At the aft curve of the centersphere stood a command and control tower.

The ship's bridge occupied the summit, where a robed figure paced nervously before an array of inwardly inclined viewports. The interrupted view encompassed the distal ends of the hangar arms and the seemingly ceaseless flow of pods, their dorsal surfaces aglow with sunlight. Beyond the arms and the rust-brown pods spun translucent-white Dorvalla.

"Status," the robed figure hissed.

The Revenue's Neimoidian navigator responded from a throne-like chair set below the burnished floor of the bridge walkway.

"The last of the cargo pods is being taken aboard, Commander Dofine."

Neimoidian speech, while lilting, favored first syllables and elongated words.

"Very well, then," Dofine replied. "Recall the starfighters." The navigator swiveled in his chair to face the walkway. "So soon, Commander?"

Dofine ceased his relentless pacing to cast a dubious look at his shipmate.

Months in deep space had so honed Dofine's natur-ral distrust that he was no longer certain of the navigator's intent. Was the navigator questioning his command in the hope of gaining status, or was there some good reason to delay recalling the starfighters? The distinction troubled Dofine, since he risked losing face by airing his suspicions and being proven wrong.

He decided to gamble that the question had been prompted by concern and contained no hidden challenges.

"I want those fighters recalled. The sooner we leave Dor — valla, the better." The navigator nodded. "As you will, Commander." Captain of the Revenue's skeleton crew of living beings, Dofine had a pair of front-facing red oval eyes, a prominent muzzle, and a fish-lipped slash of mouth.