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“I’m not sure that would work either,” Castin said.

“Same reason?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Donn, this independent revolutionary faction you belonged to—were there any nonhumans in it?”

“No, sir.”

That was interesting. Most such factions on Coruscant had high proportions of nonhuman members. The factions that didn’t include nonhumans tended to be just as anti-Imperial … but had still supported Coruscant culture’s legendary suspicion and dislike of nonhumans.

“So you’ve had very little protracted contact with nonhumans.”

“Well … that would be correct, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Donn, but I’m afraid this is something you’re just going to have to get used to. Whenever it bothers you, you need to ask yourself, ‘I wonder what I smell like to them?’ ”

Castin’s voice dropped and came close to but did not quite cross into the realm of surliness. “I don’t smell at all, sir. I keep myself very clean.”

“But their senses aren’t like yours. If you ever get up the nerve, ask them sometime if they can smell you and what it’s like. You might be surprised by the answer.”

Castin’s expression became one of distress. “But, sir, we have plenty of room here at base—”

“But not everywhere we’re going. I’ll modify room assignments when there’s a genuine reason to do so. Not before.”

“Sir—”

“That’s all, Donn.”

It looked just like the bridge of the Iron Fist. It had its own command walkway facing the forward viewports, the ones that stared out into depthless space. It had its crew pit below, with its numerous crew stations.

But it was actually a portion of Warlord Zsinj’s private quarters, a replica of the true bridge, and it had no crew. The viewports were actually screens receiving holocam views from the real viewports. The viewscreens at the crew stations showed the data or visual feeds the crewmen on duty would be accessing if they were here; commands flickered across the screens and were executed as though the station operators were in place. But sounds from the console speakers—beeps, dialogue, noises indicating errors or computer achievements—were the only ones to be heard. No one spoke.

Warlord Zsinj moved among the ghost stations, peering over the shoulders of imaginary crewmen as if to evaluate their performance. A small man whose waist outperformed his chest in dimension and magnificence, he looked like a holo comedian pretending to be an officer: His spotless white uniform was that of an Imperial grand admiral, while his bald head, luxuriant mustache, florid complexion, and too-cheerful manner suggested a backwater bandit.

He bent over the back of a chair; the screen before him showed a fleeing Y-wing attack craft as if seen through the viewport of a pursuing TIE interceptor. The background was a busy battlefield; Zsinj recognized the chaos of the battle above Endor’s sanctuary moon, just under four years ago.

He leaned closer to see the name of the crewman logged onto the computer. “Ah, Ensign Sprettyn,” he said. “Running attack simulators again while on duty. Shirking your responsibilities again.”

“Perhaps he wants to become a pilot.”

The voice, smooth and reassuring, came from behind Zsinj. The warlord straightened and turned. “General Melvar. What have I told you about creeping up behind me?”

The general, a tall man with features that were elegant when he was paying attention but impossibly bland and unmemorable when he lost concentration, smiled. “Not to.”

“And what did you just do?”

“I stomped up to you with all the silent grace of a gut-shot rancor. You were so intent on your observation of poor Ensign Sprettyn’s activities you failed to notice me.”

“It’s the sign of pure concentration. The ability to shut out all other concerns.”

“Of course.”

“What do you want?”

The general handed him a datapad. Lines of data were already up on its screen. “A private communication for you. Through Admiral Trigit’s old routing system.”

Zsinj gave him a look that was all raised eyebrows and curiosity, then scanned the text. “Hmm. Lieutenant Gara Petothel. Expects to be a member of