Page 153 of Commander’s Mate

“She appears to be,” I repeated.

“Yes, sir. The junior I sent with shirts returned looking terrified and impressed.”

Degatu moved to my side. “It seems your mate has found work.”

“She is not familiar with our systems.”

“No,” Pyrr said carefully. “But she is familiar with frightened people.”

That settled the matter more firmly than any tactical argument.

“We have only three unmated female warriors aboard Dreadnought One,” Pyrr said. “Two are on security rotation. One is assisting medical.”

“Then rotate them. Any male assigned to refugee support receives instruction before entering. No touching without permission. No entering sleeping areas without announcement unless emergency. No private removal of rescued females without command authorization and their verbal consent.”

Pyrr nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Degatu watched me.

“Also,” I continued, “prepare a formal declaration. All rescued persons aboard this ship are free under Farseek protection. No labor, sexual access, debt, or service will be required in payment for rescue, transport, food, clothing, or medical care.”

Pyrr’s expression shifted. Approval, maybe. Or relief.

“I will draft it immediately.”

“Yes, Commander.” He hesitated. “There is one more thing.”

“What?”

“Several of the rescued are asking whether the Farseek Mercenaries intend to sell them back to their families or governments for reward.”

The words landed like a blow.

“No,” I said.

Pyrr lowered his head. “I know that. They do not.”

Of course they did not.

They had been taken by beings with ships, weapons, translators, and laws twisted enough to make slavery profitable. Why would they trust another set of beings with ships, weapons, translators, and reasons to count them?

Pyrr nodded and left.

The door closed.

Degatu folded his arms. “You realize you have just created a refugee charter.”

“Yes.”

I turned toward him. “Do not look pleased.”

“I am not pleased. I am relieved. There is a difference.”

I sank into the chair behind my desk and rubbed the heel of my hand over my brow. “We are soldiers.”

I hated how true that was.

For most of my adult life, my choices had been made within chains of command, contracts, mission parameters, battlefield logic. Protect this. Take that. Hold ground. Evacuate civilians if possible. Return home when the war ended.