Accompanied by Tomer, they paused at the arched entryway to a large ballroom designated the Royal Outer Court. Tomer stepped forward to speak to the guards on duty. There were two of them, large men armed with what looked like polearm equivalents of the blastswords. Between them, across the entryway, was stretched a sort of silver mesh material; Wedge could see well-dressed people dancing and socializing, but it was as if viewing them through a warped and mottled piece of unusually reflective transparisteel. He spotted two-headed Hallis in the crowd, her attention turned toward a large knot of men and women.
Tomer returned. “Odd,” he said. “We’re to be admitted, of course—this is your night! But we’re not to be announced.”
“You mean,” Hobbie said, “nobody is going to bellow our names across the crowd, so that everybody turns and stares at us and we have nothing to say, so we stand there like idiots while they wait. That sort of announced?”
“Yes,” Tomer said. “It’s customary. Why the custom was suspended for tonight I don’t know. You’ll have to surrender your sidearms to the guards, of course.”
Tomer stopped Janson’s action of unsheathing his blastsword. “No, you can take that in. Blastswords are fit for polite society. It’s only blasters they object to.”
The semitransparent curtain flicked to one side instantly. Conversation washed out over them, as did a swell of music played on stringed instruments at a fast pace, and a wash of air that assailed Wedge’s nose and informed him that perfuming was another Adumari habit.
Tomer led the pilots into the outer hall. They attracted no immediate notice. The hall itself was a tall two-story chamber, with a balcony all around the second story, thick with onlookers; its walls were draped with tapestries in a shimmering silver hue, and the lights behind the tapestries offered not quite enough illumination. Two tapestries were drawn aside, revealing enormous flatscreens on stony walls; the screens showed, in magnification, whatever stood before them.
Tomer led the pilots straight to the knot of people that held Hallis’s attention. As they approached, Wedge could see that at its center was one man, unusually tall, with a close-trimmed white beard and alert, active eyes. His garments were all a shimmering red-gold; with every motion he looked as though part of his clothing were on fire. As the pilots neared, he looked at Tomer and asked, in a raspy but well-controlled voice, “What have you brought me, O speaker for distant rulers?” He spoke with the same accent Wedge had heard on the pilots who had attacked Red Flight, in which many vowels sounded like short flat “a”s, but Wedge was becoming more accustomed to it, having less difficulty comprehending it.
Tomer offered a smile that, to Wedge, looked a little artificially tolerant. “Pekaelic ke Teldan, perator of Cartann, smiter of the Tetano, hero of Lameril Ridge, master of the Golden Yoke, I beg you allow me to present to you these four pilots: Major Derek Klivian, Major Wes Janson, Colonel Tycho Celchu, and General Wedge Antilles, all of the New Republic Starfighter Command.”
With each recitation of a name, the crowd around the perator offered an “ooh,” especially for Wedge. The perator nodded in slow and stately fashion to each and extended a hand to Wedge. Wedge shook it in standard New Republic fashion, hoping that was the reaction called for, and that he wasn’t precipitating a war by failing to kneel and put the hand on his forehead or some such thing. But the perator merely smiled.
“You are well come to Cartann,” the perator said to Wedge. “I look forward to hearing your words and seeing your displays of skill. But first, I have a present for the four of you.” He waved behind him, beckoning someone forward.
Into the open space surrounding the perator stepped a young woman. Her garments were all white, though festooned with what looked like ribbons and military service decorations, and she carried blastsword, knife, comfan, and pistol at her belt. She was not tall, being a double handspan shorter than Wedge, but walked with the confident gait of someone a head taller than anyone in the crowd, despite the fact that she was a year or two from what Wedge would consider full adulthood. Her freckled features were pretty, open, bearing the expression of a youth rushing recklessly into life. Her black hair was in a long braid drawn over her shoulder, and her eyes were a dark blue that seemed almost purple in the dim light of the chamber.
“This young lady,” the perator said, “is the most recent winner of the Cartann Ground Championship. With that victory comes certain obligations and prerogatives. Pilots, I present you Cheriss ke Hanadi; I know that you have the most informed Tomer Darpen to give you outlook upon Cartann, but Cheriss will serve you as native guide throughout your stay.”
Wedge gave the perator a slight bow. “Thank you, sir.” He spared a glance for Tomer, but the career diplomat did not seem in the least curious or disconcerted; this was obviously not an unusual sort of occurrence.
“I am honored to serve,” Cheriss said. She stared at Wedge with disconcerting intensity, but Wedge could detect no animosity in her expression—just curiosity. “If General Antilles wishes diversion during the evening, I have a show to put on—a non-title from some runny-nosed lordling.”
The perator returned his attention to Wedge. “Tonight,” he said, “is an informal night. Meet the heroes and nobles and celebrities we have assembled. Tomorrow is soon enough to begin the tedious affairs of discussion and negotiations, no?” He offered another smile, then turned his back on the pilots and moved away. His knot of courtiers moved with him like a set of shields moving with a starfighter. Hallis turned between perator and Wedge, indecisive, then stayed behind, her attention and her recording unit’s gaze on the New Republic pilots.
Tomer stood openmouthed, his expression uncomprehending. “After all his curiosity about our pilots, all his arrangements—and he has not even one question for you tonight. I’m baffled.” He gave Cheriss a sharp look. “Cheriss, do you know why he has chosen to conduct tonight the way he has?”
She tore her attention from Wedge to answer. “Oh, certainly.”
“Why?”
She smiled in return. “I can’t answer that. Not yet. I’m forbidden.”
Tomer’s expression turned glum. “I hate secrets,” he said.
Wedge said, “Whitecap, sleep-time.”
The 3PO head on Hallis’s shoulder responded, in the distinctively fussy 3PO voice, “Certainly, sir,” and the lights in its eyes went out.
Hallis made a noise of exasperation.
Wedge ignored her. “Tomer, a couple of questions. If he’s the ruling representative of all of Adumar, why is he simply introduced as the perator of Cartann?”
“He is the heir to the throne of Cartann.” Tomer shrugged. “Cartann is his nation. The concept of a single world government is somewhat new here. It does not invoke the sense of pride that the traditional throne of a nation does.”
“Oh.” Wedge leaned in close and whispered so that only Tomer could hear. “And now he has offered us the services of a guide. Is that some sort of present? Should we have brought a gift to offer him?”
Tomer smiled and whispered back, “Oh, no. Your very presence and what it means to him is present enough.”
Wedge leaned back, not entirely reassured. “Whitecap, wake-time.” He saw the lights reappear in Whitecap’s eyes.
He turned once again into the high-beam intensity of Cheriss’s stare. “Well, what’s the best way to conduct ourselves at this gathering?”
Cheriss smiled and gestured. “There are long tables along those walls where there is food. You can just walk by and take what you choose. The pilots and nobles here would be most happy if you would wander, meet them, tell them of your exploits. There are so many, though, that greeting them and saying you look forward to longer discussions later will be enough. When the perator leaves the hall or drops his visor, this means constraints are off; you can loosen your belt, act with less restraint, issue challenges, even leave if you choose.”
Tomer frowned. “When he lowers his visor? That’s the same as him leaving?”
Cheriss nodded ene
rgetically. “Both are signals of distance. When he lowers his visor, he does not see with the king’s eyes—you understand? He wants to stay and enjoy but not affect the behavior of the court.”
Tomer looked distinctly unhappy. “How could I have missed that little detail? Are there parallels in lesser courts—”
Janson interposed his head, glaring at Tomer. “Discuss nuance later. Feed the pilots now.”
Tomer relented with a smile. “Sorry. Of course. I’ve forgotten the role of the stomach in interplanetary relations.”
It took them nearly thirty minutes to cross the thirty meters to the food. In that time, they ran across group after group of admirers, most of them pilots—male pilots, female pilots, pilots still in their teen years, pilots as old as Wedge’s parents would have been if they had survived. Wedge shook hand after hand, smiled at face after face and name after name he knew he would never recall despite his best efforts. By the time they reached the buffet-style tables, all four pilots had an appetite and eagerly went after the foods ready there, despite their unfamiliar appearance. Most of the dishes consisted of bowls of some sort of meat or vegetable simmered in heavy, spicy marinades; Wedge found one he liked, what seemed to be some sort of fowl in a stinging marinade with ground spices clearly visible, and stayed with it even after Cheriss informed him that it was farumme, the same sort of riding reptile Wedge had spotted during his arrival flight.
“So, Cheriss,” Wedge said, “what can you tell us about the Adumari fighters we encountered on our arrival?”
“The pilots or the machines?”
“I meant the machines.”
Her expression became blank. “The Blade-Thirty-two,” she said. “Preeminent atmospheric superiority fighter, though the Thirty-two-alpha is equipped for spaceflight and the Thirty-two-beta also has what you call a hyperdrive.” She sounded as though she were reciting from a specifications chart. “It’s a single-pilot craft in most configurations, with three main weapons systems—”
Someone bumped into Wedge from behind. He glanced over his shoulder; another diner had taken a step backward straight into Wedge. The diner half turned toward him, saying, “My apologies.”
“No offense taken,” Wedge said, and turned back to Cheriss… then froze. The other diner’s accent was clipped, precise… Imperial.
He spun around. The other diner turned to face him, surprise evident on his features as well.
Despite the man’s garments—he was dressed in Cartann splendor, much as Wedge was—Wedge knew he was no Adumari. He was of below average height, with short fair hair that seemed naturally unruly. His lean features were handsome but marred by a livid scar curving across the hollow of his left cheek; his dark eyes suggested cutting intelligence. His face was burned into Wedge’s memory from numerous Rogue Squadron mission briefings. “General Turr Phennir,” Wedge said.
The most famous surviving pilot of the Empire, the man who had inherited command of the 181st Imperial Fighter Group from Baron Fel upon that pilot’s defection to the New Republic, stared at him in disbelief. “Wedge Antilles,” he said, and put his hand on the holster at his belt. But there was nothing in the holster; doubtless Phennir’s blaster pistol was with Wedge’s at the door guard station.
Wedge heard a noise from behind, the quiet rasp of metal on leather, and knew that Janson had drawn his vibroblade. But Phennir’s expression didn’t change. Either he was in extraordinary control of his emotions, or he wasn’t aware of Janson arming himself. Probably the latter; Wedge was directly between the two men. If Phennir attacked, all Wedge had to do was twist aside to expose the enemy pilot to Janson’s counterattack. Wedge nonchalantly kept his grip on his bowl and spoon, affecting unconcern.
Wedge could see calculations going on behind Phennir’s eyes. They probably matched what Wedge himself was thinking. Best-known New Republic pilot; best-known Imperial pilot. We’re here at the same time so Adumar can compare us. Can choose which of two options suits them better.
Phennir appeared to arrive at the same conclusion. He lifted his hand from his belt and extended it to Wedge. “It seems we’re here for the same reason.”
Wedge set his spoon down and shook the man’s hand. “I suspect so.”
“You’ll understand if I don’t wish you luck.”
“Likewise.”
Phennir turned away and raised his hand in a come-along gesture. Three other men in his vicinity followed as he departed.
Wedge turned back to his pilots, saw the last motions of Janson surreptitiously returning his vibroblade to his forearm sheath; the action was concealed from the sides by Janson’s ridiculous cloak, and few, if any, of the celebrants in the chamber could have observed it. Janson’s face, for once, was not merry in the least.
Wedge said, “Hallis, did you get that?”
The documentarian nodded.
“Give us a few moments of peace. Take that time to broadcast what you just recorded to the Allegiance.”
“Yes, General.” She turned and moved into the crowd, for once offering no protest to one of Wedge’s commands.
Wedge turned his attention to his native guide. “Cheriss, did you know that man was here? And who he was?”
She nodded, sober. “I did. My perator instructed me to say nothing until you two encountered one another. They had an arrival ceremony much like yours, at the same time as yours, on the far side of Cartann.”
“Please withdraw a few steps.”
She did, looking more distressed.
Tomer said, “Have you met him before? You acted as though you had.”
Wedge shook his head. “Not in person. We flew against him at Brentaal, years ago. Tycho went one-on-one with him. Which makes you, Tycho, the expert on what we’re facing.”
Tycho shrugged. “He was good. Nearly my equal at the time. But he was no Baron Fel, no Darth Vader.”
“He’s had years to improve.”
Tycho smiled. “So have we.”
“True.” Wedge thought back to his first debriefing of Baron Fel, shortly after the great Imperial ace’s capture by Rogue Squadron. “Fel said Phennir was ambitious, with little loyalty to Sate Pestage, who held the reins of the Empire after the Emperor fell. Phennir wanted Fel to strike out to achieve power on his own, and Phennir would be tucked in right there as his wingman.”
“Which doesn’t mean much to us,” Tycho said, “unless Phennir sees an opportunity for personal gain in this mission—enough gain to make him betray the Empire.” Then he lost his smile. “The Adumari have set us up.”
Wedge nodded. “That’s my guess. They’re going to play us against the Empire to see who can offer the best arrangement.”
Tomer’s face was nearly white with shock. “They’re far sneakier than I imagined. They pulled this off without our Intelligence people even knowing.”
Janson snorted. “How can you be sure? Maybe Intelligence just didn’t tell you.”
Tomer shrugged, unhappy. “Perhaps so. I’ll transmit them a request for further instructions.”
“You do that,” Wedge said. “But until we get further orders, we do just as we intended to—socialize, play the visiting dignitaries, make good impressions.”
“And keep eyes open in all directions,” Janson said.
Hobbie sighed. “Until now, I thought this was a really sweet deal.”
“The Cartann Minister of Notification, Uliaff ke Unthos.”
For the fortieth or eightieth time that night, Wedge offered the minimal bow and handshake required by the situation, and went to the special effort it took to keep from his face the dismay he’d felt ever since he’d recognized Turr Phennir. He also struggled to keep his nose from wrinkling; the minister’s perfume seemed as sweet and strong as an orchard full of rotting fruit. “And what is the role of the Minister of Notification?”
The white-bearded man before him smiled, evidently delighted. “My role is notification of the families. When a pilot falls in combat, in training, in a duel, my office notifies all
appropriate parties. I do not create the letters of notification myself, of course. I set policy. Will this week’s notifications bear a tone more of regret or pride? When siblings fall on the same day, does the family receive a joint notification or separate ones? These sorts of matters are very important…”
Wedge kept his smile fixed on his face, but he could tell he was hearing a speech, one that had often been replayed. He did what he could to tune the man’s voice out while still seeming to appear interested, but all the while kept some of his attention on the crowd, making sure he knew where Turr Phennir and entourage were at all times.
Then, over the minister’s shoulder, at a table at the outskirts of the crowd, he saw her.
She was seated alone and dressed in the height of Cartann finery. Her dark blue dress, a sheath from neck to ankle, was fitted to her slender form, except where its sleeves flared out in Adumari fashion, and was sprinkled with gems that glinted white like stars against a backdrop of space. Her hair, a dark blond, was piled high on her head, though some strands had worked loose—or, Wedge suspected, had been left loose and artfully arrayed to look like escapees—to frame her face. She did not wear the decorative skullcap so common in this court; instead, into her hair was worked a headdress that looked like blue contrails rising from above her forehead and curving back around behind her head. She held one of the ubiquitous comfans and was gesturing with it as she spoke to someone at a nearby table; her gestures, Wedge saw, included the subtle motions he was beginning to recognize as Cartann hand-codes.
She was beautiful, but it was not her beauty that jolted Wedge—not her beauty that made him feel as though he’d taken a punch in the gut.
He knew her. He knew her name. He knew the planetary system where she’d been born—the same as his, Corellia.
Yet when she glanced at him, when her gaze stopped upon him and then kept moving, there was no hint of recognition in her eyes.
Wedge forced himself to return his attention to the minister. “Would that we had someone with your skills and dedication in our armed forces,” Wedge said. “I’m sure we have much to learn from your techniques of notification. Could you excuse me a moment? I must speak to my pilots about this.”
Starfighters of Adumar Page 5
