"Miss Pamela, you mustn't mistake civility for naivety," Alan said evenly, resting the sealed file on the table between them. "Out here, power is the only real caste."
Pamela's brow furrowed. "That sounds rather cynical for someone so young."
Alan allowed himself a thin smile. If only you knew. "It's not cynicism. It's survival. Every day here, Hindus and Muslims take up sticks and knives against each other. And we—Britain—rule over the whole mess. You think, if we left, they'd thank us? They'd build a statue in our honor?"
Her silence told him she already knew the answer.
"The truth," Alan continued, voice level but deliberate, "is that we've kept the caste system intact not because it's just, but because it's useful. It tells us exactly who to bribe, who to employ, and who to ignore. Order, Miss Pamela, isn't maintained by kindness. It's maintained by structure."
She tilted her head, as though trying to work out whether he was warning her or simply preaching. "You sound more like my father than most of his officers do."
God forbid, Alan thought. "Then take this as advice: never trust the upper classes of any colony. They're polite when it suits them, treacherous when it profits them." He tapped the file twice. "That includes people who will smile at your father over dinner."
Pamela's eyes narrowed—not offended, but intrigued. "You speak as if you've seen it happen."
"I've made a career out of it."
A flicker of something—curiosity, perhaps—passed over her face. For a moment she didn't seem like the pampered daughter of a celebrated admiral, but rather a keen observer locked in a gilded cage. She leaned forward. "Then let me help. I can give Father this myself."
Alan hesitated, weighing the risk. It wasn't sentiment that made him nod, but calculation. One day, the daughter of Louis Mountbatten might be worth cultivating. For now, she was a messenger.
"Very well," he said, placing the file in her hands. "But understand—what's in there is not for anyone else's eyes. Not even your mother's."
She grinned, half conspiratorially, half like a schoolgirl given a dangerous secret. "You don't trust my family much, do you?"
"I trust results, Miss Pamela," Alan said as he rose. "And in this world, results come from strength—never from good intentions."
He left without looking back, but made a quiet note in his mind: One to watch. Not yet, but someday.