Three hundred? We run crews of twice that size with less than a quarter of the facilities this crew is afforded. Milla nodded distractedly. “Would you mind if we sat down while we talked?”

“Not at all.” Weston slipped down into one of the seats across the table from Milla.

“Captaine, may I ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Why is it that you address me by my rank, where the others I have met seem to prefer my name?”

Weston looked at her. He hadn’t actually noticed that and had to consider his answer for a moment. “The position of captain instills certain habits into a person. The only people on board who I refer to without using rank are Stephanos and the other Archangels, and I don’t use their names, either. I use their call signs because I used to be their wing commander.”

He flew one of those fighters? “You were a pilot, Captaine?”

“Yes, I flew with the Angels from the beginning. I met Stephanos when he was fifteen years old and only dreamed of flying a jet.” Weston smiled at the memory. “At fifteen, he managed to break into the research facilities that designed the Archangel-class fighter over five times before we finally gave in and offered him a job there. Might have been more. He still won’t tell me the real number.” Good thing we weren’t working for the military back then—Weston didn’t add aloud, but smiled at the thought—or he’d have probably spent the next fifty years buried in the deepest dungeon the MPs could find.

Milla smiled. “I, too, have known people like that, and they have much to endear themselves, don’t they?”

Weston chuckled. “Definitely.”

Weston saw Milla’s eyes focus behind him, her face reddening.

“He’s standing behind me, isn’t he?” Not waiting for her to respond, Weston turned and looked up at the glint in Stephanos’s eyes.

“Telling stories about me already, Captain?”

“Sit down,” Weston growled, a grin struggling beneath the air of command he had affected.

Stephanos grinned. “I do believe I will—at least to better defend my honor against the torrent of lies you’re undoubtedly telling our dear guest here.”

“Lies? You mean, like the time you convinced an entire bar full of drunks that I was covering their tabs for the night?” Weston asked.

Stephanos coughed awkwardly. “Well, it was like this…”

“Or maybe the time you had three different women drop in on Steffer, announcing that he was the father of their child…on his wedding night?”

“Hey! He had that coming,” the pilot defended himself.

Weston looked back to Milla. “It took us two weeks to convince Steffer’s wife not to have the marriage annulled.”

Milla snickered, as much at Stephanos’s feeble claims of innocence as the stories Weston was telling. The casual exchange between Weston and Stephanos was a relief from the stiff formality that she had observed on board any fleet vessel. This type of joking about was limited to the junior officers and crew members, and it was odd to watch two senior officers banter in public.