“Well. It’s not [i]only[/i] an imperial title.” Ah. Were his sinking spirits that obvious? Not good. The job is his. Even if he’s the one who chose it. You can’t have a broken heart where a Captain should be. And while the thought spirals deep into a corner of his mind to gnaw and work at a mask that might pass muster, a mouse who belongs to another ship entirely wheels him to the kitchen to fix a snack. So he continues. “The Starsong carry the same title on their ships, but it’s not quite the same job. It’s…” He wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. “Imperial Captains are appointed to their positions by those higher ranking than them, and, as I understand it, are responsible for maintaining the obedience of their crews. Starsong Captains are chosen, by the crews themselves, and are responsible for maintaining the well-being of the crew, the Starsong, and whatever planet they land on. Not necessarily in that order, but all of them are important. Imperial Captains must work above their crews. Starsong Captains must work with their crews.”

“It’s a good system. I liked it, when I was a part of it. It’s what we had when we first started on this voyage, though there were only a small handful of us. Then we took on the Hermetics, the Coherent, the Alcedi. Our Captain, she had to step down, for personal reasons. I thought I could be Captain in her place. Like the ones I’d served under. But here, all anybody knows is the Imperial way of doing things. They know how that works. They know where they fit there. And, I think…” 

He’s not speaking of anyone in particular. Nobody is listening in. Nobody is anywhere close to listening in. His voice drops to a whisper all the same. “I think when I’ve tried to change that, they see that vanishing. They feel the ground dropping out beneath them.” Like a little chef, taking his first, terrifying steps out of the Manor. “After Salib…what room is there for change? When everyone’s so, so…” 

Shaken? Hurt? Almost certainly. Almost. Because it’s conjecture, isn’t it? A best guess, gleaned from stacks and stacks of casualty reports, requests for offerings for rites of remembrance. Snippets of conversation, half-heard, and cut off once he was seen. A feeling in the air, that might just be his own weary heart, for all he knew.

“...in any case, Imperial is what the crew expects. If I’m to work with them, I need to at least speak it well enough to hold a conversation.”