Aftermath: Empire's End (Star Wars: Aftermath #3)(92)
“This is a joke, right? A bit of a poke-and-tickle? I say yes and then from that potted plant and under this chair, a chorus of onlookers leap out and laugh? Because surely you aren’t considering hiring an ex-Imperial torture agent to advise you on running the entire civilized galaxy.”
“No joke. I don’t have a very good sense of humor anyway.”
He sneers. “I hate politics.”
“So do I.”
“I hate politicians.”
“Good. So you can manipulate them to do your bidding.”
He leans back, crossing his arms. One eyebrow up so far it’s damn near in orbit, he says, “I get paid?”
“Handsomely.”
“I’ll be on Nakadia or here, on Chandrila?”
“My primary office will remain on Chandrila for now, though I will have a proper desk on Nakadia, too.”
A job offer. From the chancellor. He has to chew that one a good bit. Of course he doesn’t want it. Bah. Pfft. The political realm is a grotesque circus, an erratic carousel drunkenly turning like a blindfolded child wielding a stick at his nativity party. Sinjir’s opinion of the whole charade: Tear it all down. Burn it up. Dance among the ashes while swilling a bottle of something good. That’s his take. But then again…
Maybe he ought to give another go at this stability thing.
If he and Conder are trying again…
If the war is truly almost over and the crew is finally done…
What place does he have in the galaxy? He confesses, his only option right now is to sashay his narrow hind over to some distant cantina and see if he can’t find himself a quiet corner in which to plant himself as the resident barfly. But he admires Conder. There’s a man who wants to work. Who wants to do the right thing, and do it with skill and aplomb and a smile bridging those fuzzy adorable cheeks. He deserves to be as impressed by me as I am by him. Maybe this is how I accomplish that.
“I need time to think about it,” he says.
“You have thirty seconds.”
“I—what?”
“Decide now. I have to move quickly on this. Having a vacancy among my advisory duo has already hampered my ability to perform as chancellor, and I do not want to wait. So the clock is ticking.”
“Chancellor—”
“Twenty seconds, now.”
“Well—”
“Let’s call it ten.”
“It’s not ten. You’re speeding up the clock. That’s cheating!”
“It is, but I’m allowed. Tell you what, Sinjir. I’ll offer a bonus. I have two tasks at hand, and if you say yes right now, you get to choose which one you do and which one goes to my other adviser, Auxi.”
“What are these tasks?”
She waggles a metronome finger. “Ah-ah-ah. Not until you say yes.”
“Mm. Fine. Yes.”
Her small smile grows by one, maybe two microns and Mon Mothma says, “Splendid. The first task is: shopping.”
“Shopping? Did I hear you right?”
“Yes. Do you know what to buy for a newborn baby? After all, our dear friend Leia is expecting.”
Sinjir makes a face like he just sniffed a diaper. “Whiskey?”
“That would be better for the mother and father, I suspect. No, not whiskey. Perhaps you shouldn’t be buying baby gifts.”
He puckers his lips. “And maybe you should not relegate this personal, intimate task to a mere adviser.”
“Yes, well. Let’s try the second task. I need someone to deliver a gift to the senator from Orish, Tolwar Wartol. An apology of sorts.”
“An apology? Stars forfend, why?”
The chancellor sighs. “He apparently wasn’t malevolently opposing my vote and manipulating senators directly…”
“Yes, he just failed to help the gears of democracy turn. And he’s running against you. He’s your opponent, Chancellor!”
“One does not blame a tooka for toying with the mouse. He is who he is, and so I thought it necessary to deliver a small gift to apologize for my little ploy on his ship.”
“Gift delivery does not sound advisory to me, Chancellor.”
“Don’t you even want to see the gift?”
He says nothing, offering instead a dubious countenance. Mon clears her throat and lifts a small basket covered with a soft, lavender cloth. She tells him to go on, have a look, and he does.
It is a fruit basket. Full of one kind of fruit: the pta fruit.
He cannot deny the smug smirk that tugs at his lips. “Oh, Chancellor. And here I thought you said you had no sense of humor.”
“Perhaps there’s a glimmer of one, there. As you say: We share a crispness of wit, do we not?”
“I think we do.”
“So you’ll deliver it?”
“I will.”
“Enjoy. And welcome to politics, Sinjir Rath Velus.”
Jas Emari’s world lights up. Her teeth clamp against each other. Her jaw muscles are so tight she fears they’ll strain and snap. Then it’s over again, the wave of pain and light receding once more. She’s left panting and wheezing on the floor of the Corellian shuttle as Mercurial Swift once again pulls the sparking baton away. He gives it a twirl.