“Your goals are much like mine and my husband’s,” Lady Hem said, still gently stroking the bottle’s neck. “You must have gone long and far to find this particular wine.”
“It was my pleasure,” Arihnda assured her. It had, in fact, been something of a challenge, entailing trips to nearly thirty of the Federal District’s finest wine shops and several hours of studying labels until she’d found the exact vintage, blend, and texture she knew Lady Hem wanted.
But it was worth it. The look on the Phindian’s face was priceless.
“At any rate, I must leave now,” Arihnda added, standing up. “I just wanted to drop off this small token of my appreciation, and to ask if Senator Hem had found time to read the document I sent him.”
“He has,” Lady Hem said, her fingers now moving to the bottle’s textured label. “I believe he agrees with your agenda and your plans. But I will speak to him about that this night.” She blinked rapidly, her species’ version of a wide smile. “Over a glass of wine, perhaps.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from him,” Arihnda said, smiling back. “Until we speak again, Lady Hem, farewell.”
“Farewell, my good friend Arihnda Pryce.”
Driller, not surprisingly, was aghast.
“Two thousand credits for a bottle of wine?” he gasped as he stared at Arihnda’s receipt. “Are you out of your mind?”
“The Phindians are a highly technological species, and are very devoted to family,” Arihnda reminded him. “Both of those go double for Senator Hem. A simple bottle of his wife’s favorite wine, and he’s as good as in our pocket.”
“Not exactly a simple bottle,” Driller growled. “Will this at least buy you access to his office?”
“I’m expecting an invitation by the end of the week,” Arihnda assured him. “And yes, I’m sure I’ll be able to get some numbers from him about the navy’s military budget and the level of Senate support. The secret numbers, not the ones the public gets to see.”
“Great,” Driller said. “It’s important to know where the money is going so we can see what’s left for schools and hospitals.”
“Absolutely,” Arihnda said, smiling to cover her sudden surge of contempt. Did he really think she was this na?ve and stupid? Apparently, he did. “So is there anyone else you want me to pitch Higher Skies to?”
“Let’s see,” he said, studying his datapad. “A couple of governors are in for a visit. Mid Rim, not too difficult. Or—ooh. How big a fish are you willing to go after?”
“How big a fish have you got?”
“The biggest,” he said, eyeing her closely. “The fish you were once going to leave me for until the job offer fell through. Grand Moff Tarkin.”
Arihnda felt her stomach tighten. Tarkin.
And the timing was absolutely perfect.
“Wow,” she said, trying for just the right mix of casualness and interest. “Sure, why not?”
“Why not is because he’s got a reputation for chewing up advocates and small bureaucrats and spitting them out in neat linear meat strips,” Driller warned. “It won’t be one of the milk runs you’ve been doing lately. This’ll be more like a dogfight.”
“Milk runs are fun,” Arihnda said. “But I like dogfights, too. Can you get me in to see him?”
“I think so,” Driller said. “You sure?”
Arihnda smiled. “Trust me,” she said. “Tarkin’s someone I’ve always wanted to meet.”
—
There were, Arihnda had learned, many tricks politicians and military types used to intimidate, pressure, and otherwise put visitors at a disadvantage.
Tarkin knew them all.
It began with his office: the long walk from the door; the thick, textured carpet that dragged at a visitor’s feet and threatened to trip her up with each step; the sunlight glinting off corners of shelves and display stands and the desk itself, the spots shifting and flickering and distracting. The objects on the shelves and stands were the next layer: mementos of Tarkin’s past triumphs, a procession of reminders of his power. Here and there, she spotted some ancient and valuable artifact that he had either bought, stolen, or despoiled. Yet another object lesson: The man got whatever he wanted.
It was an impressive display, especially considering that the grand moff probably only used this office a few weeks each year. His main office, the one from which he controlled a large swath of the Outer Rim, was probably even more intimidating.
At the end of the gauntlet, seated in a tall-backed chair as he watched her approach, was Tarkin.
If the office itself wasn’t enough to put guests into defensive mode, Arihnda mused, their first look at the man himself probably did the trick. The gaunt face, gray-white hair, thin lips, and steely eyes were like an image of waiting death; the twelve tiles of his insignia plaque were in deceptively colorful contrast with the dark olive green of his uniform; the stillness of his expression and body as he watched her approach was like that of a jungle predator preparing to strike.
It was an impressive display of power and intimidation, one that no doubt worked well against nearly everyone who dared enter his sanctum.
Arihnda intended to be the exception.
“Governor Tarkin,” she greeted him as she reached the desk. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
“Ms. Arihnda Pryce,” he greeted her in return. His voice was a match for the coolness of his face. “I understand you represent an advocacy group called Higher Skies.”
“That’s certainly what they think,” Arihnda agreed. “Actually, I’m here to represent myself. And to make you the best offer you’ll get today.”
His expression didn’t change. But his eyes seemed to grow colder. “Really,” he said. “I think perhaps you overestimate your charm.”
“Oh, I don’t run on charm, Governor,” Arihnda assured him. “I run on information.” She slipped a data card out of her pouch and set it on the desk. “Here’s a sample. I’ll be happy to wait while you look it over.”
For a moment he was silent, his eyes locked on hers. Then, a small smile creased his lips. “Full credit for ingenuity,” he said, picking up the data card. “Sit down.”
Arihnda stepped to the chair at the corner of his desk and lowered herself into it, trying not to let any of her submerged apprehension make it to the surface. She was 90 percent certain she’d read this man correctly, but that remaining 10 percent could make or break her.
Tarkin watched her another moment, then slipped the data card into his computer. “At least you aren’t so obvious as to try a data-thief program,” he commented.
“Not at all.” Arihnda pulled out another data card and set it on the desk. “This is the one with the thief program. It’s the Higher Skies brochure and agenda I was supposed to give you.”
Tarkin’s forehead furrowed briefly. “Really,” he said, his tone intrigued. “Who exactly are you, Ms. Pryce?”
“Someone who wants to make a deal that will benefit us both,” Arihnda said. “But please—look at the information on that card. It’ll give you a taste of what I have to offer.”
Again, Tarkin gazed at her a moment before returning his attention to his computer. Arihnda sat silently, watching his eyes track back and forth across the display as he skimmed the file. She’d gotten good at reading faces, human and nonhuman alike, during her time with Higher Skies. But Tarkin’s might as well have been a theatrical mask.
He reached the end and turned back to Arihnda. “Interesting,” he said.
“You found it informative?” Arihnda asked.
“Hardly,” he said. “Most of this I already knew.”
Arihnda felt her stomach tighten. “I see.”
“Don’t look so concerned,” Tarkin said with another thin smile. “That’s a good thing. It proves you’ve successfully tapped into Governor Nasling’s records, and also lends credence to the one or two items I was unaware of. No, my comment was directed at the skill of your employers. How did they come to create such a clever thief program?”
“I imagine they brought in someone to help,” Arihnda said. “You see, I think they’re rebels.”