I let the silence handle that. He deserves it.
Dareth folds his umbrella and rests both hands on the handle. “May we speak privately.”
“We already are.”
He gives a small, tolerant exhale, the kind older diplomats use when they think charm and patience are interchangeable. “In more privacy.”
I glance toward the enclosed catwalk office at the far end. Former foreman station. Mostly used now for weather delays and paperwork nobody wants splashed on.
“Two minutes,” I say.
“It will take more.”
“Then speak efficiently.”
That almost amuses him.
Inside the office, the noise from the depot dulls to a distant metal roar. Rain rattles the outer pane. The room smells like dust warmed by old electronics, damp wool from Dareth’s coat, and the faint resin bite of structural sealant stored in one wall locker.
He waits until the door seals, then produces a slim case from under his arm. He sets it on the desk between us and opens it with ceremonial care.
Slate. Documents. The whole theater.
“You have a talent,” he says, “for making every outreach feel adversarial before it begins.”
“Only the dishonest ones.”
Dareth’s mouth twitches. “Then I’ll aim for honesty.”
He touches the slate. A document projection rises between us.
Fleet Ethics Restructuring Committee — Advisory Seat Nomination
I stare at it.
Of course it’s this.
The Coalition, having failed to turn me into a ceremonial relic, has found a subtler coffin.
Dareth folds his hands. “Post-tribunal review has forced major changes. Ethics oversight. Civilian interface structures. Casualty review mandates. The fleet is creating a restructured advisory body, and your presence would mean something.”
“Symbolic restoration,” I say.
“If you like.”
“I do not.”
He sighs, but there is no real irritation in it yet. He expected resistance. Probably rehearsed for it in a mirror.
“Listen to me,” he says. “This is not command. It carries no operational authority. No fleet control. No deployment signatures. It is advisory only.”
“Ceremonial without being called ceremonial.”
“It is practical.”
“No,” I say. “It is strategic.”
Rain thunders harder against the window for a moment, blurring the world outside into silver movement. The depotlights below flicker over the ceiling in pale reflections from the wet glass.
