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A Too-Onebee glanced in her direction, then pointed off to the left. Aril mutely followed the directions and found a group of Sullustans huddled together, segregated from the other refugees. A number of children clung to adults, hiding behind legs or burying their faces in a parent’s neck. Aril couldn’t see the child she had gone after. She had a hard time actually recalling the child’s face, which told her she’d probably been concussed.

Instead of letting herself think she’d failed, she arbitrarily picked out one child and decided he had been the one she had tried to help. She nodded in his direction, but he just hid further behind his father’s leg.

Someone grabbed her left arm. Aril looked up into the jowly face of a man who stood a good forty centimeters taller than she did. He was quite heavyset, yet his brown eyes shone with a cunning that removed him from the class of man she would have called bovine. He wore his thinning black hair in a short military style cut, which was in keeping with his General’s uniform.

“You seem healthy. A good specimen.”

Aril lightly tapped the right side of her chest and winced.

The man dropped his thick-fingered hand to her flank and probed her ribs. She squeaked out a protest. His touch, while clinical, was also forceful and hurt. “Cracked ribs maybe, probably just bruised.” He looked down into her eyes and turned her head to the left and right. “You look fine. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

He straightened up. “Diric!”

An older, dull-eyed man in a bloodstained orderly’s uniform spun on his heel. “Yes, General Derricote?”

Derricote patted Aril on the shoulder. “This is one we’re taking with us. Put her with the others.”

“She makes a dozen and a half, sir.”

“Good.” Derricote pointed to the orderly. “Go with him. You will have the best of care. In fact, I daresay, you will have the best medical care available for the rest of your life.”

27

Admiral Ackbar closed his eyes for a second, then nodded to his aide. “I suppose the tide is high, so I cannot escape it. Please show Councilor Fey’lya in.”

The human aide departed, giving Ackbar a moment of silence in which he could prepare for the coming confrontation. No, Ackbar, if you assume bitter water, you’ll not taste the sweet. The Admiral refused to consider the Bothan a rival for power, primarily because Ackbar himself had no desire for power in any political sense of the word. He had risen to his position at the head of the Alliance military because of his intimate knowledge of Imperial doctrines—learned while he was Grand Moff Tarkin’s slave—and because the Mon Calamari had contributed their considerable fleet to bolster the Rebel Navy for the battle at Endor. Once the Empire was defeated and his services were no longer needed, he would happily retire to Mon Calamari and spend the rest of his days living through tide cycles.

He realized his refusal to see Borsk Fey’lya as a rival probably was shortsighted, but he could not afford the distraction. With the death of General Laryn Kre’fey at Borleias, the Bothans had lost their most celebrated military leader. The Bothans had no other candidate to offer as viable for running grand operations like the taking of Coruscant.

Which meant any Bothan agenda had to go through Ackbar.

Which is why Fey’lya has come to me now.

The hatch to Ackbar’s cabin on Home One opened and Borsk Fey’lya entered the dimly lit office. Ackbar started to adjust the lighting upward, but the Bothan shook his head. “Be comfortable, Admiral, I can see well enough in this light.”

The subdued tones of Fey’lya’s voice, and the conciliatory nature of his words, immediately put Ackbar on his guard. “You honor me with your visit, Councilor.”

Fey’lya held a gold-furred hand up. “Please, the formality of titles is unnecessary between us. We have not always been on the same side, nor do you probably consider me a friend, but you do acknowledge the bond we share within the Rebellion.”

“Of course.” Ackbar nodded slowly. “You came to speak to me about Noquivzor.”

“Indeed.