The races at the Tiaran’grast sling racing course had yet to begin when Dasquian Belargic arrived. In a matter of hours, the rocky canyons ahead would echo with the roaring of speeder bike engines, but for now there was only stillness and silence. Only a handful of Bothans, preparing the trackside spaces for the day ahead. The first time he’d come to the tracks, a greying, old Bothan had politely informed him that he was far too early for the races, that he should come back later, but now - the old Bothan simply tipped his cap in greeting as Dasquian climbed his way up into the empty stands and took a seat near the back.
As Belargic sank down into the hard wooden seat, there was a buzz in his jacket pocket. With something verging on a grimace, he retrieved the datacard that was nestled against his chest and thumbed it to life. The screen scrolled with a stream of incoming notifications, forwarded securely from his offices in the capital Drev’starn.
Every day, there were more messages, more busywork. More matters that needed the approval or attention of the Director of Alliance Security. There was something almost therapeutic about it, at times. Working through the list of notifications, he delegated one after another with a quick swipe of his finger. Resource requests, operational reports, briefings, new personnel appointments, import charters. The artefacts of bureaucracy. The stream of information coming into Alliance Security was almost endless, but each day he would clear the queue away.
All but two messages, sitting unopened at the bottom of the queue.
A message from the offices of Senator Elaine Alastor, titled: Your brother.
A message from Grace which said only: We need to talk. Please.
Dasquian thumbed the datacard off and stuffed it back inside his jacket. He looked out to the mountain canyons, eyes narrowed.
“Not today,” he said to himself, lips pursing for a moment into a hard line. Not today. Today, the Director was busy.
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