Star Wars_ The Han Solo Trilogy 02_ The Hutt Gambit - A. C. Crispin [68]
Within the next month, fifty-three of those freed slaves had run away and boarded ships to return to Ylesia.
In a way, Bria couldn’t blame them. Living without the Exultation was difficult. It had taken her years to overcome her craving for the feel-good rush of euphoria the t’landa Til priests could project.
But forty-four of the freed slaves are still free, Bria reminded herself fiercely. And just yesterday Rion told me that one of the women had sent him a message, thanking him for returning her to her husband and children …
Rion was Bria’s main link to rebel command now that she’d taken this new position at Imperial headquarters. It was Rion to whom she reported every scrap of information she could glean. He took the information that Bria could gather or construe, then relayed it to the leaders of the Corellian underground rebel group.
Bria hoped that soon she’d have more than bureaucratic lists of supply requisition orders to relay to her group. Ever since she’d taken this job last month, she’d been careful to wear the most flattering hairstyles and makeup, hoping that her looks would bring her to the attention of a high-ranking Imperial officer.
Her efforts were paying off, too. Just yesterday Admiral Trefaren had stopped by her desk to ask her if she would accompany him to a reception that was being held by the Corellian government for the high-ranking Imperial officers. Several Sector Moffs were supposed to attend. It would be quite a gala evening, he’d assured her.
Bria had lowered her eyelids coyly, blushed attractively, and breathed a halting, girlish “yes.” The Admiral had beamed at her, the deep lines that ran vertically down his sallow cheeks appearing even more like canyons in the desert, and told her he’d pick her up in his chauffeured speeder. Then he’d reached out and touched one of her curls, letting it wind around his finger. “And, my dear,” he’d added, “wear something that will set off your beauty. I want the other officers to be jealous of the golden treasure I’ve discovered.”
Bria hadn’t had to feign her inarticulate response—which had only charmed him further!—because she’d been too angry to speak clearly. The old lecher! she thought disgustedly, resolving not to forget to strap her dainty little vibroblade to her upper thigh … just in case.
But usually, men of his age were more talk than action. What they mostly wanted, as the admiral had frankly admitted, was for other men to admire them—and any attractive young woman they’d managed to snare with their power and wealth.
Admiral Trefaren might be our key to learn more about these new Imperial weapons and ships we’ve heard rumors of, Bria thought.
So, when the evening of the reception came, she’d don a lovely, elegant gown (she’d grown up the daughter of a rich man, and knew how to dress for maximum effect), style her hair, tastefully paint her face, and spend the evening smiling warmly at Admiral Trefaren. She’d dance with him, give him admiring glances, and keep her ears open for every scrap of information.
And, just in case she needed help in fending off his advances, Bria already had a tiny drop of a substance she planned to wear beneath one manicured fingernail. All she had to do was touch the tip of her fingernail to the surface of his drink of choice, toward the end of the evening, and the old vrelt would swiftly become so pleasantly tired, sleepy, and drunk that she’d have no trouble dealing with him.
Bria could use that vibroblade, and use it well, but she had no intention of doing so. Vibroblades were for amateurs. She was an expert at not needing them.
For a moment she missed her battle fatigues, the weight of her blaster strapped to her thigh. She’d much prefer leading another armed raid against the Ylesian Hutts, or the Imperial slavers (who were even worse than the Hutts), than she did the prospect of playing tabaga-and-vrelt