Surit cut himself off. He could hear when an order was an order. “Sir.”

The commander beckoned the chief of staff again as he strode off the bridge. She fell in beside him, speaking in the level tone of someone giving a briefing. Surit heard refuses to acknowledge orders even from the bloody regulators and guessed what the commander wanted to be briefed about.

The short break gave Surit time to write down a brief outline of his concerns, including the conversation with Commander Vinys. He encrypted the report but then realized the regulators hadn’t given him a contact to send anything to. He couldn’t just raise it to anyone: Tennalhin could be in danger if the information got out. By this point he was pushing his fourteen minutes. He saved the report for later.

He had to push his time even further, as Tennalhin’s wristband wasn’t immediately accessible from the ship’s network. It took Surit a further two minutes to figure out Tennalhin had somehow registered himself as the only civilian on the ship. Surit had to come out of the military network entirely and approach it from a less-secure commercial interface just to open a line.

“I’m so glad you called,” Tennalhin said. His head and shoulders appeared in a tiny projection above Surit’s wristband. “You never call. It’s like I’m a stranger you met three days ago.”

Surit ignored that. “The commander requests you come to the flag chamber.”

“Does he?” Tennalhin said. “That’s not what the last message I got said.”

Surit paused. “What did the last one say?”

“That one wasn’t a request,” Tennalhin said. “But I suppose, if you’re asking nicely.” He stretched in a way that was obviously meant to indicate relaxation, but even through the projection Surit could tell he was faking. “Tell our new commander I’ll be there in a minute.”

Tennalhin was late. By that time, Surit had already arrived at the flag chamber: a large, shielded space that was a fleet commander’s office, war room, and meeting hall rolled into one. The commander sat, flanked by the chief of staff, at the table they used for the morning strategy meetings. “Let’s see your regulator stamps,” he said, as soon as Surit walked in.

Surit opened the sync authorization he’d received in his briefing. It floated onto the table in silver layers, each of them a filigree visualization of an encryption algorithm. The layers coalesced into the most formal style of document, identifying Surit—and presumably Tennalhin—by a long identification number that must correspond with the regulators’ databases.

Commander Vinys took his time examining it. “Those are in order.”

“You’re late,” the chief of staff said as Tennalhin came through the door.

Tennalhin took a seat, uninvited. He wore a deep green wrap-jacket and an ostentatiously civilian earring. “Yes, usually,” he said. “You asked for me?”