12.
"-with the sudden cessation of hostilities. Communication with Cylon forces has not yet been established since the cease-fire, despite repeated attempts by Colonial government. Meanwhile, Colonial Defense Forces still remain weary and in a state of readiness, although no contact with any Cylon forces have been reported within the last thirty-six hours."
"CDF Fleet Admiral Schaeffer went on the record today, expressing his optimism with the cease-fire.
'A tremendous day, and indeed a day long awaited by the citizens of the Colonies. The war, with the blessings of the gods, can now be looked on as a time when mankind persevered through a trial to end its existence. It should be a proud day, and a solemn day, as we remember the staggering loss we as a people incurred. My thoughts and prayers, as always, are with the men and women who have given their lives in the defense of our homes, and with their families.'
"We'll have further comments and reactions from around the Colonies, including remarks from the President at the top of the hour, Caprican mean. This is Colonial Talk Wireless radio."
Bishop sighed as he signed his name on the bottom of his medical evaluation, glancing quickly at the wireless on the wall. He took solace in the knowledge that he wasn't the only one who was slightly leery at the cease-fire.
"Well, Major, what do you think?" the ship's doctor, an olive-skin man named Ali Fathala asked, his voice seasoned with accent.
"I should be asking you that, doc," Bishop smirked, glancing at his knee - gripped in the jaws of a brace.
"It's going to be awhile before you can fly, I'll tell you that much," Fathala said, taking a seat on a stool beside Bishop's bed. "Two ligaments completely torn, and the worse sprain I think I've ever seen. It's remarkable your leg wasn't torn completely off."
"I guess that's good news," the young pilot shrugged.
"Considering, yes," the doctor nodded. "Try to take it easy on the celebrations, okay?"
Bishop nodded, standing gingerly on his right leg, placing a crutch under his left arm. He cordially shook the doctor's hand before limping out of sick bay, passing a line of sailors, soldiers, and pilots all in varying states of disrepair as he made his way back into the ship.
He limped his way into the ready room. Music boomed from a portable machine someone had brought up for the occasion. Weissbach had, wisely, ordered a day of stand-down, seeing as he was helpless to stop the spontaneous and euphoric celebrations breaking out ship-wide.
As for the pilots, Bishop also knew he held no control. They would celebrate as aviators did, despite their obligations. He had simply requested two Vipers and a Raptor stay up at all times with combat patrols around the Cathedral and in the Tauron airspace. The air group was understanding, taking their time to perform celebratory fly-overs of Hypatia and Tauron City while on patrol.
Angel, having just landed, bounded into the ready room, still in full flight gear. His grin was wide as he removed his helmet.
"You should see it down there!" the Captain yelled over the music. Someone forced a foamy beer into his hand, which he gulped furiously. He wiped his mouth with a gloved hand and continued. "Flags everywhere! People are on the rooftops and waving when we fly by. The streets are full of people, Scott. I've never seen anything like it!"
Bishop smiled, hearing the quiet roar of transports taking off and landing. He accepted a drink passed to him by Angel, and they drank quietly, their eyes wandering to the front of the room.
Aphrodite had proven herself quite capable of a little audio/video work. She had compiled an hours-long highlight reel of gun camera footage - showcasing the spectacular flying seen over the war.
Bishop enjoyed the video, but also felt slight pangs of guilt. Some of the footage was taken from the gun cameras of pilots who weren't there to celebrate. The screen lit up again with a fresh clip, with a hush falling over the room as everyone read the name at the bottom of the screen:
L. "Hellfire" Hellewell
The pilots, and some of their ground crew who had wandered in, watched the spectacular footage. While Bishop hadn't had a chance to watch Hellfire for very long, he nodded in quiet respect for the fallen pilot's skill. The screen rotated quickly, showing Raiders exploding in bright flashes of light. In the span of forty seconds, Bishop watched as Hellfire downed three Raiders in open space.
"To Hellfire!" roared a voice from the back of the room.
Heads snapped around, and boots quickly planted themselves on the floor as everyone snapped to their feet.
Bishop struggled to stand up as well as the Commander made his way down the aisle. Weissbach banged a fist on the Vigilantes crest as he passed.
"As you were. You, especially, Bishop, sit down for frak's sake," Weissbach said.
Someone turned the music down slightly as the Commander strode slowly to the front of the room. He took a mug and filled it up with drink.
"Guys, gals," he began, leaning on the side of the briefing podium instead of standing behind it, which was customary. He paused, searching for words.
"Let me be the first to congratulate you all. I know our minds are with the people who couldn't be here today. But I think they would want us to celebrate, rather than mourn their loss. Today is a day we've only dreamed of. I never thought I would live to see it, honestly. The fact that we all are here is direct tribute to your skill and determination. You didn't give up. Even as it got bad there, right towards the end, you all took it upon yourselves to make the defense of the colonies and this ship your top priority."
"It was a long war. A hard war. And I'm not going to stand here and pretend like I know where our futures lie. For some of you, you may never pilot a Viper or a Raptor again after your enlistment is up. That's okay. For some of you, you may continue your service in the fleet - service that will always be needed, whether we want to think it will be or not. Regardless, you can look back now on these years with pride. When someone asks you, 'What did you do when you were younger?' you can look at them with pride and say I served with the finest Battlestar and her air group in the Fleet. And years from now, should you find yourself alone, with no one to fly your wing...give me a call. I'd fly with each and every one of you."
Bishop stood, clumsily. He raised his glass, "And we'd fly with you, sir."
"So say we all!" was the jubilant cry.
"Garrett!"
The fact that someone could yell louder than a room full of Fleet members was stunning in itself. Silence fell as everyone gathered looked toward the door in confusion. Pounding footsteps were heard echoing off the bulkheads of the corridor outside.
"Garrett!"
Bishop glanced at Angel, who's face wore an expression of confusion and shock. His friend shrugged, shaking his head and mouthing the words, "I have no frakking clue."
The running footsteps approached the door. Through it ran a stunningly beautiful woman - her auburn hair flowing behind her as she ran. Her light blue eyes scanned the room, quickly locking on the wholly confused figure of Captain Garrett "Angel" Emory.
"Oh my gods," he breathed, his mouth opening in shock. "Nina."
"Garrett."
Like a scene from a romance movie, the two ran down the aisle of the ready room, meeting each other in the middle and locking into a tight embrace. Nina sobbed deeply into Angel's shoulder as he stood, holding her as tightly as human limits would allow.
They held each other for what seemed like forever. Bishop, curiously, felt time elongating as it did often times when he was in the cockpit. The pain in his knee went away. He focused in solely on Angel and Nina, holding each other for what seemed like the first time in front of him. Quite suddenly, he came to a realization. This is what he had been fighting for. For this one moment to happen. It came flooding down onto his young shoulders as he watched Emory pull away. His friend kissed Nina deeply as tears fell down her face.
Strangely, there was no mad cheering. The room looked on quietly. Few people made eye contact, as they all, in Bishop included, felt salt-laden tears stinging their eyes.
"Guys...and, erm, Commander," Emory finally spoke, his voice thick. "This is Nina. Nina, these are my friends.
Nina quickly wiped the moisture from her face, smiling awkwardly, but beautifully, as she glanced around the room.
"Hi, everyone," she said, quietly.
Weissbach smiled as old men did and walked towards her, "Hi there. I'm Jerry."
"Nice to meet you, sir," Nina shook the man's hand, her eyes wide with intimidation as she saw the Commander's insignia on his collar.
"I don't know how you got on my ship so easily, young lady," he said, smiling. "But I'm glad you're here. Garrett is one of the best pilots in the fleet. Son," he said, turning to Emory, "if she's smart enough to get here...well, that's enough said about her. You'd better marry her."
Nina turned a shade of bright scarlett, covering her mouth as she giggled.
"Sir, I - uh, well..." Emory stammered, looking around nervously. "That's kinda my intention."
Bishop's mouth formed a wide smirk. He had known Angel long enough to know what was coming next.
"I wanted to wait until things kind of settled down, but..." Angel continued. Nina's face was a mix of embarrassment and shock.
Angel unzipped a pocket on the lower leg of his flight suit. Bishop's eyebrows furrowed slightly. He had never seen Angel use this pocket before.
The young pilot produced a battered-looking box from the pocket. It was creased, worn, and water-damaged. He opened it, revealing a small silver ring, with a simple, single bright stone worked into the band.
Bishop knew that precious metal was scarce during wartime, due to the manufacture of electronic components and other essential items necessary to the war effort. Any jewelry, anywhere, cost a fortune. He wondered what Angel had shorted himself on to get it.
"Nina," he said, awkwardly dropping to his knees. "I hope it's okay if I ask you this, here. Will you make me the happiest man alive? Will you marry me?"
She stood a moment, considering him as he knelt before her. Angel swallowed hard.
"I - I understand if this is a little sudden," he stammered. "But I really, I mean, I really..."
"Angel," she knelt down, facing him. "Shut up."
She smiled and nodded before she kissed him.
Weissbach's eyes creased as he smiled warmly. He walked from the room, chuckling to himself, saying something about kids.
One Month Later
Hypatia, Tauron
"You have been laying on the couch staring at the ceiling for literally forty-three minutes."
"So?" Bishop asked, his voice monotone.
The rebuilding process had varied from colony to colony. Admittedly, some were more damaged than others. However, the feelings of unease and indeed the feelings of grief had prevented some established towns and cities from taking initiative in getting back to the way life was. Hypatia, however, was not among those.
Bishop had returned to the moderately sized downtown apartment he had resided in with his parents prior to his enlistment and enrollment in the War College. Despite an initial shock at the layers of dust on the furniture, it had served him well as his severely injured knee healed. The process had been slow, at best. Perhaps it was the prolonged feeling of exhaustion that had lingered after the war - or perhaps it was the inability for Bishop to fly. Whatever it was, the young pilot had descended into a daily stupor that bordered upon depression - made worse by the occasional whine of distant Viper engines heard through the sultry summer heat.
Angel sat in a chair across from the supine Bishop. The sandy-haired pilot leered at his friend through narrowed hazel eyes. Both of them, strangely, were dressed in civilian clothes.
A slight breeze ruffled papers on the coffee table - held down by Bishop's sidearm, now little more than a paperweight. The papers bore the crest of the Colonial Defense Force, and Bishop had read their contained message so many times he almost could recite them word for word. The highlights were words such as mandatory, furlough, budget, medical, and reasons. Underneath the letter addressed to Bishop, was one addressed to Angel, also sporting the same address.
So they had stayed in Bishop's apartment, and tried to become accustomed to a much slower pace of life. Bishop found himself waking at odd hours of the night, convinced he had heard the call to action stations. He often tossed and turned, staring at the ceiling as his knee burned quietly with pain.
His thoughts often drifted back to the Cathedral despite himself. Weissbach had called him a week prior - which he secretly delighted in. The Commander had talked for some time - sounding very tired as he explained that the Cathedral was laid up in dry dock over Picon, finally getting the major repairs she had needed long before Bishop had placed his boots on her decks. Weissbach had also mentioned the prospect of retiring several times. Bishop, of course, told him that he strongly wished he wouldn't, however he also told him he understood. Weissbach had been in the Fleet for thirty years - longer than Bishop had been alive. The young pilot understood that everything eventually needed to come to an end - even the long and distinguished career like Weissbach's.
Bishop rolled all these thoughts around his head as he continued to stare at the ceiling. He wasn't worried about the money - he had little to spend his pay on during wartime, so finding work during furlough was not necessary. In fact, Bishop cautioned himself against spending the large amount of cash he had acquired during the war. The promotion to Major, along with combat pay, had raised his standard of living considerably. He still felt uncomfortable, though. He just couldn't adjust.
"Come on," Angel finally rose to his feet with exaggerated effort. "Let's get out of here."
Bishop hated using crutches. It drew stares from people as he and Angel walked slowly through downtown Hypatia. Most people correctly assumed Bishop's status as a member of the military, and went out of their way to stop and applaud him and express their well wishes for a speedy recovery from his combat induced injury. He tried to be as polite as he could with these people - however it wore on him to be an object of such high regard. More than anything, he wanted to keep a low profile during the furlough - seeing as his return to active duty would be only after the Fleet's war chest had bolstered its funds again.
The pair snuck quietly into the Charging Bull - the very same place they had dreamed of going to months prior. In terms of business, one would almost think the war had never happened upon viewing the crowd gathered. The round the clock efforts to rebuild Hypatia ensured there were always thirsty and hungry patrons filling the ornate wooden structure. As Bishop and Angel remembered, music boomed with an equal volume of laughter. Sweet smelling fumella leaf smoke drifted to the ceiling. Heavy glassware - perspiring with cold drink - percussed against wooden tables laden with countless layers of shining varnish.
They slid into a side booth, and were quickly overtaken by a burst of floral scent.
"Hey baby," Nina smiled widely at Angel.
The young man smiled in return, scooting over to make room for his fiance and returning an enthusiastic kiss.
"Bishop, for frak's sake, smile," she said as she sat down next to Angel.
"Nina, I'm bored. And I'm about over being injured," Bishop sighed, taking a sip of beer.
"Of course you are, but what are you gonna do about it?" she smiled wryly at him, knowing the personality of the restless pilots around her.
"At least they're getting Pyramid going again," nodded the lifelong Caprican Buccaneers fan in Angel.
"I don't know how you can stand living here," Bishop, a diehard Tauron Bulls fan, smiled. Indeed, Bulls regalia was strewn over the walls of the bar they sat in - indeed an unfriendly place for a loyal follower of the hated C-Bucks.
Bishop drained his beer quickly and nodded for another. He examined his watch and sighed heavily, dreading an upcoming military-mandated therapy appointment. He almost hated to admit it to himself - but sometimes he fleetingly found himself missing the war.
As he carried on a normal course of conversation with Angel and Nina, he silently berated himself for thinking such thoughts. He had witnessed too many men killed - indeed too many men under his command - to allow himself the luxury of missing the lifestyle.
He finished his second drink and tossed several cubits - under protest form Nina and Angel - on to the table. He limped out, smirking slightly.
Hypatia, Tauron
Three Weeks Later
By now, Bishop had discarded his crutches, under the stern supervision of his therapist. While he was directed to only walk unassisted at home, he secretly had thrown the crutches deep in his coat closet, retrieving them only to save face at appointments.
A same-day tape of a Pyramid game buzzed quietly on a screen set across from Bishop's couch. Only a week ago had picture broadcasts returned - something Bishop had missed dearly when the Bulls took in away games.
A sharp rap came at the door. Bishop raised an eyebrow. Angel and Nina never knocked, and the apartment rarely received visitors. Bishop walked with the aid of a stiff leg brace to his coffee table, and placed his sidearm in the small of his back, underneath his waistband.
He opened the door and immediately relaxed.
"Scott," smiled the face of Commander Adrian Nelson.
"Sir," Bishop nodded. "Come in, please."
Nelson, dressed in duty blues, stepped into the apartment. Bishop sized him up briefly.
"Still don't trust anything, huh, sir?" the aviator smiled at his superior, eying the holstered sidearm on the Commander's right thigh.
"Neither do you, I should say," he smirked in reply, lightly tapping the sidearm concealed under Bishop's shirt.
Bishop almost had to laugh. He had kept a somewhat regular correspondence with Nelson over the course of his injury - finding words of wisdom in the Basic Flight instructor's encouragement. However, he had never called upon Bishop. Until now.
"Coffee, sir?" Bishop limped quickly to his small kitchen, where a gurgling and well-worn pot steamed lazily.
"Always," the Commander said, stepping into the living room and accepting the large mug - on long-term loan from the Cathedral. He smirked as he sipped the scalding liquid from the over-sized cup blaring BSG45 CATHEDRAL on the side.
"How's the knee?" Nelson asked first, politely.
"Better every day, sir, but still a ways to go," Bishop admitted.
"Naturally. Please take your time recovering. You're far too valuable an asset to be lost to injury," Nelson nodded.
"Of course, sir," Bishop replied, sipping his own coffee.
"I'll get to it," Nelson said. "You probably know by now that Weissbach is retiring next week."
Bishop nodded, having sent his dress grays to be pressed and cleaned for the ceremony the day prior.
"This isn't quite official," Nelson continued. "But I'm sure I can tell you this in confidence, with Angel as an exception, but that's fine..."
The young pilot smirked slightly.
"van Buuren is also going to take his leave. This leaves a lot of spots open on the Cathedral," said the Commander. "I have been selected to take over as the new CO, Morrow will be my XO. This leaves a spot open at Tactical Officer. It won't be permanent, but as you recover, I think a little time in the CIC would do you well."
Bishop blinked hard, asking the obvious question next, "Do I really have a choice?"
"I'm afraid not," Nelson smiled. "I chose you because I need men who are respected by the crew and intimately familiar with the ship. I need those men to serve directly under me to keep me in line - at least for the first few months of deployment."
"The Cathedral is being deployed?" Bishop asked, shocked. "I thought-"
"Repairs are ahead of schedule," Nelson finished. "She's almost brand-new again. You should see her, Scott, it's like the day she was commissioned."
Bishop sat back in awe. The Cathedral was headed out again. And he was going to be on it.
"We sail in ten days," smirked Nelson, swallowing the rest of his coffee with gusto. "You might want to inform Captain Emory of his new position as acting CAG."
Almost on cue, Angel and Nina walked through the door. Nina's eyebrows shot up into her hairline.
"Acting what?"
CDF BSG 45 Cathedral
Scorpion Ship Yards
The move from the Picon dry dock and fleet headquarters to Scorpion had let the cat out of the bag. No ships move to the Scorpion Yards without intentions of deployment. This created an excited buzz around the massive Colonial outpost, one that met young Major Scott Mason's ears as the side hatch to his Raptor opened on the hangar deck.
It smelled and looked much like it did the last time he had arrived. Which, thinking back, was not well-received by Command staff.
"And here we are again," Angel said, smiling despite himself. He hiked up his duffel higher on his shoulder, quickly looking back to make sure Bishop was making progress.
The Major muttered something profane as he awkwardly descended off the shuttle and on to the hanger deck. He looked up and nodded and Angel, smirking.
"Why do I feel like I'm going aboard to drive a desk?" inquired Bishop. "I mean, I know it's temporary, but still..."
"Hell, you might like it," replied the acting CAG as the pair paused for a crossing forklift. "You get to do lots of cool shit. Fire the guns, giving actual orders, you know what the job is."
Bishop sighed as they turned down a long hallway toward the Cathedral's dock, "As do you. Doesn't mean that you would like it, now, would it?"
"It would be an interesting change of pace," Angel mused as he slowed his pace noticeably to walk with Bishop. "You could look at it as a way to bolster your resume, too, you know."
"I guess," said Bishop. They continued for another hundred meters or so before presenting their papers to a pair of young Fleet Marines stationed outside the door of the Cathedral. With their rank insignia shining brightly on the collars of their blue duty uniforms, little was questioned about their presence or intentions once on board.
Bishop attempted to slow his heart rate down as his boots touched the deck of the Cathedral once again. He recognized the scent of the air and the glow of the lights. Everything appeared to be much cleaner since he had last seen the inside of the Battlestar more than two months prior.
They trekked the familiar path to the senior officer's quarters. The ship was unusually quiet. The normal flow of hundreds of crew and the ubiquitous overhead pages and notifications absent. Even the low hum of the ship's engines was barely noticeable - as the ship idled quietly at the dock.
The senior officer's quarters, of course, remained unchanged. Someone had been nice enough to equip the room with a newer, albeit slightly used, couch and tables. Bishop threw his ruck onto the floor beside his narrow bunk, and sat down with a sigh, elevating his left leg onto the coffee table with some effort.
Angel walked to the coffee machine and stared at it, mumbling something about people disconnecting the power.
The door opened, much to the surprise of both young men. Nelson strode in, smirking. Angel quickly snapped to attention, and Bishop struggled to get his leg under him.
"As you were, for frak's sake," Nelson sighed, loosening his collar and taking a seat in one of the worn chairs. "Good to see you boys made it safe."
"It's good to be back, sir," Bishop admitted truthfully. "It was getting a little desperate on Tauron."
"I imagine it was," nodded the Commander. "The rest of the command staff will arrive later today. I was thinking we could all get together for dinner tonight, iron out some things, and then get ready for departure in a week's time or so."
Bishop and Angel nodded, each choosing to remain silent.
"Scott, you might want to take a look at this," the Commander tossed him a moderately-sized binder, blaring the title: CDF BSG 45 Battlestar Cathedral Tactical Officer Handbook of Duties and Responsibilities.
"I...see," Bishop said quietly, not quite hiding his unease. "Thank you, sir."
"And I trust that you can fill in Mr. Emory on the responsibilities of CAG?" Nelson asked, rather unnecessarily.
"Of course," nodded the former CAG as Angel wore an expression of unease and disdain.
"Excellent. I have a pretty good feeling about this cruise, guys. This is going to be a young and energetic crew. I imagine a lot of the men and women are going to be just as restless as you two were to get back out in it."
"I hope it stays quiet, though," finished the Commander. "I could do without any bloodshed."
"We all could do without it, sir," agreed Bishop.
"Mr. Mason."
Bishop - or rather, Mister Mason as he was refereed to in the CIC - blinked furiously and shook his head, "Sir?"
"Can we get you some more coffee?" smirked Nelson, standing on the other side of the nav table and smirking.
"Um, no, sir, thank you," Mason said, his eyes glancing down at the full, steaming mug in front of him.
"If you please, then, the orders," Nelson was almost laughing.
Mason felt himself turn a deeper shade of red. His mind had been reeling as he stood - to the best of his ability - behind the nav table. He was wearing the modified duty blue uniform - as Nelson embraced the feeling of tradition and pride it instilled in the crew. He glanced at the hash marks on his sleeve - one for every three years of service. The medals on his chest - the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Combat Wounded medal - stood out in the dim lighting. The insignia of major stood out on his collar, and his Viper wings stood out proudly among some of the other officers who had forgone flight training in favor of chasing the command ranks.
"Helm, release moorings - reverse one quarter sublight," Mason repeated the command promptly. In the interest of accountability and decorum, orders were always repeated from the officer who held the conn to the tactical officer, and then repeated back from the particular young officer who held the station to the tactical officer. It was a concept called three hundred sixty degree communication, and reduced the number of errors in the orders.
"Release moorings, one quarter reverse, aye, sir."
The Cathedral hummed under their feet as she had done nearly three months ago as she had steamed into combat. It seemed like years to Bishop, whose leg felt almost instantly better as the calming vibration of the massive Battlestar worked its way through the sole of his boot and into his very bones. The fifteen hundred meters of ship eased slowly and gracefully from the Scorpion Yards, the angry, alligator-shaped nose turning in a wide arc toward open space.
"Miss Connoway, shipwide broadcast," Nelson said calmly, completely at ease. Mason admired the man as he stood in the exact spot where Weissbach had stood just a few months prior. He knew that the new Commander had to be intimidated, taking on a command such as the Cathedral. Her Tactical Officer (Acting) smiled to himself as he reflected on the tight-knit nature of the crew, and the pride that they took in each other and the very ship itself. They were good - and they knew it.
"Shipwide, aye, sir," nodded the blonde head of Lieutenant Connoway - Communications Officer.
"Crew of the Cathedral, this is your Commander," Nelson began. Activity among the two thousand plus souls slowed as each person gathered around the nearest available commo station.
"Three months ago, you showed the citizens of the Colonies your deep and unrelenting resolve to protect them at all costs from Cylon forces. And three months ago, the great war ended. I, along with the rest of the Fleet, personally applaud you and thank you for your efforts. You all truly exemplify what it is to be a Battlestar and her crew."
Scattered applause and cheers were heard around the ship. Bishop smirked slightly and took a sip of coffee as he watched Nelson continue.
"Now our mission takes on a different tone. We must now be ever-vigilant. No one knows why our enemy disappeared. No one knows their plan - their strategy. But we must - and we will - stand ready to intercept and terminate any and all threats to the Twelve Colonies with swift and awesome prejudice! Make no mistake, crew of the Cathedral, we are the best for a reason. The Cylons who fell beneath our boots and our guns and our Vipers now check under their bunks in hell for anyone wearing a Cathedral patch - and there we shall be, waiting for them!"
Colonel Morrow - his insignia still in mint condition - stood tall on the deck, and filled his lungs, "So say we all!"
Being third down on the chain-of-command, Mason immediately joined the second chorus, "So say we all!"
The phrase echoed through the ship. Nelson smirked with confidence. He took an ornate envelope from his pocket and broke the waxed seal. He glanced at it briefly.
"Our orders are to jump to the outer edge of Sector Twelve, and establish a perimeter along with the Valkyrie, the Olympia, and the Galactica. We will now constitute the first patrol of the newly established demilitarized space. We are to go as far as we dare, and draw a line in the sand. This operation has been codenamed Colonial Shield, and it will be an ongoing effort from this moment forward. Helm, set course for Colonial Sector Twelve and rig for FTL jump!"
"Set course sector twelve for FTL jump, aye!" Mason repeated crisply. Something moved very deep inside of him as he rattled the order off. His uniform felt powerful. He felt - strangely - very much at home as he stood in the CIC. This made him uneasy, as he had never felt at home in any other place other than the cockpit of a Viper.
"Coordinates set, sir, sector twelve, standing by!"
Mason glanced at Nelson, and nodded. Nelson's face broke into the familiar, cocky smirk worn by anyone who called themselves a pilot.
"Let's go."