Knight's Move by Christopher Nuttall

very common name.  But Intelligence Officers had sealed files, files even starship commanders couldn't open and read.  She might hope that he would jump to that conclusion ...
     
    “Thank you, Sandy,” he said.
     
    Sandy nodded and withdrew from the compartment, leaving him alone with Cynthia.  Glen studied her for a long moment – her uniform was a size too tight, something he would bet was uncomfortable even if it was also sexy – then leaned back in his chair.  Judging from her appearance, she wasn't here to tell him about alien threats, but to keep an eye on the crew.
     
    Wonderful , he thought, sourly.  He hoped that no one else would make that connection, yet he was fairly sure that was a fool’s hope.  Sandy was far from stupid; there was no point in wearing a uniform that skirted the boundaries of regulations unless seduction was in mind ... and it was unlikely that a human could seduce a non-human.  There might be a whole series of tasteless pornography showing just that, but Glen had never encountered anyone who actually claimed to have done it in real life.
     
    “Commander,” he said.  There was no point in trying to cross verbal swords with an Intelligence Officer.  They tended to be better at it than regular naval personnel.  “I shall be blunt.  Why have you been assigned to this ship?”
     
    “I have been ordered to be completely frank with you,” Cynthia replied.  If she was surprised by the question, she didn't show it.  But chances were that she had been trained to show only what she wanted to show.  “There are ... factions that are concerned with the Fairfax Cluster, who believe that it is rapidly becoming a powder keg.”
     
    “More of a compressed antimatter bomb,” Glen observed.  He’d barely had a chance to read some of the intelligence summaries, but the ones he had read suggested that matters were not improving after the formal end of the war.  In places, the war was still going on.  “And your mission is to ...?”
     
    “Establish a formal intelligence network and keep an eye out for secessionist sympathies,” Cynthia said, bluntly.  “And monitor your crew for ... questionable viewpoints.”
     
    Glen felt a flash of anger.  “My crew?”
     
    Cynthia didn't flinch at his tone.  “There are some among your crew who may have divided loyalties,” she said bluntly.  “My orders are to monitor them and report back to my superiors.”
     
    “Really,” Glen said.  He fought to keep his growing anger under control.  “I was under the distinct impression that nationalism was part and parcel of the Federation, despite the fires of war.”
     
    “But there are too many problems in the Fairfax Cluster to risk allowing such sentiments to go unmonitored,” Cynthia countered.  “That sector isn't somewhere that might grumble, but remains part of the Federation.”
     
    Glen had to admit that she had a point.  The nationalist blocs were largely committed to the Federation in any case, if only because they had enough weight in the Federation’s councils to ensure that their interests were protected.  There was more to gain through cooperation than outright warfare, as long as the Federation didn't become too powerful and started to overshadow the nationalist blocs.  But the Fairfax Cluster hadn't had such strong ties to the Federation even before the war.  Now, they thought they’d been abandoned and left to live or die on their own.
     
    “There are rules,” he said, shortly.  “You will respect my crew.  I expect to see each and every one of the reports you send back to your superiors.  And if I think you’re crossing the line, I will put you in the brig for the remainder of the deployment.  Do you understand me?”
     
    Cynthia’s face, for a very brief moment, showed a flicker of annoyance.  Intelligence Officers had a wide range of powers to spy on crewmen, even officers; the defeatism that had gripped part of the Federation Navy after