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“Then it appears there’s no reason to hope the admiral will awaken anytime soon,” Wynn Dorvan said. He returned to the bedside next to Asokaji, still holding the comlink he had stepped away to use. A human of unremarkable looks and brown hair neatly trimmed in a conservative cut, he had the appearance of a conscientious lifetime bureaucrat—which he was. “So why would Admiral Bwua’tu need to be fitted for a prosthetic hand now? Isn’t that a bit premature?”

Ysa’i’s muzzle curled at the implied challenge to his medical authority, but Daala recognized the deeper significance of her assistant’s question. Wynn had noticed an inconsistency in the situation. To his meticulous way of thinking, inconsistencies often concealed deceptions, and—given that it had been an assassination attempt that had put Bwua’tu into the medcenter in the first place—any deception concerning the admiral’s care was not to be tolerated.

When Wynn met Ysa’i’s half snarl with a determined glare, Daala sighed. “The hand fitting is my doing, Wynn.” The confession did not embarrass her so much as make her feel vulnerable, for she had learned during her long military career that every sentimental indulgence revealed a weakness that could be exploited. “I don’t want Nek waking up to a stump.”

“Very wise,” Ysa’i agreed, a little too quickly. “Having the prosthetic will make the transition easier.”

“Let’s hope so,” Daala said. Choosing to forgive the doctor’s somewhat obvious attempt to curry favor—he was Bothan, after all—she reached over the rail and squeezed Bwua’tu’s knee. “The Alliance needs you back, old friend.”

She started to withdraw her hand, but Ysa’i reached out to stop her. “Wait.” He pointed toward brain-activity holograph. “He’s responding.”

Daala looked up and saw that a long chain of sharp peaks had appeared amid the rolling hills. Realizing that it had been her touch that had drawn the reaction, she experienced a flutter of schoolgirl joy—and immediately felt a bit silly. She and Bwua’tu were too old and too jaded for such romantic nonsense … and yet, she couldn’t help being more protective of him than ever.

“What should I do?” she asked Ysa’i.

“First, have someone call Dr. Javir,” Ysa’i said, naming the medcenter’s chief neurologist. He thought for a moment, then added, “Second, keep touching the patient. Perhaps speak to him, see if it increases the activity.”

“Very well.” Daala nodded, and Asokaji immediately turned toward the exit. Daala turned her attention back to Bwua’tu, looking into his glistening, vacant eyes, and began to speak. “Admiral Bwua’tu, wake up. I need your report on the assassination attempt yesterday, and you’ve been lying around here for over a week.”

She glanced up at the activity monitor and found the peaks unchanged, no higher or sharper.

“Keep going,” Ysa’i urged.

Daala squeezed Bwua’tu’s knee again. “You’re being remiss, Admiral. I’m giving you a direct order to wake up and report.”

She paused and glanced over at Ysa’i.

“No change,” the doctor said.

“Nek, are you listening to me?” Through the sheet, Daala began to run her fingers against the grain of Bwua’tu’s leg fur—that always got him going. “I need to know who attacked you.”

“There!” Ysa’i said. “Follow that. His attention spiked.”

“Nek, we think the lightsaber wounds were a misdirection,” Daala continued, “because, well, you survived.”

Bwua’tu’s eyes moved, not much, but it seemed to Daala that the pupils had definitely dipped toward his lower eyelids.

“Nek, we need to know who did this to you,” Daala said. “And we have no leads.”

She paused again, waiting for Bwua’tu’s eyes to move, or for Ysa’i to say something encouraging about the monitor.

When neither happened, Daala pressed on, “Nek, if they’re willing to attack you, they’re a threat to the entire Alliance. You’ve got to help us figure out who did this to you.”

His pupils moved again, this time rising slightly to the right—away from her. She paused, hoping Ysa’i would report another spike on the monitor.

It took more than a second. “There—in a different area. He’s definitely