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.
I really needed to get the next part of the story up, Reader. It's been somewhat eating at me. It's a bit of an emotional roller coaster for this segment - I would be lying to you, dear Reader, if I said my eyes didn't sting a little writing this. However, I hope that I've achieved some manner of balance, submitted, of course, for your approval. Thank you so much for taking your valuable time to stop by and continue the journey with Mason, Artemis and the Aria. And my very humble thanks, as always, to you that have subscribed and/or left reviews. I'll keep writing for you
10.
"There's got to be an explanation for all this, and especially that thing" Artemis said. "It's got to be left over from the first cylon war - or maybe just a war souvenir that Greene had tooling around the Odyssey. Maybe it was just floating out there for years and the task force just found it today."
"We've explored those options," Nelson sighed. "Let me show you."
Artemis and Mason rose and walked to Nelson's desk. The Rear Admiral extracted another case and withdrew another Centurion head, placing it side by side with the one recovered from the Odyssey's wreckage.
"Frak," Mason breathed, examining the juxtaposition of the heads. The latter was older - less streamlined. It was the same model that he remembered training fight against years ago. He remembered the countless rounds he fired towards them, and the look of them with smoking bullet holes in the center of the inverted chevron.
"A newer model," Artemis whispered, paling.
"Yes," Admiral Schaeffer confirmed, still seated by the table. "A new model."
Silence fell thick in the office as the four officers silently considered what this meant. The Cylons had not been heard from in years. Many had written their race off.
"What do we do now?" Mason asked, looking at Nelson.
Nelson was silent, deep in thought.
"I'll be returning to Caprica after the celebrations tonight," Schaeffer said, rising. "To discuss the matter directly with President Adar. Until then, we wait."
"Celebrations?" Mason asked, puzzled.
"Colonial Day is in two day's time, commander," Schaeffer reminded him.
"Of course, sir," he replied. Colonial Day was preceded by galas and celebrations, sometimes as far as five days in advance. Traditionally, the admiralty made an effort to go from colony to colony to partake in celebrations, before attending the official celebration on Caprica.
"I'll be joining the Admiral on Virgon in two days time for the Galactica's decommissioning," Nelson continued. "And I'll discuss our next move with him. For now, the Aria will remain here to rest and repair. The yards are well protected, especially considering the Pegasus is now here. That's four battlestars and two Berzerkers here. I think we can at least let ourselves remain in a guarded state of rest for the time being, Scott."
Mason nodded, concurring. This latest news had sent a cold chill into his gut - a chill that had taken up residence and refused to leave.
"We'll get to the bottom of this," Schaeffer said, trying to put confidence back into his voice. He turned to Artemis, "See you tonight?"
"Oh, um...yeah, I'll be there," she said, her gaze still focused on the Cylon's head resting on Nelson's desk.
"Good," Schaeffer said, kissing her lightly on the cheek as he made to go. "And Commander, I'm sure your presence would be missed tonight if you were absent."
"I'll be there, sir," Mason replied.
"Excellent. I'm sure there's many people wanting to hear the story. It's a shame a popular guy like yourself will have to go stag to such an event," Schaeffer said, his eyes flashing.
Mason caught the meaning in the Admiral's statement. He wasn't necessarily keen on it. However, he nodded, "I'll manage, sir."
The Admiral nodded, shaking Mason's hand as he made for the exit. Mason locked eyes with him. His expression was hard to read - however his iron grip told him everything he needed to know. He returned the Admiral's grip equally hard. He knew that his motive at that particular moment was personal, not professional.
Mason wasn't exactly sure what made him more uneasy - the prospect of another Cylon war, or Artemis's father knowing that her daughter had fallen for her Commander.
"Honor guard, color guard, uniformed personnel...atten-hut!"
Hundreds of black, spit-shined boots clicked together, sending a wave of thunder across the Aria's hanger deck.
The drums began a slow cadence, breaking the silence with the tightly tuned bass sounding almost like the Aria's heavy guns, booming at a steady pace. The snares rolled crisply.
Mason stood at rigid attention as the drums marched slowly up the aisle. The pipes started slowly after - a low humming noise punctuated by a mournful, high melody. The pipers marched slowly after the drums, leaving the commander standing at the front of the honor guard. As he always did, he cut an imposing figure in his uniform, the cap making him seem taller than he actually was. To his right, dressed in black, was Nina Emory. She hung onto his arm, her face stone.
He began the slow march toward the front of the gathered rows of gray. His sword occasionally clattered against his leg as he walked - his sidearm feeling heavy. His heart beat quickened as he came to the realization of what he was doing. He was leading his Garrett's widow to the funeral of her husband. His best friend.
Mason assisted Nina to her seat at the front of the hanger bay before crisply marching to the front of the hanger. He executed a crisp about-face, turning to the back.
"Honor guard, for-ward...march!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the ceiling.
The eight honor guard members - four to a side - began a crisp march down the aisle. There was no coffin - as Emory's body was not found. Instead, they carried four things with them. A large, framed picture, taken from the day he graduated flight school. His Viper wings. His sword. And a colonial flag.
They marched slowly, purposefully, to the front. They fanned out with precision, coming to a halt simultaneously, standing shoulder to shoulder. Slowly, they each placed their item on a table that had been set in the front, excepting the flag bearer, who took his post to the side.
Mason turned slowly, walking to a podium that had been placed to the side of the table. His footfalls and the metallic clag of his sword against his leg were the only sounds.
He took off his hat, and placed it inside the podium. He rested his hands on either side of the podium and stared at the slanted table before him. It was blank.
"We gather here today to remember the life and service of Lieutenant Commander Garrett Emory," he began, his voice resonating around the hanger bay. He paused, trying to find the words.
"For twenty years, I knew Garrett as the definition of an officer in the Colonial Fleet. His dedication to the service, and his genuine compassion to his fellow officers, his men and women, were unmatched. But his devotion as a friend, and a loving husband far outstripped his accomplishments in the service.
"I often turned to him for advice and counsel, and he would always deliver with words of wisdom. Or some wisecrack. Sometimes both. He wasn't always a yes man. He told me things how they were - even if they weren't the most tactful things to say. He never spared the truth - a quality that I admire about him."
Mason paused, his voice shaking.
"He was a true friend. A loss such as his makes us question the will of the gods and the fate that has been laid down before us. We are angered, saddened, and lost now, with his loss and the loss of so many of our comrades in the skies of battle. We may now ask the question 'how do we carry on in the face of such tragedy?' I won't pretend to know the answer. But I think if we were to have asked the people who died - people like Garrett - they would tell us to keep doing as we always have. To carry on. To continue to serve with pride and distinction aboard the finest battlestar in the fleet. To avenge their deaths against the enemies of the colonies with speed and prejudice. To be the people they would expect us to be."
The commander swallowed hard, tears falling down his face. The gathered crew's faces remained stony - however their faces shone in the light with tears of their own.
Mason looked up, scanning the faces of the crew. He immediately picked out Artemis, seated a few rows back. She looked back at him - her eyes wet, but her face telling him so many things in a fraction of a second. Her eyes gleamed with the distinctive pride in another individual that only love could give. Her expression was soft, comforting and encouraging.
He stepped back from the podium, placing his hat on again. The honor guard moved crisply forward, their movements mirrored in one another. The flag bearer marched forward and slowly lowered the colonial flag into the sixteen waiting hands of the guard. With speed and precision, the flag was spread flat, held taught by the hands. With careful, practiced movements, the flag was folded into a neat square - the Colonial crest facing outward.
The guard turned as one, facing the direction of Mason with a blindingly fast turn. The flag bearer marched to Mason, stopping just short of the commander.
Mason saluted the man, and the flag before accepting it - holding it close to him between his hands. The flag bearer returned the salute before turning about.
He then turned crisply, and walked slowly toward Nina. He came to attention briefly before kneeling before the widowed Nina.
"Nina," he began, gritting his teeth and swallowing hard. "On behalf of the President, the Vice President, the Colonial Fleet, and the crew of the Battlestar Aria, I present you with this flag in remembrance of Garrett and his service to the Twelve Colonies."
He placed the flag gently into her hands.
She whispered quietly, only for Mason to hear, "Thank you, Scott. He'll always be with us - and he'll always be flying with you."
Mason clenched his jaw, nodding and blinking furiously. He drew himself to attention again, saluting Nina crisply.
He turned again, facing the launch tube on the side of the deck. It opened slowly - revealing Emory's viper, hooked and ready for launch.
"Honor guard - for-ward...march!"
The honor guard marched forward to the viper - one member holding Emory's wings with reverence in between his white gloved hands. They came to a halt - four to a side of the craft. The member holding the fallen commander's wings climbed the ladder of the Viper slowly - placing the wings on the ejection seat.
The guard retreated to behind the fighter. Mason turned, walking to the front of a line of pilots that had formed. He slowly removed his senior viper pilot's wings from his uniform, and walking to the cockpit, tossed them in.
One by one, each pilot gathered walked forward, throwing their wings into the open cockpit. Bringing up the back was Artemis, who threw in the wings of the eighth squadron - who had volunteered for flyover and escort. She slowly unclipped her wings and threw them in, landing with the others with a soft clink of gold against gold.
The cockpit canopy was slowly lowered as Mason said aloud, "Be it known to any traveler who crosses the path of this craft that it is carried on not only by the spirit of Lieutenant Commander Garrett Emory - but also his fellow pilots."
The Viper was loaded into the launch tube, the heavy blast doors closing behind it. The wireless speaker crackled with the voice of O'Reilly.
"Viper Zero-Two."
Silence.
"Viper Zero-Two."
Silence.
"Viper Zero-Two, Aria control. Angel, you are cleared for launch - speed and heading to your discretion. Fair winds and following seas, sir."
"Aria, atten-hut!" Mason managed to roar. Boots slammed together again. "Preseeeent...arms!"
Hundreds of white gloves flew to hundreds of brows in unison as the pipes picked up a slow march. The roar of the catapult was heard - launching Emory's viper clear of the ship. The windows showed the Eighth squadron fly over the launch pod in impeccable formation, splitting slightly to allow the empty fighter to take the point on their formation. They flew tight around the fighter - guarding it as it flew away from the Aria, destined for places unknown.
As a final tribute, the Aria's guns unleashed a full broadside of blanks - the weapons launching yellow flame far out, and causing the whole of the battlestar to shudder.
"Aria, ordeeeeer...arms!" Mason bellowed. Hundreds of white gloves fell to the sides of the sea of gray. "Dismissed!"
The formation of gray slowly broke. Mason stood rigid, watching as the Eights broke their formation in wide, graceful arcs. He stood for a long time, motionless, watching Emory's viper float slowly away, until it was simply a bright spot among the stars.
"It just doesn't make any sense," Hopkins said, astonished. "What would having Cylons aboard the Odyssey have to do with her turning against us?"
Mason nodded, seated behind his desk, having not said much since the funeral.
"And the pilots, as we saw, were all...well, human," Artemis mused quietly, seated across from Hopkins. "There weren't any Cylon raiders, or Centurions behind the controls. Anything like that. Hell, Commander, you spoke to Greene yourself."
"I know," Mason nodded. "And that's what concerns me. Were they brainwashed? Or was it just a really good Cylon imitation of Greene? I mean, we never saw the guy."
"Still doesn't explain the human pilots. Or the Odyssey's vipers," Artemis said.
"I trust we'll get more direction once there's more to know," Mason mumbled. "Until then...Erik, one more thing."
Mason reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a small, velvet covered jewelry box.
"The fact is, the Aria needs an XO," he said, placing the box on his desk and opening it, revealing a pair of Lieutenant Commander's insignia. "And you're it."
Hopkins's eyes went wide, "Sir, I can't possibly -"
"Yes, you can," Mason said, rising to his feet. "You've shown remarkable fortitude over the past weeks. The crew respects you, as do I."
Mason took the new collar brass, removing the old Captain's insignia, and placing one of the new on his right collar. Artemis rose, and placed the other on his left.
"Congratulations, Leiutenant Commander Hopkins," Mason said, saluting him, then shaking his hand.
Hopkins grinned, squeezing the commander's hand.
"Congratulations, sir," Artemis smiled at him, saluting, then kissing him lightly on the cheek.
"I'm sure your presence will be welcome at the...thing tonight," Mason said, returning to his seat behind his desk.
"Yes, sir," Hopkins replied. "But I'd like permission to remain aboard the Aria sir, to oversee repairs in your stead. I honestly hate these sorts of things."
Mason considered this a moment, "Granted."
"Thank you, sir," Hopkins said. "I intend to exceed your expectations, sir, with my new assignment."
"I only demand one thing, Erik," Mason said, a hint of a smirk forming.
"Excellence, sir," Hopkins smiled.
"Dismissed," Mason said, nodding.
Hopkins made his exit from Mason's cabin, closing the door behind him. Mason sighed and leaned back in his chair, his left leg protesting slightly.
"I'm proud of you, you know," Artemis said, drawing her legs up underneath her.
"Why?" Mason asked, rubbing his eyes.
"Because that was hard, but you did it anyway," she said, looking at him and smiling sadly. "No one can replace Emory, but you're taking the steps to make sure your people are taken care of. They needed an XO, you're right. And you made it happen, despite your feelings."
"That's my job," he sighed. "Hopkins isn't Emory, and he won't be as good as he was. But we don't have the luxury of choosing when the service may demand something of us that we may not be ready for. Sometimes, in fact, it reveals the best in us."
She nodded, looking at the floor, "Can you believe the nerve of my father?"
"Yes," Mason almost smiled. "I can."
"Like he has any right to tell me what to do with my life," she vented, frustrated. "For the love of frak, Bishop, I'm thirty four!"
"I know," he smirked. "And I'm the commander of a fully armored battlestar, three time fleet top gun, graduate summa cum laude of the war college, classified recipient of the Order of Kobul, and yet I seem to be an inadequate date for the Admiral's daughter, still."
"Oh bullshit," she said, sneaking behind his desk - careful to sit on Mason's right leg. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Of course you are."
"For his sake, though, maybe we shouldn't show up together to the...thing," he mumbled thoughtfully as she kissed him lightly.
"Bishop, it's a military ball, not a thing," she said, smiling.
"Whatever it is, I'd just as soon not frak with the Admiral at it," he sighed. "I mean, I'd just as soon not go. I really don't feel like having a party after this evening."
"You're going, and I'll just have to meet you there," Artemis rose to her feet. "Do you honestly think Garrett would let you pass up an opportunity to take a girl to the whole...thing as you call it, and the opporunity to frak with the Admiral?"
"He'd think it'd be hysterical," he said, allowing a small smile.
"Right," she nodded, turning for the door.
"Where are you going?" Mason asked.
"To get ready," she replied.
"It's not for five frakking hours!" Mason cried, looking at his watch.
"Right," she said, shifting her eyes from side to side, pursing her lips.
"My gods, you're telling me that my CAG, the best pilot in the fleet, who can launch a Viper and engage an enemy with a one minute scramble time, needs five hours to get ready for a frakking ball?" Mason asked, astonished.
"You don't know a thing about women, Bishop," Artemis shook her head, exiting the cabin.
Mason furrowed his eyebrows, realizing that she was absolutely right.
Mason slowly shifted blue uniform jackets to the side of his small closet, reaching for his only other set of dress grays he had. While his other uniform wasn't necessarily dirty from the service for Emory, he didn't feel right wearing it again. Especially to something that was to be hailed as a celebration.
He hung the uniform up against the door of his closet - beginning the long process of aligning his awards and citations both along his left chest and bandolier. While the particular misalignment of these small monuments of gold and silver may have been indistinguishable to even a careful eye, Mason held a distinct respect for the uniform. It would be perfect, or he wouldn't wear it. Anything secondary would be unacceptable.
After preparing his uniform, he shuffled to his bathroom and drew a small amount of scalding hot water in the sink. He placed his shaving razor gently in the water, and looked into the mirror. He sighed, the lines in his face making themselves very apparent. Perhaps it was the small accumulation of gray stubble that made him look older than he was.
I'm thirty nine, look forty nine, and feel like I'm fifty nine.
He grunted in frustration as he spread cream over his face. Such was life. Especially a life committed to the dynamic world of the service. He reflected on this as he scraped the rough beard away from his face. Dynamic. It was a fair word to describe it. Such as the day was today. Beginning with one of the hardest things he had ever done in terms of emotional toll, and ending with an event to be heralded as a celebration.
He rinsed his face off with cold water and dried with a small towel. After a quick rub of aftershave, he donned his uniform as he had done thousands of times before. Many people complained about how stiff and uncomfortable the uniform was. Mason never did. To him, it was a comfort in itself to wear it.
A final clasp of his shoulder braids, and he surveyed himself in the mirror for his own final inspection. Satisfied, he secured his sword to his belt and grabbed his hat.
Took me all of half an hour, I don't know what the hell she means with this five hours bullshit...
The ballroom at the Scorpion Shipyards was more of a multipurpose room that had been dressed up nicely for the occasion. Mason raised an eyebrow slightly as he checked his hat and sword at the coat check.
While the formality of announcing the guests had been (thankfully) dispensed with, his attempt to sneak into the party unnoticed failed slightly. As we walked in, a small smattering of applause was heard. Heads turned toward the door and the stray cheer was heard.
Mason nodded with the smallest wave in recent memory before expediting his way to the bar.
"Commander!" roared the voice of Chief Rummel.
"Chief," Mason nodded to Rummel, who was holding court with a group of knuckle draggers at a nearby table. Mason spotted no fewer than twenty empty beer bottles on the table before them.
"Going to come hoist a few with the enlisted boys and girls here in a few?" Rummel asked.
"You bet, Chief," Mason replied, slowing down only slightly as he passed the table. He arrived without much further incident at the bar, and ordered the same brand smoky liquor that Emory had stocked in his bar.
A small ensemble of stringed instruments struck up a tune in the corner. Mason turned around, leaning his back against the bar, and resting his left foot on the railing. His leg only ached slightly now - more of an annoyance than an actual pain. He took a pull of his drink, feeling the warmth creep comfortably into his stomach again.
A quick survey of the room told him all the major players had already arrived. The Admirals Schaeffer and Nelson were in conversation with the Scorpion representative to the Quorum of Twelve, the Viper jocks were carrying on as they usually did, and Mason smirked slightly as he saw young Petty Officer Parker dancing with Petty Officer Cornell, both of them smiling widely.
"They're a cute couple."
Mason turned slowly, and forgot how to breathe the moment he saw Artemis.
Her dress was a deep shade of blue - almost violet. Cut low enough to be daring, but still retaining modesty. It swept the floor slightly behind her. Her lightly tanned skin complemented it to perfection. In a classy touch, she wore matching opera gloves. Her shining brunette hair was worn down, and her eyes, smoky in appearance, narrowed as she giggled at the ogling Commander.
Mason was still speechless, holding his drink.
"Bishop, you're frakking hopeless," she said, grabbing his drink and taking a small sip, leaving an imprint of her full lips on the glass. "Come on."
She took his hand, raising it up and placing hers in it. While the appearance was that Bishop was leading Artemis to the dance floor - quite the opposite was truly occurring. No one took time to notice, however, as heads turned along their path. Even the pilots stopped drinking to look. Indeed, Scooter had paused with his drink mid-way to his mouth, the beverage spilling out of it onto the floor.
"-is that the CAG?"
"-and the commander?"
"No frakkin' way!"
"Holy mother of Athena she's gorgeous-"
Mason slowly crash-landed back to the present, blinking hard. His trademark smirk slowly reappeared as Artemis swept in front of him, placing her left hand on his shoulder, and grasping his left with her right. He placed his hand on the inward curve that was her trim waist. She smiled seductively at him as they danced slowly to the flowing music. He savored her scent - the mixture of vanilla and sweet flowers that made his head cloudy.
She, in turn, felt her heart soar as the confident smirk returned to his face for what seemed like the first time in years. And while she was the main reason heads were turning in the room, she couldn't help but notice several ornate hair styles turning as the commander passed by. He was a picturesque version of a soldier - rugged in appearance, but still impeccably dressed. His demeanor was that again of the Bishop she had first met - infectious confidence, inspiring experience, and youthful energy.
Even the head of Fleet Admiral Adam Schaeffer turned as he watched his daughter being lead to the wooden dance floor by Mason.
"Sir, your daughter looks lovely this evening," Nelson whispered to him. "What a lovely couple."
"Yes," Schaeffer growled before taking a long pull from his drink. "Quite."
Mason almost allowed himself to smile as the music crescendoed with Artemis dutifully following his lead. While he had never been accused of being a good dancer, he could at least hold his own. Something that was never formally asked of him, but something that was expected of him in his position was that of acting the part at these events. Being the toast of the ball, though, was not the reason for his smile. He felt...different somehow, as he moved with Artemis. Almost as though he was complete, and no further travel was necessary. All of his career had been spent asking the question of "What's next?" Now, though, his head was clear of such inquiries. He wasn't looking forward to the next step. Rather, he was content to remain as he was, in the moment.
The song ended with a bright-sounding staccato note, and with Mason bringing Artemis in close - pressing her torso against his, his forearm resting snugly in the small of her back. Their foreheads touched lightly. Mason breathed her in, the small smile remaining. Artemis wasn't as reserved in her emotion as she rested her hands on his chest, beaming.
The applause after the song was more than a little enthusiastic. The couple was immediately dragged apart - Artemis being folded in to an exquisitely gowned party of Aria female crew members - none of them making any attempt to hide their jealousy. Mason, however, was being received by the pilots as something like a living legend - with drinks materializing on the spot. Scooter actually was bold enough to high-five the commander in the company gathered.
The music struck up again, with conversation roaring. Mason managed to escape the throng of pilots to survey the party. He was happy to see that the majority of the crew of the Aria, excepting the on watch, had been able to make it. They deserve this he thought. They deserve every minute.
"Commander," rumbled a bass voice behind him. "Would you join me for a drink?"
Oh shit.
He turned, almost blinded by the light reflecting off of Admiral Schaeffer's countless awards, "Of course, sir."
He walked with the Admiral to a quiet balcony with a view of the shipyards below. The sight was impressive, with numerous small vessels coming and going, dwarfed by the mammoth battlestars docked to the yards like giant slumbering beasts. The light reflected off Scorpion was reflected into the room, along with soft lamp lighting, giving the balcony a comforting glow.
Schaeffer grasped the expensive liquor with both hands as he leaned on the balcony railing, resting his forearms on the ornate wood. Mason leaned against the railing with his right arm, taking the weight off his leg. They were both silent for perhaps a moment or two, each taking a pull on their drink.
"How long?" the Admiral began.
"Sir?" Mason asked, knowing exactly what Schaeffer was inquiring, but not biting at it.
"Let's not bullshit, Scott," he sighed, looking far and away towards the surface of Scorpion, not making eye contact. "How long have you and my daughter been seeing each other?"
Oh frak. Oh frak, oh frak, oh frak.
Mason sighed, ashamed of himself for thinking that such a thing could be hidden from such a man as Schaeffer. It was almost as if he had insulted the Admiral's intelligence by trying to hide it.
"A week or two, perhaps, after she began serving on my ship," he replied, quietly. As an afterthought, he added, "Sir."
Schaeffer nodded, considering this. He took another pull at his drink, remaining silent.
Mason's pulse quickened at the Admiral's silence. He stood there, waiting for his judgement to be rendered from not only his boss but Artemis's father. The silence pressed on. He shifted uncomfortably.
"Sir, if I may just-"
"Listen," Schaeffer said. "These things happen."
Mason blinked, unsure of how to reply.
The Admiral turned, resting his back on the railing. He looked, finally, at Mason, sizing him up. He continued, "It's damn near impossible to keep things like this from happening when people work so closely together with the frequency they do on a ship of war. You know this."
The young commander nodded, taking a gulp of his drink in order to avoid replying.
Schaeffer went on, unperturbed, "It's against the regulations. We also know this, both of us. Which is why I need to officially ask you to discontinue this relationship, or face consequences."
A wave of emotion hit Mason at once. Shock, sadness, confusion, and anger. His world as he knew it had instantly fractured. He wouldn't lose Artemis. But to lose the Aria also proved to be an unthinkable prospect. There had to be a way. He opened this mouth to speak - but was silenced by a hand held up by the Admiral.
"However," the bass voice rumbled, "unofficially, I can tell you that there are many things that go on around this fleet that I am blissfully ignorant to. I'm sure much of what I don't know doesn't hurt me."
Mason continued to be speechless - his curiosity at the Admiral's double standard now resounding predominantly in his head.
"Which is why I can also say that this is the happiest that I've ever seen Cassie," the older man sighed, as though admitting defeat. "Ever since she began serving with you, Scott, she has literally glowed. I'm so proud to see her succeed like this - and to have you there to be with her as she accomplishes all of this is a comfort to me. I'm sorry to say that I don't know you personally as well as I'd like to, but your professional record speaks for itself. Despite your age, you're probably the best commander I have in my fleet. And I guess you can't ask much more out of a man if he's going to steal your daughter's heart."
Mason drained the rest of his drink with gusto in order to keep from passing out.
"Sir, I...well I really don't know what the frak to say," Mason swore, his mind racing.
Schaeffer laughed gruffly like the old sailor he was. Mason's eyes raked over the Admiral's commendations - displayed predominately at the top were the Admiral's senior Viper pilot wings. Underneath all the brass, benath all the regalia, Mason realized he was speaking with just another pilot.
"Just be the man I know you are, Scott," Schaeffer said, with finality. "Take good care of my daughter. She's a hell of a pilot, and a good officer. But she is still my little girl. I'm sure the prospect of commanding tankers full of tyllium doesn't sound very appealing to you, does it?"
"No, sir," Mason said, his voice finding itself again.
"Then I know you won't break her heart," the old Admiral finally cracked a smile. "If you love your ship half as much as you obviously love my daughter, then I don't have a thing to worry about. You'll keep your professional and personal lives separate, I already know. So, in all reality, there's nothing more to be said on the subject."
Mason exhaled a long, pent-up sigh of relief. The weight of the prospect of Schaeffer uncovering his secret had finally been lifted. And with a favorable outcome. Holy frak.
"Thank you, sir," he said, his back straightening. The pain in his leg had suddenly disappeared. Whether it was a testament to the alcohol, or adrenaline was up for debate. He accepted the Admiral's outstretched hand, and shook it with confidence.
"Now get your ass back there and dance with her or something," Schaeffer said, informally issuing the order.
"Aye, sir," Mason replied, smiling. He saluted, as was customary. He turned, walking back towards the ballroom as though he were floating on air.
"Commander, one more thing," the Admiral called.
Mason stopped, looking over his shoulder, "Sir?"
"You still owe me a frakking Raptor."