“Excuse me?” Wiskovis said again. His eyes widen as he looks at Vanto. His facial heat increases, and the muscles in his cheeks tighten. “Did he just say you were prepared to commit perjury, Ensign?”
“Yes, sir, he did,” Vanto said. The tension in his voice increases, his expression showing extreme discomfort. “As I said, his goal is to protect you and your career from whatever comes of this.”
For three seconds, Wiskovis remains silent. There is no easing of his tension and anger. “This discussion is not over,” he said at last. “But right now we have work to do. When do you want me to send a force to Uba?”
“You should wait until the released prisoners have made the jump to lightspeed,” Thrawn said. “We do not want them noting the preparations and becoming suspicious. You should also contact the ISB agent and alert him to reroute his ship to Uba.”
“And then?”
“Lieutenant Thrawn only promised to let them go,” Vanto said. His tension also has not eased. “He never said we wouldn’t recapture them if they went to Uba.”
“Fine,” Wiskovis said. “Anything else?”
“I would also suggest you send a force to the other site they mentioned, the city Cartherston on Keitum.”
“I thought they just said that to throw us off track.”
“That was certainly its primary purpose,” Thrawn said. “But the name came too quickly and too easily. We may find that Keitum was where the Dromedar’s crew was to be released.”
“And Cygni said his people would be watching,” Vanto said.
“Yes,” Thrawn said. “It may be possible to learn who exactly his people are.”
“If we can catch them.” Wiskovis started to turn back to the doorway, then paused. “You didn’t really contact Grand Moff Tarkin, did you?”
“No,” Thrawn said. “I have never met the man.”
“Probably a good thing,” Wiskovis said. “And if this is the way you talk to superiors, Lieutenant, you’d better hope you never do. Come on—we have some pirates to capture.”
One whose path has taken a new turn is often initially disoriented. But as time passes, and the path continues steadily in its new direction, there is a tendency to believe that it will remain so forever, with no further turns.
Nothing is further from the truth. A path once bent is always susceptible to new changes.
Particularly when the original change came from manipulation by an outside force.
—
“So,” Juahir Madras said, taking a careful sip of the caf Arihnda had poured for her. “Are you going to Core Square for the weekend? Or are you going to be a stickley and just hang out in Bash?”
“Probably be a stickley,” Arihnda said regretfully, sniffing at her own mug. Juahir liked her caf much hotter than Arihnda did, so that was how she always prepared it when her friend dropped into the office. Easier to let hers cool than watch Juahir trying not to complain about the tepidness of her own drink. “Core Square is awfully expensive.”
“That it is,” Juahir agreed soberly. “I thought you used to sleep in your airspeeder when you went there.”
“That was before Wapsbur got caught doing spice in a public parking area,” Arihnda reminded her. “After that, Renking banned us from sleeping or living in any of his vehicles.”
“I didn’t realize it was a complete ban,” Juahir said. “I thought he just wanted his people not to get caught doing anything illegal or embarrassing.”
Arihnda shrugged. “A complete ban is always easier.”
“And more brainless,” Juahir said. “And you can’t stay in his main office?”
“The office sleeps ten if you push it,” Arihnda said. “I’m currently number eighteen on the waiting list. So, no.”
“Ah,” Juahir said again. “Well, Ascension Week’s kind of a big deal.”
Arihnda nodded, sniffing again at her caf. A big deal for the average Coruscant resident, but even more of a big deal for the political elite. Grand events like this were the perfect screen for the high and powerful to mingle with one another, and Ascension Week was the ultimate in such things. The weeklong festivities that climaxed in Empire Day drew swarms of people to the center of Imperial society as politicians made quiet contacts and deals without the obviousness of going to one another’s offices or the less obvious but theoretically traceable route of comm calls.
A million people, and a million possibilities, and Arihnda had worked very hard to take full advantage of both. She’d started small, making conversation with other senatorial aides and assistants, but over the last couple of festivals she’d also made contact with a low-level journalist and the office manager from one of the Mid Rim moffs. This year, she’d hoped to leverage both of those one step up to their respective bosses.
Now, with Renking’s new ban on what his staff had jokingly referred to as portable housing, it looked like that wasn’t going to happen.
And she couldn’t help but wonder how much of the ban had been Wapsbur’s indiscretion and how much was Renking finally noticing Arihnda’s own political machinations and taking steps to block them. Though to be honest, she had to admit that was highly unlikely.
But then, so much on Coruscant tended toward the unlikely.
Her work at Renking’s citizen assistance office in Bartanish Four—known universally to its inhabitants as Bash Four—had started off a little rocky. The mostly working-class population was very much in the same mold as the miners of Lothal, but even with such commonplace people her Outer Rim accent and lack of Coruscant breeding had opened her up to both amusement and contempt. But Arihnda had kept at it, and slowly she’d gained their acceptance and trust.
And most unlikely of all, along the way she’d even made a genuine friend.
“So I guess we’re going to have to do something about that,” Juahir said. She took another sip, then set down her mug. “Okay, I concede. It is possible to make this stuff too hot.”
“Told you,” Arihnda said, smiling. She’d been in Bash Four over a year, and was just starting to win over the populace, when Juahir had come in asking for help finding an apartment. Arihnda had located one in her own building, and later that week had helped carry in her meager collection of belongings. Juahir had thanked her with dinner at an incredible little blink-and-miss-it restaurant Arihnda hadn’t even known existed, and from then on they’d been inseparable. “Not worth stressing about. There will be celebrations here, too, you know.”
Juahir burbled a rude sound through her lips. “Right—Bash Four’s Empire Day festivities. Ten minutes’ worth of fireworks—two minutes of which are duds from last year—and three minutes of all the airspeeders honking their horns. Listen to Palpatine’s pre-recorded speech, two more minutes of honking, and everyone goes home. Big whoop.” She shook her head. “It’s too bad you don’t have a friend who has a friend who has an apartment within view of the Imperial Palace.”
Arihnda gave a little snort. “If you mean Senator Renking—”
“Oh, wait,” Juahir interrupted, brightening. “That’s right—you do.” She pointed a finger at herself. “Me.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” Arihnda asked, frowning.
“I’m talking about Core Square,” Juahir said, clearly enjoying herself immensely. “I know a guy who just snagged a place in Sestra Towers.”
“Sestra Towers?” Arihnda gasped. Sestra was a luxury apartment complex close enough to the center of Federal District that it was visible from Renking’s main office. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” Juahir assured her. “It’ll be a little cozy, but we can fit you in.”
“You’re serious,” Arihnda said, almost not daring to believe it. “You sure your friend won’t mind?”
“Already cleared it with him,” Juahir said. “There’s one catch, though.” She leveled a finger at Juahir. “We’ll be responsible for transportation and lodging. You’ll be responsible for getting us into at least one exclusive party or reception. Deal?”
“Deal,” Arihnda said, smiling back. “Not a problem—I can get up to two other guests in on my senator’s aide pass.”