"Captain," he said at last, drawing out the word as though tasting it. "How very diligent of you to come all this way. But this is a dinner, my dear, not a briefing room. If you have something to say about operations, you may send it through the proper channels. Ms. Lindqvist in scheduling will be happy to hear you out on Monday."
"Flight 408 departs at six tomorrow morning," Imani said. "Monday will be too late."
A ripple moved through the nearby tables. Sterling's face did not change, but his right hand, the heavy one, began to tap lightly on the tablecloth, a habit his associates had learned to read the way sailors read a darkening sky.
"Then perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me," he said, "what exactly you believe cannot wait until the morning."
Imani glanced around the room. Thirty faces looked back at her, some curious, some embarrassed, some already bored. She understood that Sterling had chosen this arena on purpose, or at least that he would use it on purpose. In a boardroom, a pilot's words carried the weight of her certification. In a dining room, under a chandelier, with a glass of wine in his hand, her words would be the interruption of a servant, and he would treat it as one.
She had known that when she walked in. She had decided to do it anyway.
"The aircraft assigned to flight 408 has an unresolved fault in its number two hydraulic system," she said, and her voice was calm enough that several diners leaned forward to catch it. "It was written up three times in the last eleven days. Each time, the maintenance report was closed without a repair. The part that would fix it has been on back-order for a month. Yesterday evening, I was told by operations that the aircraft would fly tomorrow regardless, because grounding it would cancel a charter that carries two hundred and six passengers and a contract worth four million dollars."
Sterling laughed. It was a short, dry sound, with no warmth in it. "And you came here to tell me that?"
"I came here," Imani said, "to tell you that I refuse to fly it."
The laugh died. The silence that followed was so complete that the faint crackle of a candle could be heard from three tables away.
"You refuse," Sterling repeated softly.
"Yes, sir."
"Captain, let me explain something to you, since you appear to have misunderstood your position." He leaned back in his chair, and the leather creaked. "You are an employee of a company that I help to own. You are paid, quite handsomely, to fly the aircraft that you are assigned. You are not paid to hold opinions about hydraulics. We have engineers for that. We have lawyers for that. What we do not have, and do not need, is a woman in a costume wandering into a private dinner to lecture her betters about risk."
Daniel Hale flinched at the word "costume." He glanced at the gold wings on Imani's chest, and a strange heat rose behind his eyes.
Imani did not flinch. She did not raise her voice. She only inclined her head by a degree, the way one acknowledges a statement that has been noted and will be remembered.
"With respect, Mr. Sterling," she said, "this uniform is not a costume. It is a promise that I made to every person who has ever sat behind me. And I intend to keep it."
CHAPTER 4: THE FIRST SPARK
Sterling stood up.
He did it slowly, pushing his chair back with the calves of his legs, and the whole room watched him rise. He was not a tall man, but he had spent his life learning to occupy space, and he occupied it now, squaring his shoulders and drawing himself up until the diners nearest him felt the change in pressure, like a storm front sliding across a field.
"Promise," he said, and the word was full of contempt. "You speak to me of promises. Do you know how many promises I have kept in this company? Do you know how many pilots, how many mechanics, how many clerks owe their salaries to decisions I have made in rooms you will never be invited into?"
"I know that none of them are sitting in the cockpit tomorrow," Imani said evenly.