“Let me make it formal.” Wedge pulled back, to stand, to adopt a traditional pose, but Iella didn’t release him.
“Later,” she said. “After Adumar. Let’s just say for now that I’m willing to stop making mistakes if you are.”
“It’s a deal.” He supposed she wanted to hear the words in surroundings less alien, in times less stressful.
“But you need to understand something. No matter what a great leader you may be, Intelligence doesn’t take orders from Starfighter Command.”
“Or the other way around.”
“Right. Or the other way around.”
“I can live with that.”
Her expression became worried. “Can you live with this? Wedge, I’m an Intelligence officer. If my superior tells me to, I may end up on the opposite side from you.”
“Just until this Adumar mess is over,” he reminded her.
She nodded. “But will you be able to forgive me? If I have to throw a net over you and ship you offworld because of your damned fool cockpit-jockey antics?”
“I’d forgive you. Though I won’t have to.” He gave her a confident grin. “You wouldn’t be able to catch me.”
Her return smile was that of a well-fed predator. “I have the feeling I can catch you anytime I want.” She kissed him again.
When Wedge finally left Iella’s quarters, Janson moved out from his hiding position to join him. Janson was not graceful going down the stairs; one of his knees tended to pop, and his posture was stiff.
“You’re getting old, Wes.”
“I am not old. I’m stiff from waiting for hours in that stupid corner. With just three pastries off the Allegiance to sustain me. Hiding out from all the other skulker traffic. Did you get what you wanted from Iella?”
Wedge turned a surprised face toward Janson. “What?”
“The holocomm access to General Cracken? Did she say you could?”
“Oh, that. No.” He felt his smile return. Wes was merely baiting him, as usual. “Say, what happened next door, anyway?”
They reached the bottom of the stairs and marched, Janson hobbling, through the foyer toward the street. “The guy we met hit the guy who lived there just as he was going in. They fought for few seconds, and then there was a lot of quiet, and then the guy we talked to came staggering out of there with the other guy across his shoulders. Dead, I think. And me without anyone to bet with.”
They reached the street. Wedge was struck sideways by a blast of intense light; he stumbled, threw up his sleeve to block the glare. “Sithspit! What’s that?”
“That’s the sun, Wedge. It’s after dawn.”
“Well, it offends me. Turn it off.”
“It’s a hundred thirty, hundred forty million klicks from here.”
“Go up in your X-wing and shoot it down for me.”
“You’re acting very strangely, chief. Come on, this way.” Janson tugged Wedge in the direction of their quarters. “Something else odd happened during the night.”
“What?”
“In the darkest, quietest hours—you hardly ever even heard someone swinging on a cable from balcony to balcony, and there were barely two knife fights out there to keep me awake—I thought I heard breathing.”
Wedge afforded him an amused glance. “You breathe, don’t you? In between fits of bragging, that is.”
Janson shook his head, for once completely serious. “When I was just sitting there with my back to the wall, I thought I heard the creak of someone on the stairs. Coming up, I think. I turned to look around the corner and there was no one to be seen… though the entire stairwell wasn’t lit, of course. Someone could have been standing in the deepest shadows, the way I was in that hallway. I waited and didn’t hear anything more, and then I held my breath and listened. I thought I heard someone breathing over there, but eventually there was a roaring in my ears—”
“That old lack of oxygen thing will get you every time. How much brain damage did you suffer?”
“Wedge…”
“And, more importantly, was it to any of the parts of your brain that you use, or was it in the majority portion?”
“Wedge… I really think someone was spying.”
“Well, you should have introduced yourself.” Wedge moved over to the street curb and walked along its very edge, balancing like a high-wire walker.
“Wedge, stop acting like a kid. You’re embarrassing me.”
Wedge had been asleep in his quarters for five minutes when he became aware of a noise from the main room: shouting, crashing of furniture. Sleepily, he pulled on a robe and stumbled over to open his door.
Tomer Darpen was in the main room, walking in circles around the main table. Tycho stood slumped, yawning, in the doorway to his room. Hobbie was sprawled on the main room floor, immediately behind him a tipped-over chair showing how he’d come to end up prone, and was carefully aiming a comlink at Tomer and thumbing its on-off switch as though firing a blaster at the diplomat; his expression was groggy enough to suggest that’s exactly what he thought he was doing. Janson emerged in his own doorway, his robe askew, and if glares were lasers Tomer would have been the victim of a dual-linked direct strike.
Tomer was speaking in a voice loud enough to awaken sleepers on the floors immediately above and below: “—very promising indeed, but we need to be there with our best faces on…” Making the turn at the end of the table, he caught sight of Wedge. “General! Excellent news.”
“Excellent enough to persuade Hobbie to spare your life, I hope,” Wedge said.
Tomer glanced at the semiconscious pilot. “Maybe even that good. As you know, the perator of Cartann, two days ago, flew in representatives of all of Adumar’s nations for purposes of discussing the foundation of a world government.”
“I didn’t know,” Wedge said. “Did you include that in a briefing you sent us?”
“I—uh, oh.” Tomer looked abashed, gave Wedge an apologetic look. “My mistake. I thought we’d done so. At any rate, we’ve received word from the perator’s palace that they’ll be making an announcement on that subject this morning.”
“…ths mrnng,” said the cabinet beside him, its words muffled.
Tomer glanced at it. “What’s this?”
“Wt’s ths?” said the cabinet.
“Cabinet,” Wedge said.
“I know it’s a cabinet, but it’s talking.”
“…ts tlkng,” said the cabinet.
“Oh, that,” said Janson. “It’s the Cartann Minister of Crawling Into Very Small Spaces.”
Tycho nodded. “He bet Wedge that he could fold himself into that cabinet, around the shelves and all.”
Hobbie finally found his voice, though it was gravelly from lost sleep. “Never bet against Wedge,” he said. “The minister gets to stay there until he admits that it was a stupid bet and Wedge doesn’t owe him anything.”
Tomer looked among them, his expression making it clear that he knew they were kidding… and yet there was still a trace of uncertainty to it. “Anyway,” he said, “be ready and at the perator’s palace in an hour, please.”
“…hr, pls,” said the cabinet.
“We’ll be ready,” Wedge said.
When Tomer was gone, Wedge opened the cabinet. Whitecap was still there, but less of him; the back of his head was open, and it was evident that hardware once mounted within him was missing.
“Looks like Hallis did some scavenging,” Tycho said.
“Looks like Hallis—”
Wedge shut the cabinet against further words. “Where is she, anyway? Haven’t seen her recently.”
Tycho shrugged. “Haven’t seen Cheriss either, not since some time last night. I think we’re being abandoned by our retinue.”
Janson moved to the closet of not-yet-claimed Adumari garments. “What to wear, what to wear…”
“Dress uniforms, please,” Wedge said.
The others groaned.
“No, this is an official diplomatic function. From now on, at all su
ch functions, it’s dress uniforms. Issue blasters and vibroblades, but no blastswords. We’re not Adumari, and it’s time to stop legitimizing their bad behavior; we won’t emulate them in any way.” Wedge clapped his hands together. “Let’s go, people.”
“Great,” Hobbie said. “Who brought the old Wedge out of retirement?”
Chapter Eight
The New Republic officers’ dress uniform—designed in committee long ago, implemented months or years before Wedge was even aware of its existence—was not the fashion disaster its wearers made it out to be.
It started with a black sleeveless turtleneck body stocking and boots. Over it went a white jacket, a V-necked garment that fastened at about navel level and below. A broad red band ran along the left hem of the garment, up over the shoulder and at an angle down the back, with a rank designation in gold on the red band above the wearer’s left breast. A gray belt over the jacket completed the outfit.
There were variations to the uniform, with Starfighter Command utilizing black body stockings and Fleet Command preferring gray, for instance. Higher-ranking officers often preferred instead, and were allowed, to wear somewhat costlier and better-kept versions of their day uniforms in formal circumstances.
It was, Wedge thought, the body stocking that most wearers objected to. Flight suits and pilot day uniforms were baggy things festooned with pockets. They were comfortable. The wearer could carry his datapad, plus amusements and weapons for a half squad, in those pockets. The dress uniform body stocking had no pockets, and the jacket had only a couple of small ones—barely large enough for datacards. Too, the body stocking revealed any extra weight its wearer might be carrying, a fact not at all appreciated by image-conscious officers… and pilots were often the most image-conscious of all.
But the uniforms tended to have an effect on their audience. When Wedge and his pilots strode into the Outer Court of the Royal Residence, where they’d had their reception the first night, the crowd assembled there voiced an appreciative “ooh” that was music to Wedge’s ears. He raised a hand to wave jauntily to the crowd, his smile projecting confidence, not betraying the slight queasiness he felt as the court’s miasma of perfumes began to assault him.
“I feel fat,” Hobbie said.
“You’re not fat,” Janson said. “Except—never mind.”
“What?” Hobbie said.
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me. I’ve been working out. I’ve been good. You just can’t work on everything.”
“That’s right,” Janson said. “It’s scarcely noticeable.”
“Where?”
A woman—already tall, her height amplified by the way her brown hair was piled atop her head—moved up beside Wedge. “I found out who that other room belongs to,” she said.
Wedge looked at her, then peered closer. “Hallis?”
She looked exasperated. “Yes, Hallis.”
“Sorry, you still look different with only one head.”
“Men always tell me that…”
“What other room?”
“The one where the man went after he’d been through your quarters.”
“Ah, that one.” Wedge nodded. “It belongs to Tomer Darpen.”
She looked crestfallen. “You already knew.”
“No, I guessed, based on some other evidence I’ve picked up. It’s very valuable to me to have your confirmation. Your work wasn’t wasted. Where is your recording unit?”
She pointed to her hair. The elaborate combs holding her hairstyle in place each featured several crystals, plus smaller stones, some of which seemed to be glowing. “The lenses and microphones are up here, and I have cables down to the processor and storage memory, which are on the small of my back. I can even zoom with sight and sound.”
“Less menacing that way. I think you’ll get further with children with a rig like this.”
“I suspect you’re right.” Clusters of Adumari began to converge on the pilots. “Time for me to leave. I’ll talk to you later.” She moved off into the crowd, drawing her cloak around her, effortlessly becoming an anonymous Adumari woman.
Wedge steeled himself for another endless round of handshaking and introductions. But the diplomatic ritual was to have an unexpected benefit: The fifth introduction he received was from the Cartann Minister of Cognitive Machinery, and on his arm was Iella Wessiri. Today she was in another sheath dress, this one ranging from red to yellow-gold depending on the angle from which one viewed the material, and how it hung upon her; when she was in motion, it was like watching fire walk. “This young lady,” the wispy-bearded minister said, “is, like yourself, an otherworlder, and has expressed an interest in meeting the famous pilot. I plucked her from work today so that she might do so.”
“I’m delighted to oblige,” Wedge said. When he took her hand, he felt something crinkle in his palm. Iella withdrew her hand and departed with her minister, leaving Wedge with a scrap of flimsi in his hand and a happy memory of her dazzling smile.
As inconspicuously as he could, he glanced at the flimsi. On it was written a note—the name “Rogriss,” followed by a series of numbers, recognizable as a specific communications frequency.
Wedge nodded. That would be the frequency the admiral kept one personal comm unit tuned to—something only his executive officer and one or two others aboard Agonizer should have known. Wedge couldn’t begin to guess how Iella had come by the knowledge; he was just glad she had. He pocketed the scrap.
As the introductions and handshakes continued, he scanned the assembly. He caught sight of Turr Phennir and pilots, standing in a tight little quartet, all in Adumari dress. Phennir was scowling, definitely unhappy, and Wedge grinned at him. It was possibly the most minor of victories—Wedge and pilots had upstaged the Imperial flyers with their distinctive uniforms and entrance—but Wedge was happy to accept any victory he could get.
More invitees crowded into the hall and began to segregate themselves into large groups. Wedge tried to puzzle out what the divisions meant.
The perator, once again in gold, was surrounded chiefly by ministers and other courtiers; that group was easy to define. Tomer Darpen hovered at its edges, prevented by his alien status from moving closer to the center and hearing what the perator was saying, prevented by his own nature from moving farther away.
Wedge saw in two other groups pilots he’d flown against in simulations training. Most seemed to be on the periphery of one group of thirty or so well-dressed nobles, while a couple were with a different group of similar size. Wedge noted that the garments of these groups tended to be slightly different in cut and style than those he was used to, and realized that the pilots he recognized were all from nations other than Cartann. That was it, then; these were delegations from other nations.
Another group was of Cartann nobles—Wedge saw Iella and her minister among them. Iella noticed his attention, gave him a smile; then she was back in character and responding to something said by one of the men in her vicinity. Most of that crowd constituted men and women dressed in similar stuffy fashion, which suggested that this was a crowd of ministers, but the fact that they were well away from the perator said that they were a group the ruler had no particular need to consult—minor functionaries.
Turr Phennir and his pilots were at the center of their own knot of people. One of Phennir’s pilots, a tall redheaded man, had his hand out before him as if grasping a TIE fighter’s yoke; his hand shook as though he were firing on a target, and his eyes were wide, animated. The group around him made noises of admiration. Phennir was not paying attention; his gaze was on Wedge.
“Before the day’s events begin,” called a courtier, “a diversion. Ground Champion Cheriss ke Hanadi accepts a title challenge from Lord Pilot Eneboros ke Shalapan.”
“That explains where Cheriss is,” Tycho said, and craned his head for a better look.
The crowd in the vicinity of the perator moved back to make an open circle; Wedge headed that way.
Che
riss was already in the center of the circle, stretching, going through a few practice thrusts and lunges with her blastsword’s power off. Her appearance was different from the way it had been in the previous blastsword match; her intensity was there, but she wore no predatory smile. She also looked tired, a little disheveled, not her meticulously neat self.
Into Wedge’s ear, Hobbie said, “She’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday.”
Beside him, Janson nodded. “Not like her. Such a clean girl. Even when she’s stabbing people.”
“Quiet,” Wedge said. “There’s something wrong here.”
Her opponent, at the edge of the crowd, was very tall and lean, with an elaborately curled brown mustache and a goatee that tended more toward blond. Friends or assistants to either side of him were binding up his flowing sleeves so they would not interfere with his motions. When he was ready, he nodded to the speaker, who in turn caught Cheriss’s eye. She thumbed on the power of her blastsword and its tip began leaving blue trails through the air. Her challenger also flourished with his blade, its tip leaving traces of a more purple-blue behind.
The announcer called for salutes to the perator, then signaled for the fight to begin.
It didn’t take long. The challenger moved in with a thrust that was little more than an initial probe. Cheriss swept it aside and, in the same motion, threw herself forward, a daring counterstrike that left her exposed… but caught her enemy in the rib cage. There was a crack and a flash of blue light, and with a cry her challenger went down.
Cheriss looked to the perator.
The ruler of Cartann shrugged and put his hand out, palm down—the signal that the defeated man should die.
Cheriss slowly shook her head and turned her back on the defeated man and the perator. She moved into the crowd, leaving the fight behind. The audience parted for her, many of its members offering a low noise of surprise.
“Did she just do what I thought she did?” Wedge asked. “Give the perator the choice on what happened to her opponent, and then defy him?”
“That’s what I got out of it, boss,” Hobbie said.
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