“Get yourself a drink if you’d like,” Ghadi said as he crossed the plush carpet of the main living area toward one of the side doors. “The droid can fix anything you can name.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” Arihnda said, eyeing the extensive bar off to one side, and the exquisitely restored classic LeisureMech C5 bartender droid standing motionless beside it. She was tempted; but for the moment, at least, she was officially on duty. Instead, she contented herself with looking at the carvings, the artwork, and the decorative panel inlays. This room alone was twice the size of her apartment, and probably cost her entire year’s salary per night.
“I’m glad it was you he sent,” Ghadi called from the other room. “I’ve seen you in my office several times over the past few months, usually playing courier. Renking obviously has a high opinion of you.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“As, of course, do I,” Ghadi added. “A very high opinion indeed. Tell me, have you enjoyed working for him?”
“It’s been very interesting,” Arihnda said, frowning. That wasn’t the kind of question she was usually asked. Was Ghadi just making conversation? Or was something else going on?
“Of course: interesting,” Ghadi said. “The most diplomatic word possible, as well as the most insipid.” He stepped back into the living area, Renking’s data card in hand, and walked back across the carpet to her. “Here you go,” he said, handing it to her. “You may take it back to him now.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency,” she said, frowning down at it. It looked like the one Renking had given her…but at the same time, something about it seemed different. The color was right, and the senator’s logo on the upper corner seemed correct. Could it be the weight? She hefted it gently, trying to decide.
No, she realized suddenly—it was the logo. Senator Renking’s logo was etched into the surface of all the office’s data cards. But the logo on this card was embossed rather than etched.
This wasn’t the same card she’d just handed Ghadi.
She looked up at the moff, to find him gazing back at her, a hard-edged half smile on his face. “Very good, Ms. Pryce,” Ghadi said quietly. “Too bad, really.”
“Your Excellency?” she asked carefully.
“You noticed there was something different about the data card,” Ghadi said. “A shame. If you’d just taken it back to him…as I say, too bad.”
Without warning, his hand snapped out toward her. She had just enough time to see a small tube concealed in his palm as a spray of fine powder showered her face and chest. She flinched back, reflexively squeezing her eyes shut—
“So now we have to do it the hard way,” Ghadi continued. “That, Ms. Pryce, is polstine spice. Highly prized, highly expensive. And highly illegal.
“And you, my dear, have enough of it on you to guarantee that you spend the rest of your life in prison.”
Military leadership is a journey, not a destination. It is continually challenged, and must continually prove itself anew against fresh obstacles. Sometimes those obstacles are external events. Other times they are the doubts of those being led. Still other times they are a result of the leader’s own failures and shortcomings.
Political power and influence are different. Once certain levels have been reached, there is no need to prove leadership or competence. A person with such power is accustomed to having every word carefully considered, and every whim treated as an order. And all who recognize that power know to bow to it.
A few have the courage or the foolishness to resist. Some succeed in standing firm against the storm. More often, they find their paths yet again turned from their hoped-for goal.
But such a turn does not always mean that the victim has lost. Or that the victor has won.
—
Eli had no business being here. He knew it, Yularen surely knew it, and he was pretty sure everyone else in the ballroom knew it, too.
It just made no sense. He was too backwater for these Core people. He was too junior in rank for the scattering of admirals and generals in attendance. And he was far too lower-class to be rubbing shoulders with the elite of the Empire.
The same drawbacks also applied to Thrawn, of course, plus the added one of being a nonhuman in a society that, while tolerant for the most part, wasn’t exactly welcoming. But at least there was a reason why Yularen had dragged him here to show off to the men and women of power. If the High Command decided to get serious over their threatened court-martial, an interested civilian base could be useful as a counterweight against offended admirals.
Thrawn needed to be here. Eli’s presence was completely unnecessary.
Though even with Thrawn he couldn’t avoid the sense that the Chiss was being seen less as an unfairly charged officer and more as an unusual prize fish.
“Interesting,” Yularen murmured.
Eli turned back from the shimmering color-changing gown he’d been eyeing to find the colonel gazing at his datapad. “Sir?” he asked.
“A note from HQ,” Yularen said. “Lieutenant Thrawn’s latest suggestion seems to have paid off.”
Eli looked at Thrawn. “Is this the backtrack of Cygni you suggested a couple of days ago?”
“No,” Thrawn said, eyeing Yularen closely. “As it turned out, Colonel Yularen was unable to establish enough data points with that inquiry to yield useful results. In this case, I noted that the planet Kril’dor, a known source of tibanna gas, is quite close to the Uba system. It occurred to me that if Cygni intended to simply sell the cylinders, he would have taken the Dromedar there, where extra tibanna could easily and invisibly be added into their own distribution channels.”
“Which suggested that his intended recipients wanted the tibanna as is,” Yularen said. “Which immediately pointed to either arms dealers or people who already have blasters and wanted to be able to shoot them.”
Eli winced. “Criminals or insurgents.”
“Yes,” Thrawn confirmed. “We have been profiling many of them, looking for indicators and markers.”
“Really,” Eli said, frowning. He hadn’t heard anything about criminal profiling work. “When have you been doing all this?”
Thrawn inclined his head. “You sleep more than I do.”
Eli felt his face warm. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Yularen said with a grunt. “And don’t worry—a career with the navy will knock that out of you soon enough. The point is that if you throw Thrawn’s latest filter in with all the rest, here’s what pops up.”
He handed the datapad to Thrawn. Eli leaned close to the Chiss and peered at the display. There was a full report there, but in the center Yularen had highlighted a single word.
Nightswan.
“We’ve been hearing rumors about someone calling himself Nightswan for the past year or so,” Yularen continued. “At first, he seemed to be some sort of consultant, planning jobs like this for various groups.”
“And now?” Thrawn asked, handing back the datapad.
“Now we’re not sure,” Yularen said, his eyes darting back and forth as he skimmed the report. “A couple of the analysts are suggesting he may have settled down with a single organization. I’m not sure I buy that, myself.” He pursed his lips. “Well, we’ll keep an eye out for him. At least now we know one of his aliases.”
Which the man would probably never use again, Eli knew. No one had yet figured out how Cygni had slipped through the cordon that Admiral Wiskovis had thrown around Uba, but somehow he’d gotten away.
Maybe the interrogations of the surviving pirates would give them some clues. Eli rather doubted it.
“Anyway, this came through while you were talking with that last group of senators, and I thought you’d like to know,” Yularen said.
“I appreciate that, Colonel,” Thrawn said. “Thank you.”
“No thanks needed—it was your suggestion that got us there,” Yularen reminded him. He started to put the datapad away, paused as something caught his eye. “Wait a moment—something new coming through. The tibanna cylinders…”