Huh, it is more comfortable than my fighter. Still…It just feels off, somehow. He fidgeted a bit in the large chair, familiarizing himself with the displays available at his fingertips, checking and rechecking the emergency restraints. Finally, he gave up the attempt to force a level of comfort that he didn’t yet feel and turned his attention to work.

Weston glanced through the massive amount of reports from the ship’s stations, noticing that there were remarkably few from the tactical stations concerning the ship’s defensive systems. All the internal diagnostics were available, but there were no practical numbers; it was all theoretical. Weston was still examining the defensive systems when Roberts returned.

“Captain, the admiral is waiting in the conference room for the transfer of title.”

“Good,” Weston agreed, “let’s get this over with.”

Roberts and Weston left the bridge, riding an internal lift down to one of the outer decks, and entered the conference room. Admiral Gracen was surrounded by aides and several members of national and international presses, all with their whirring cameras focused on Weston’s entrance.

She was a striking woman, one who knew how to manipulate a group with her tall, aristocratic bearing, as she proved while carefully guiding the press in the direction of the captain. “Ah, Captain Weston. Come in, come in,” she said. “I’m certain that you’re anxious to begin your new command.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Weston engaged his best professional face, smiling blandly as he stood ramrod straight for the cameras. “I’m eager to put the new systems to the test.”

“Good. Good. Well, let’s get this done. Is everybody ready?”

After all had voiced their readiness, the admiral pressed a control and the lights dimmed. Weston knew that the ship’s recorders had just activated to document the transfer for the military archives.

The admiral leaned down and withdrew a small gold patch from a box by her seat.

“Eric Weston, former commander of the Archangel Flight Group, you have been promoted to the level of captain of the NACS Odyssey, with all the responsibilities and privileges therein.”

The cameras whirred, focusing on the admiral’s hand as she placed the gold patch on his left shoulder and stepped back. She extended her hand to Weston and shook his firmly.

“Congratulations, Captain.”

“Thank you, Admiral. Now, if I may be excused, I’ll—”

“It’s not that easy, Captain. You are the guest of honor here, and there is protocol to be observed.”

Weston sighed as he realized that he wouldn’t be escaping after all. Still, the rest of the evening flew by as he was introduced to various dignitaries and members of the press. The press conference went by in a blur; about half the questions put to him received a standard “no comment,” in slightly more flowery language, leading him to the after-party with a sensation in his gut remarkably similar to how he felt after flying triple back-to-back missions during the war.

He did his best not to look too eager to be gone as he picked at the buffet and said all the expected things in passing. The food was good, even if the conversation was lacking, but he did have trouble evading one particular reporter.