Tarkin is sitting down to breakfast. As usual, his young attendant is pestering him with questions about the day ahead. This is fine. This boy is the only person he trusts, the only one who knows Tarkin's secrets. Such as the biggest secret, that Tarkin is, in fact, working for the Rebellion.
"Did it work? Did the Bothans smuggle the plans?"
"Yes, yes," Tarkin says.
"You were careful, weren't you?"
"Of course," Tarkin says.
"I wouldn't want any harm to come to you!"
"I was discreet, as always," Tarkin says. His eggs will get cold, if he entertains the boy much longer. Tarkin has great affection for the boy, the son of a woman who in another life would have been his lover, the woman responsible for recruiting him, years ago, a former handmaiden from Naboo, who once served under a queen.
"I prepared them the way you like!"
"I know," Tarkin says. The boy always does. Very eager to please. It's okay. He admires the boy's enthusiasm, actually. In another lifetime, a long time ago, he was like this himself. Sometimes it's good to be reminded of that. The boy darts away and comes back, having retrieved a pitcher of hot liquid, something Tarkin needs to interact with his fellow Imperial officers. Something stiff.
"I wish I could be there when they find out what you gave them!"
"I want you out of danger," Tarkin says. The boy's every utterance is punctuated with an exclamation point. Ah, youth...
"What if they don't know what to do with it?"
"They will," Tarkin says.
"I wish I was as certain as you! But I don't envy you! Not even a little!"
"Of course you don't," Tarkin says. He knows the boy, in fact, does. It's obvious. The boy stays behind, one of the few civilians aboard the massive station, when he goes to one of his many briefings, strategy sessions, any number of meetings. Endless meetings. Wearying. One would believe the Empire was less secure than the Rebels.
"Would you please let me eat in peace?"