After the opening ceremony, the senior staffers gave another round of speeches, thankfully shorter in length than those at the commissioning ceremony, but most of them still displayed the tedious and uninspiring quality such oratory was infamous for. Once the meals were served, the crew was free to socialize for a few hours before the ceremony's conclusion.

Many were content to stay at their tables and converse with those seated nearby. Others looked around for comrades from previous stations to reminisce about old times. Then there were the ambitious few sycophants who went out to curry favor with their superiors and the inverse case of senior officers and NCOs eagerly accosting their new subordinates. The remainder belonged to a variety less inclined to join in the society of others.

Counted among this last type was an Air Force pilot who found a place relatively free of anyone else. Major Matthias Harold stood uncomfortably, holding a glass in his hand but not taking a drink from it. The ribbons on his uniform pointed to a distinguished record, but one would not believe him to be a combat pilot by looking at him. A thin, bookish man of average height with silver-rimmed glasses on his aquiline nose, he looked more like an administrative clerk.

The shoes of his dress uniform were terribly uncomfortable and he shifted his weight from one leg to the other every few minutes in an attempt to relieve the pain. He was not fond of being around so many people and wanted to leave. Of course, the junior enlisted could sneak out of ceremonies like this with little consequence, but a mid-level officer did not have such a luxury. Beyond that, he was now the commanding officer of the 421st Fighter Squadron, part of an entire wing of Air Force personnel attached to the Ticonderoga. He was obliged to stay until the end. He just hoped he would be left alone until it was over.

Matt jumped in surprise. Turning around quickly, he was even more surprised to see the owner of the voice.

'Nyx' was the callsign of Senior Lieutenant Lydia Han, a Navy pilot who had been his wingman for four years. Looking closer at her uniform, he realized she was now a lieutenant commander, apparently a recent promotion that came as no small surprise. She did not have as much time in service as he did, after all. A combination of that and her rowdy nature left her with a few less awards to her credit, but apparently it was not doing much to slow her climb up the ladder. A testament to her skill as a pilot on the one hand and a sign of how desperate the times were on the other.

The first thing some would notice upon looking at her was the fact that her sandy blonde hair grew long in the front, covering the entire right side of her face. It was a defiance of standard regulations that had inexplicably remained uncontested for almost as long as he had known her.

'Cavalier' was Matt's own callsign, but Lydia and most of the other pilots he had flown with would shorten it to just 'Cav'. She was referring to something she had told him back when they were first assigned together. She had not been too keen on the idea of being paired with an Air Force pilot at the time, but experience had improved her opinion of him.

She made a good point. Neither the Air Force nor the Navy had seen the point in having fighters and bombers in space until the war began. Supreme Command thought that nothing smaller than a patrol ship would be necessary for operations in space, but then the Sheolites proved how gravely mistaken they were with swarms of smaller, faster and more maneuverable craft. Military contractors had scrambled to design the necessary counterparts, but the first generation proved barely capable of standing up to the enemy.

Matt and Lydia hailed from the second generation of the program, where better craft and better training kept more pilots alive and helped to stem the tide of destruction wreaked by the enemy. The war was now entering the third generation, of which the Ticonderoga was a significant factor. Both Matt and Lydia had spent the past two years at their respective academies, training the pilots who would embody this new wave and bring its goal of ultimate victory over the Sheolites to fruition.

It was an Air Force woman clad in the highly formal mess uniform, much like a majority of the officers present. Matt quickly noticed the single star on her epaulet, the insignia of a brigadier general. She was about Lydia's height with long brown hair tied back in a bun and piercing blue eyes. She had all the bearing of an experienced leader and the medals on her uniform indicated she was a pilot of some distinction before she had attained the rank that prohibited her from flying.

The General looked at the two of them critically for a brief moment before speaking.

The mess uniform was the one of the few exceptions to the more egalitarian standards adopted by the Union military. With all other uniforms, males and females dressed alike, a move that was met with some contention at first but had become a non-issue in recent history. No other uniform was more universally loathed than the mess uniform, for none was more uncomfortable, frivolous, expensive or rarely used. Lydia's aversion to the uniform not only echoed these sentiments but her own tomboyish nature as well.

Needless to say, their answers did not impress the General, whose look became even more severe. Although both pilots had risked life and limb in countless engagements with the ruthless Sheolites, this woman in her late thirties could still pose an intimidating figure to them.

Ignoring Lydia's lack of military courtesy, the General replied, "Pfeiffer, Lorraine K., Brigadier General, Earth Union Aerospace Expeditionary Force, 9th Joint Air Division, Commanding Officer. Does that answer your question, Commander?"

Lydia arched her eyebrow, not looking particularly affected by the new information.

Pfeiffer then turned and walked away, invariably to find their wing commanders. It was just the kind of trouble Matt would have rather avoided, but often his efforts to stay out of sight only made him a bigger target. Lydia only glared in the surly manner she would often adopt when getting chewed out by a superior officer.

'Airhead' was a common epithet used by Navy pilots to insult their Air Force counterparts. Matt was not terribly happy to hear her use it, but chose not to say anything. In spite of this, Lydia seemed to sense his discontent and quickly amended what she had said.

He had to keep her out of trouble the entire time they flew together and it seemed that it would be no different here. Fortunately, no other person assailed them for the remainder of the ceremony and they were able to relate some of the tales from their time spent training new pilots. The evening concluded without further event, sparing them any further problems until tomorrow at least.