All the while he tried to keep his mind off what was happening outside the armor-plated hull of the Odyssey. Trying not to think about things he couldn’t change and things he couldn’t help.

It was nearly forty-five minutes later when Weston was disturbed by the reverberating clang of the flight deck’s massive airlock closing. Glancing up from his position, he noted that it was one of the Archangels returned from patrol. He was about to turn his attention back to the shakedown of his fighter when he noted the markings on the returned fighter craft.

Extracting himself from his position, Weston pushed off of Archangel One and glided across the null-grav bay until he snagged the docking pylon that locked down over the newly returned fighter. As he got closer, he saw the pilot pull off his helmet, revealing a very tired and frustrated looking Stephen Michaels.

“Stephanos, you look like hell,” he told the younger man flatly.

A wry grin twitched the corners of Stephanos’s mouth, though no humor entered the young man’s eyes. “Thanks, Captain. You always know what to say, don’t you?”

“I’ve already arranged the memorial service for Flare. You have a few hours to shower and change. From the look of you, I suggest you get some rest, too,” Weston said, patting his young friend on the back. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it’s handled.”

The loss of Flare weighed heavily on Stephanos, and he knew that Weston was right. He did look like hell, and he needed the time to prepare for the memorial service.

“All right, Captain. I’ll see you later.”

Weston watched as the young pilot dropped to the floor. His Magboots snapped down, and then he walked away. In Weston’s experience, losing a pilot under your command was one of the most difficult things a wing leader could experience. The added feelings of responsibility tripled the crushing weight that fell on a man’s shoulders when he witnessed the death of a friend and comrade.

It was, unfortunately, not something that anyone else could really help with. Stephanos was on his own—for the moment, at least. Until he burned the initial rage from his system, his young friend would listen to no one.

Not even him.

Shaking his head, Weston walked back to his fighter to continue his work.

He wasn’t interrupted again until the airlock cycled the next shuttle craft through. At that point, he had completed his inspection of his fighter’s systems. Hefting himself out of the cockpit and drifting to the floor of the shuttle bay, he watched as the shuttle was trundled into place by the lumbering loader.

After the shuttle was locked into place, Weston walked over to the lowering ramp to greet the occupants as they disembarked. Savoy and his tech team were the first ones off.

“Captain.” Savoy and his men saluted.

“At ease. How many on this trip?”

“Seventy, sir. With the two heavy lifters and the three shuttles following us in, we managed to pack ’em all aboard. They’ll be here in less than ten minutes,” Lieutenant Savoy replied, dropping his salute as the captain dropped his. “Major Brinks is in the last one.”