Arthur tugged at his dress uniform collar for the third time in as many minutes, wondering if the tailors had deliberately shrunk the damn thing. The formal wear felt restrictive compared to his standard combat fatigues, the fabric crisp and unforgiving across his shoulders.
"You look like you're preparing for execution," Rapi observed from her position by the penthouse door.
"I'd prefer execution," Arthur muttered, adjusting the medals he'd never asked for but Command had insisted he wear. "At least that would be over quickly."
"The Deputy Chief's invitation specified formal attire and your attendance," Rapi continued with her usual precision. "Declining would constitute a significant breach of protocol."
"I know. Doesn't mean I have to like it." He caught his reflection in the window—the uniform made him look like an actual Commander instead of the Outer Rim mercenary he still felt like inside. The goddesium prosthetics gleamed at his wrists, too advanced to disguise, too much a part of him to hide.
The tactical phone on his desk chimed. Andersen's message was characteristically brief: *Car's waiting. Don't make me send Aegis to retrieve you.*
"He's joking," Arthur said, though he wasn't entirely certain.
"Probability of humorous intent: seventy-three percent," Rapi calculated. "Probability he would follow through if you're late: ninety-eight percent."
Arthur grabbed his jacket. "I'll be back in a few hours. Try to keep Nyx from redecorating my office in protest."
"I will do my best," Rapi replied, which wasn't exactly reassuring.
The *Admire* dominated the military docks like a cathedral of steel and purpose, its massive bulk somehow elegant despite a century of wear. Arthur had seen it once before, briefly, but approaching it now—lit for the evening with running lights that traced its architecture—he understood why Burningum fought so hard to maintain it. The battleship represented something more than firepower. It represented humanity's refusal to surrender, even when surrender seemed rational.
The gangway led to a deck transformed for the occasion. String lights softened the military angles, and portable heaters fought the perpetual chill of the Ark's lower levels. People in expensive clothing clustered in conversation groups, champagne glasses catching the light, laughter echoing off bulkheads designed for combat.
Arthur felt immediately, profoundly out of place.
"Commander Cousland!" Andersen appeared beside him with a champagne flute in each hand, offering one with a grin that suggested he understood exactly how uncomfortable Arthur was. "Glad you could make it."
"Did I have a choice?"
"Technically? Yes. Practically? No." Andersen's expression softened slightly. "You've been running yourself ragged with the Outpost. Consider this mandatory decompression. Drink champagne, make small talk, remember there's more to life than combat reports and construction requisitions."
Arthur accepted the glass, surveying the crowd with the same tactical awareness he'd use entering hostile territory. "Who are these people?"
"Ark's financial elite. Corporate executives, investment families, the sort who have credits to burn and egos to feed." Andersen's tone carried mild distaste beneath the professional courtesy. "Burningum needs their continued support to keep the *Admire* operational. Hence the party."
"And I'm here because?"
"Because you're the Ark's current military darling. The Commander who treats Nikkes like people and somehow makes it work. These people love a compelling story, and you're it." Andersen clapped his shoulder. "Circulate. Be charming. Try not to start any diplomatic incidents."
"No promises," Arthur muttered, but Andersen had already moved to intercept a cluster of guests.
The champagne was excellent, which somehow made the situation worse. Arthur drifted along the deck's edge, trying to look purposeful while avoiding actual conversations. He'd faced Tyrant-class Raptures with more confidence than cocktail parties.
"Commander Cousland."
The voice carried quiet authority and unmistakable recognition. Arthur turned to find Ingrid approaching, the Elysion CEO elegant in a dark suit that probably cost more than most military hardware. Her brown hair was arranged with precise artistry, her expression unreadable.
"Director Ingrid," Arthur acknowledged, straightening reflexively. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."
"Burningum and I have a long professional relationship." Her eyes studied him with the same analytical intensity she'd probably used examining Scarlet's combat data. "I wanted to ask about my girls. Scarlet, Lyra, and Rapi. How are they performing? Especially after Scarlet's and Lyra's upgrades?"
The question surprised him with its directness, and perhaps with the genuine concern beneath it. "Exceptionally well. Scarlet's handling her rebuilt frame like she was born to it. Lyra's adjusted to the increased mass and power—the sensory upgrades you implemented have helped her memory stability. And Rapi..." He paused, choosing words carefully. "Rapi is everything you designed her to be. Efficient, professional, and more loyal than I probably deserve."
Ingrid's expression shifted subtly, something that might have been satisfaction. "Good. They were all significant investments, but investments made with care. I'm pleased they're in capable hands." She paused. "Treat them well, Commander. Not all manufacturers prioritize their products' wellbeing after sale."
"I will," Arthur promised, and meant it.
She departed with a nod, leaving Arthur wondering if that conversation had been evaluation, approval, or warning. Possibly all three.
"Commander Cousland. A moment?"
This voice carried a different quality—smooth, confident, with an accent Arthur couldn't quite place. He turned to find a man in an immaculate charcoal suit, dark hair graying at the temples, blue eyes sharp with intelligence. Something about him suggested danger carefully civilized.
"Jack Harper," the man introduced himself, extending a hand. "Cerberus CEO. I've heard interesting things about you from my Nikkes."
Arthur shook the offered hand, noting the firm grip. "All good, I hope."
"Better than good. They speak of you with something approaching reverence, which is... unusual." Harper's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "You have a talent for inspiring loyalty. Useful quality in our line of work."
"I just treat them like people."
"Exactly." Harper sipped his drink. "Most commanders treat Nikkes like equipment. You treat them like soldiers. The difference produces remarkable results." He paused, his gaze dropping briefly to Arthur's prosthetics. "Those are impressive augmentations. Goddesium, if I'm not mistaken. Custom work?"
"Acquired before my current assignment," Arthur said carefully.
"Practical. Expensive, but practical." Harper pulled a slim card from his jacket, offering it. "If you're ever interested in upgrades—weapon systems, enhanced servos, neural interface improvements—Cerberus specializes in cutting-edge augmentation technology. Consider it professional courtesy. Any commander my Nikkes respect is someone I'd like to support."
Arthur pocketed the card, uncertain whether he'd just been offered assistance or recruited. "I'll keep it in mind."
"Please do." Harper's smile widened fractionally. "Enjoy the party, Commander."
Arthur was contemplating escaping to a quieter section of the deck when something white and squishy hit his shoulder with a wet *slap*.
He looked down, blinked, and found himself holding a starfish.
"Oh no! I'm so sorry!" A young voice carried genuine mortification. Arthur turned to find a petite Nikke hurrying toward him, her long white hair flowing behind her, blue and white uniform crisp despite her obvious distress. "I was showing someone the starfish preservation techniques and it slipped and I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine," Arthur assured her, fighting the urge to laugh. "No harm done. You must be Anchor."
Her blue eyes widened. "You know who I am?"
"Your reputation precedes you," he said diplomatically, handing back the starfish. "Though I appreciate you not throwing it at my face."
Anchor clutched the starfish protectively, her expression mortified. "I would never! Not at you! You're Commander Cousland! You're practically famous! And you're really nice to Nikkes and everyone says—" She stopped abruptly, apparently realizing she was rambling. "I'm sorry. I get excited about marine life and sometimes I forget proper social protocols."
"Don't apologize," Arthur said, finding her enthusiasm genuinely charming. "It's refreshing, actually. Most people here are too polished."
She brightened considerably. "Really? Because Helm keeps telling me I need to be more professional at these events but I just think starfish are really interesting and people should know about their regenerative capabilities—"
"Anchor." A new voice interrupted, warm with affection and exasperation. "Are you harassing our guest of honor with marine biology lectures?"
The woman approaching moved with casual confidence, her strawberry-colored hair catching the light, the naval uniform tailored to emphasize curves that would distract most men into forgetting their own names. A colorful parrot perched on her shoulder, regarding Arthur with one beady eye.
"I'm not harassing!" Anchor protested. "The starfish was an accident!"
"The starfish is always an accident," the woman said with a grin, extending her hand to Arthur. "Mast. Third of Aegis Squad. Don't mind Morgan—he only bites people who deserve it."
The parrot squawked something that sounded vaguely insulting.
"Pleasure," Arthur said, shaking her hand and carefully not staring at the neckline that plunged dramatically between the uniform's brass buttons. "Your ship is impressive."
"Isn't she?" Mast's expression turned genuinely reverent. "The *Admire* is a lady of rare distinction. Treat her right and she'll take you anywhere. Treat her poorly and she'll make you regret being born."
"Mast thinks she's a privateer," Anchor stage-whispered. "She's not. We're military."
"Privateers *are* military, just with better fashion sense," Mast countered. "Speaking of which, Commander, that uniform looks like it's strangling you. You should loosen the collar before you pass out."
"I'm fine," Arthur lied.
"You're miserable," Mast corrected cheerfully. "But don't worry. Helm will rescue you shortly. She's been watching you since you arrived."
Arthur's heart did something complicated in his chest. "She has?"
"Oh yes. Very intently. It's actually adorable." Mast leaned closer conspiratorially. "Word of advice? She likes people who are genuine. You do that thing where you're honest even when it's uncomfortable. She'll appreciate it."
Before Arthur could respond, Anchor tugged Mast's sleeve. "We should go. The Deputy Chief is signaling."
"Duty calls," Mast sighed dramatically. "Enjoy the party, Commander. And seriously, loosen that collar."
They departed, leaving Arthur alone with his champagne and the distinct awareness that someone was watching him. He turned slowly, scanning the crowd, and found her.
Helm stood near the port railing, her white naval coat pristine over the white uniform beneath, blue hair styled elegantly, violet eyes meeting his across the deck. Even at a distance, she carried herself with unmistakable authority and grace.
She raised her glass slightly in acknowledgment, a small smile touching her lips.
Arthur crossed the deck.
"Commander Cousland," Helm greeted him as he approached. "We meet again."
"Captain Helm." Up close, she was even more striking than he'd remembered from their brief encounter at Central Command—the perfect posture, the intelligent eyes, the quiet confidence that suggested she could command nations or battleships with equal effectiveness. "I was hoping I'd see you here."
"Were you?" Her smile widened fractionally. "I'm flattered. Though from the look on your face earlier, I thought you might flee the party entirely."
"The thought crossed my mind," Arthur admitted. "I'm better with combat zones than cocktail parties."
"I noticed. You have the bearing of someone expecting enemy contact." She gestured to the railing beside her. "The view is better here. And quieter."
He joined her, grateful for the excuse to step away from the crowd. The military docks stretched below them, lit by work lights and the ever-present glow of the Ark's infrastructure. "Your ship is remarkable. I've never seen anything like her."
"The *Admire* is one of a kind," Helm agreed, her voice carrying unmistakable affection. "Old, temperamental, magnificent. She requires constant maintenance and devotion, but she's worth every effort." She glanced at him. "I understand you have something similar. The Outpost wasn't exactly a prize assignment, but you've transformed it."
"Word travels fast."
"I pay attention to interesting developments. A Commander who treats Nikkes as equals and somehow makes an impossible situation work? That's worth noticing."
They fell into conversation naturally, the awkwardness Arthur felt elsewhere dissolving in Helm's presence. She asked about the Outpost's reconstruction, and he found himself describing challenges and solutions with genuine enthusiasm. She shared stories of the *Admire*'s maintenance struggles, the constant battle for resources, the satisfaction of keeping something magnificent alive.
Time became fluid. Arthur barely noticed as the crowd thinned, as other guests departed, as the deck grew quieter.
Helm was easy to talk to—intelligent without being condescending, interested without being intrusive, beautiful without being aware of the effect she had. She listened when he spoke, responded thoughtfully, challenged him when she disagreed, and somehow made him feel like the most interesting person at the party.
"You know," Helm said eventually, her voice quiet, "when Andersen mentioned inviting you, I hoped you'd come."
"Why?" Arthur asked, genuinely curious.
"Because you're different. Most commanders see Nikkes as tools or threats. You see us as people. That's... rare. And valuable." She turned to face him fully, violet eyes serious. "The work you're doing at the Outpost—building something sustainable, treating your squad as partners—it matters. Not just tactically. Philosophically."
"I just do what seems right."
"Exactly." Her smile returned, softer now. "That's why it works."
"Captain Helm." Mast's voice interrupted from across the deck. "We need to begin shutdown procedures."
Helm glanced toward her squad mate, then back to Arthur with something like regret. "I should go. Dawn comes early, and the *Admire* requires morning checks."
"Of course," Arthur said, surprised by his reluctance to end the conversation. "Thank you for this. The talk, I mean. It was..."
"Enjoyable," Helm supplied. "For me as well." She paused, then reached into her jacket and produced a slim card. "The *Admire* conducts regular maintenance operations. If you'd like a proper tour sometime—one without crowds—I'd be happy to show you around."
Arthur accepted the card, their fingers brushing briefly. "I'd like that."
"Good." Helm's smile could have powered the Ark. "Until then, Commander Cousland."
She departed with her characteristic grace, leaving Arthur alone on the deck with the echo of a conversation that had somehow consumed hours without him noticing.
Andersen appeared beside him, grinning knowingly. "Enjoy yourself?"
"Actually," Arthur admitted, surprised by the truth of it, "yes."
"Good. You needed a break." Andersen's expression turned more serious. "And Helm needed to meet someone worth her time. I call that successful evening."
Arthur looked at the card in his hand, then at the battleship around them, then finally at Andersen. "You planned this."
"I facilitated circumstances. What happened within them was entirely your doing." The Deputy Chief's grin returned. "Come on. I'll give you a ride back to the Outpost. You can spend the trip figuring out when you'll see her again."