mind," Schaeffer said, shaking his head. "It's good to see you, Cassie."

"And you, dad," she said, hugging the admiral tightly.

"Sir, if I may -" Nelson began, looking nervous.

"She can know. Hell, Adrian, rumors will start spreading soon enough anyway," the elder Schaeffer said, stepping away from his daughter and taking his seat again.

"Sir?" Mason asked.

"Sit down, both of you," Nelson said, looking haggard and...afraid?

They took their seats around the table - Mason being careful to avoid direct eye contact with Artemis. Admiral Schaeffer was still casting glances between him and his daughter. Mason couldn't shake the feeling that the admiral had caught on instantly - and the secret was out. He feared this more than the impending news that made Nelson appear so uncomfortable.

"Commander, we sent a task force out to the wreckage of the Odyssey to recover some of the debris to see if we could find out why Commander Greene suddenly went section eight on us," Nelson began. "To be frank, Scott, there wasn't much out there. You really frakked that thing up."

"Commander Emory really frakked that thing up," Mason corrected, quietly.

Nelson was silent a minute - Emory having been a friend of his, as well. Admiral Schaeffer bowed his head, rubbing his creased forehead with his hand.

"My mistake. To his credit, he knew where he was flying. He must have detonated his payload right over the tylium fuel storage or something to that effect," Nelson continued.

"I will be putting him in for the Order of Kobul," Mason said, again in a quiet tone.

"He'll get it," Schaeffer nodded slowly. "I've already seen to it."

Nelson paused momentarily, then continued, "the task force brought back something that is deeply disturbing to all of us."

Mason risked a glance over at Artemis. She returned it, fleetingly. It was enough, though, to tell Mason that she was just as concerned as he was at the impending news.

Nelson looked to Schaeffer momentarily. The Fleet Admiral nodded to him, still silent. Nelson rose and walked to his desk. He opened a locked drawer and extracted a black weatherproof briefcase of some size. He set it on the desk and unlocked it, and pulled out its contents.

Mason's guts laced with ice as Nelson set the object on the wooden surface of the desk. Artemis inhaled sharply and covered her mouth with her hands. Schaeffer remained stoic, his face dark.

It was iconic. Its very design was meant to strike fear in the hearts of humans. The lighting of the room reflected off of its domed head - casting odd flares to the corners of the office. Its eyes were in a sharply angled "V," and its mouth, an elongated, darkened depression. There was no mistake as to what it was - or where it came from.

"Oh my gods," Artemis whispered. "That's..."

Nelson confirmed what they all already knew.

"A cylon."