She considered. “Not really, sir. I did notice several places where the timetable or even the mission plan itself seemed a bit vague. May I assume that was deliberate?”

“You may indeed,” Roman nodded. “I wanted to leave us enough room to play things by ear. Don’t forget, Lieutenant, that this is the first time something like this has been tried. You’re going to be helping to make history here.”

Or at least a footnote to history, her look seemed to say. “Yes, sir,” she said instead, her voice suitably neutral.

“We’ll be examining the voyage plan at regular intervals once we’re actually underway,” Roman continued.

“I’ll look forward to your input then, and at any other time you have a comment, of course. So.” He glanced at his desktop display, checking to see if there were any other questions he’d wanted to ask her. “How’s your organization of piloting staff and helmers going? Any problems cropped up yet?”

“Nothing significant,” she shook her head. “Certainly not when you consider the potential for psychological clashes aboard.”

“Yes, some of that’s already surfaced back in engineering,” Roman said grimly.

“I’ve heard,” she nodded. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anything that bad in the helmer staff. I’ve had to handle worse conflicts on some of the warships I’ve served on.”

“Good,” Roman said. “Then unless you have any questions, I’ll let you get back to your duties.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “Are we still scheduled for an 0800 departure tomorrow?”

“Provided the Tampies are all aboard and have the space horse tethered to us by then,” Roman said, suppressing a flash of annoyance. The Tampies, he’d discovered to his mild chagrin, had their own idea as to what constituted top speed, a level that was considerably below human expectations. “You can assume we’re on schedule unless and until you hear anything to the contrary.”

“My people will be ready whenever you need us.”

“I’m sure they will. Thank you for coming by, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

She glided to the door and exited, and Roman turned with a sigh to his desktop display. A hundred twenty-three interviews down; just one more to go… but this last one was likely to be a beaut.

Amity’s exec. The man who Senate infighting had succeeded in putting in as second in command, despite the record and obvious competence of Erin Kennedy.

The man who, unlike the rest of the ship’s officers and crew, had arrived barely twenty-four hours before the ship’s scheduled departure, too late to help with any of the pre-flight preparations.

The man who’d brought with him a personal file and psych profile that practically simmered with Tampy-hatred.

It was, unfortunately, the kind of politically-twisted logic that Roman should have expected. The Senate’s anti-Tampy faction would have demanded that Roman’s own pro-Tampy inclinations be balanced by an opposite bias in Amity’s executive officer, and it was clear from Kennedy’s own comments that such a demand had indeed been made and yielded to. Still, for the past few days he’d dared to hope that they might have given up that concession at the last minute; that the continuing border troubles would have convinced them that they could safely give Amity a fair trial without the need to stack the deck. Clearly, they hadn’t been interested in taking that chance.

And coming at the last minute like this, there wasn’t a lot Roman could do about it.

Keying the man’s file onto his display, he scanned it one last time to refresh his memory, then touched the intercom switch. “Is the exec there yet?” he asked the yeoman manning the outer desk.

“Yes, sir.”

Mentally, Roman braced himself. “Send him in.”

The door slid open and a young man stepped through, moving with somewhat less certainty and grace than had Erin Kennedy before him. Less experience with ships in low-rotation mode, Roman noted automatically, filing the datum away for possible future reference. “Welcome aboard, Commander,” he said. “I’m Captain Haml Roman.”

“Lieutenant Commander Chayne Ferrol,” the other identified himself, his voice formal, stiff, and cool. “I’m looking forward to serving with you, Captain.”

Ferrol had argued long and hard with the Senator and his friends about this assignment—had brought up a hundred reasons why it wouldn’t work, a hundred more why he didn’t want to serve under the man who’d come within a hair of nailing him and the Scapa Flow three months earlier. They’d assured him there would be no problem, convinced him he was the only man for the job… but now, standing there under Roman’s unblinking gaze, Ferrol wished he hadn’t given in.

Those eyes were far too intelligent, far too discerning, and for that first awful moment Ferrol was sure the captain somehow knew exactly who he was. He braced himself for the accusation as Roman opened his mouth—“We’re looking forward to having you aboard, Commander,” the other said.

The tightness in Ferrol’s chest eased, and he began to breathe again. So much for paranoia, he thought, annoyed with himself for jumping so easily to conclusions.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said. “My apologies for arriving at the last minute like this.”

Roman waved the apology aside. “I imagine the fault lies with those who sent you.” His eyes dipped to his desk display. “You’ll forgive me if I say that at twentyfour you’re a bit young for your rank.”

“The commission is honorary,” Ferrol said. That was technically supposed to be a secret, but Roman could hardly have failed to figure it out. “I have, however, had six full years in the merchant fleet, two of them as captain of a small ship of my own. I think you’ll find me fully capable of serving as Amity’s executive officer.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” Roman said mildly. “It’s just that your file is oddly vague on these details, and I wanted to get some of them cleared up. The size of your former command, for instance.”

“It was a small interstellar tug with a crew of fifteen,” Ferrol told him.

Roman nodded. “I know the type. Close-knit crew, everyone friends, captain basically God—and everyone likes it or quits at the next port. There are a lot of people who think that’s the ideal starship size.”

His voice was casual, almost bantering… but his eyes were anything but. “It would probably save time, Captain,” Ferrol said evenly, “if you’d just go ahead and ask me why I’m here.”

Roman cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, I know why you’re here, Commander. What I want to ask is why you hate the Tampies so much.”

Even eight years later, the memory of it was still a hot needle beneath his skin.

“You have my file there,” Ferrol said, forcing his voice to remain calm. “You should be able to figure it out.”

Roman studied him. “I gather you’re referring to the Prometheus treaty.”

“Treaty?” Ferrol snorted. “That was hardly a treaty, Captain. It was an act of war.”

He nodded curtly at Roman’s desk display. “Read the official papers sometime, Captain, if you can manage to dig them out of the Starforce’s snowpile. Read the fairy tale about how the Tampies decided one day that they wanted Prometheus—never mind that we’d just spent three years working damned hard to build a colony there. Read how the Senate meekly agreed and sent the Defiance to forceably take us off.” His voice was starting to shake, and he took a careful breath to calm it. “I doubt you’ll be able to read that having their life’s goal kicked out from under them was what ruined my parents’ health and killed them two years later. Official papers don’t usually bother with trivialities like that.”

“I’m sorry,” Romans said.

Even through the blur of emotion Ferrol could tell the other meant it. “I’m not after sympathy, Captain,” he growled. “And before you get the wrong idea, I’m not after revenge, either. What I want is for the Cordonale to understand the Tampies the way I do.”