Vorpatril's tone took on a slightly gritty quality. “My fleet legal officer, Ensign Deslaurier.”

Tall Deslaurier, pale and wan beneath a lingering touch of adolescent acne, managed a nod.

Miles blinked in surprise. When, under his old covert ops identity, he had run a supposedly independent mercenary fleet for ImpSec's galactic operations, Fleet Legal had been a major department; just negotiating the peaceful passage of armed ships through all the varied local space legal jurisdictions had been a full-time job of nightmarish complexity. “Ensign.” Miles returned the nod, and chose his wording carefully. “You, ah . . . would seem to have a considerable responsibility, for your rank and age.”

Deslaurier cleared his throat, and said in a nearly inaudible voice, “Our department chief was sent home earlier in the voyage, my Lord Auditor. Compassionate leave. His mother'd died.”

I think I'm getting the drift of this already. “This your first galactic voyage, by chance?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Vorpatril put in, possibly mercifully, “I and my staff are entirely at your disposal, my Lord Auditor, and are ready with our reports as you requested. Would you care to follow me to our briefing room?”

“Yes, thank you, Admiral.”

Some shuffling and ducking through the corridors brought the party to a standard military briefing room: bolted-down holovid-equipped table and station chairs, friction matting underfoot harboring the faint musty odor of a sealed and gloomy chamber that never enjoyed sunlight or fresh air. The place smelled military. Miles suppressed the urge to take a long, nostalgic inhalation, for old times' sake. At his hand signal, Roic took up an impassive guard's stance just inside the door. The rest waited for him to seat himself, then disposed themselves around the table, Vorpatril on his left, Deslaurier as far away as possible.