The lieutenant was a tall man, six foot three according to his file. At twenty years old he was just

starting to fill out his large frame, still growing into his broad chest and wide, square shoulders. His skin was dark brown, his black hair cut high and tight in accordance with Alliance regulations. His features, like most citizens in the multicultural society of the late twenty-second century, were a mix of several different racial characteristics. Predominantly African, but Grissom thought he could see lingering traces of Central European and Native American ancestry as well.

Anderson marched smartly across the floor and stopped directly in front of the desk, standing at attention as he snapped off a formal salute.

“At ease, Lieutenant,” Grissom ordered, instinctively returning the salute.

back and his legs spread wide.

“Sir?” he asked. “If I may?” Even though he was a junior officer making a request of a rear admiral he spoke with confidence; there was no hesitation in his voice.

Grissom scowled before nodding at him to continue. The file showed Anderson had been born and raised in London, but he had almost no discernible regional accent. His generic dialect was likely the product of cross-cultural exposure through e-schooling and the info nets combined with a steady barrage of pan-global entertainment vids and music.

“I just want to tell you what an honor it is meeting you in person, Admiral,” the young man informed him. He wasn’t gushing or fawning, for which Grissom was grateful; he simply stated it as a matter of fact. “I remember seeing you on the news after the Charon expedition when I was only twelve. That’s when I decided I wanted to join the Alliance.”

“Are you trying to make me feel old, son?”

Anderson started to smile, thinking it was a joke. But the smile withered under Grissom’s glare. “No, sir,” he replied, his voice still sure and strong. “I only meant you’re an inspiration to us all.”