She stopped in front of the short, squared-off commander heading the side party and saluted.

“Permission to come aboard, Sir?” she asked.

“Permission granted, Commander Harrington.” He returned her salute, then extended his hand. “Paul Tankersley, Warlock’s exec.” His voice was deep and resonant, his clasp firm, but there was an edge of curiosity in his sharp eyes. Honor wondered if he’d heard rumors about her and Young.

“If you’ll accompany me, Commander,” Tankersley went on after a brief pause, “the Captain is waiting in Briefing One.”

“Lead on.” She made a tiny gesture for him to precede her, and the two of them walked through the side party to the waiting lift.

There was no small talk on the way, which, Honor reflected, probably did indicate that Tankersley knew at least a little about her. After all, he could hardly begin a conversation with, “Do you and the Captain still hate each other’s guts, Commander?” Nor could he ask for her side of it without seeming disloyal to his own CO. Under the circumstances, a prudent silence was undoubtedly his wisest course, and she felt her lips twitch with acid amusement as the lift slid to a halt.

“This way, Commander,” Tankersley said, and she followed him down a short passage to the briefing room hatch. He came to a halt, pressed the admittance button, and stood aside as the panel slid open. She thought she saw just a touch of sympathy in his expression as she walked past him.

Captain Lord Young was seated behind the conference table, perusing a sheet of hardcopy. He didn’t look up as she entered, and she gritted her teeth, amazed that such a trivial insult could make her so angry. She crossed to the table and stood silently, determined to wait him out.

He was the same flashy, handsome man he’d always been, she noted. Putting on a little weight, perhaps, but the short beard hid his incipient double chin quite well, and his tailoring was excellent. It always had been, even at the Academy, where everyone was supposed to wear the same Navy-issue uniform. But, then, the rules never had applied to him. Pavel Young was the eldest son and heir of the Earl of North Hollow—a point he had no intention of allowing anyone to forget.

Honor had no idea what he’d done to get himself banished to Basilisk Station. Probably, she thought bitterly, he’d simply been himself. Patronage could advance an officer’s career—witness the fact that Young, who’d graduated only one form before her, had made list five years ago. Once an officer’s name was on the captain’s list, his eventual flag rank was guaranteed. Unless he did something so drastic the Fleet cashiered him, he only had to live long enough for simple seniority to see to that.

But rank, as many a Manticoran officer had discovered, was no guarantee of employment. An incompetent usually found himself on half-pay, still carried on the active-duty list but without a command. Half-pay was supposed to provide a reserve of experienced officers against future need by retaining those surplus to the service’s current requirements; in practice, it was used to put fumble-fingered idiots too important to dismiss from the Queen’s service where they could do no harm. Obviously Young hadn’t gotten himself into that category—yet—but the fact that he’d been senior officer in Basilisk for almost a T-year now seemed a pretty clear hint someone at the Admiralty was less than thrilled with his performance.