Starfighters of Adumar

by Aaron Allston

  “That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. Other forces are working on the perator of Cartann to persuade him to enter into a world government.”

  “So all the hard mental work is taken care of. I just need to stand around, pose, look pretty for the holocams…”

  She managed a brief smile. “That’s it.”

  “Ie—Fiana, I’m not sure I like this place. They don’t put a very high value on human life. What do you think?”

  “You’re right.” She shrugged, a clear sign that this was something out of her hands. “It’s different in other Adumari nations. Their mania for pilots is not quite as high. Dueling is not the fad it is here. Another reason for Cartann to join in a world government. It might acquire some more civilized characteristics.”

  “Who’s your superior?”

  “I can’t tell you that. That’s on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Well, I’m talking about a need-to-punch basis. Your immediate superior and General Cracken didn’t give me a full briefing before I got here, and consequently I’ve been floundering around like an idiot. I need to know which of them to punch.”

  She smiled, got it under control. “Wedge, is that it? I need to get back to my quarters. It would probably do Fiana’s reputation some good for her to be seen with Wedge Antilles… but it would also put me under scrutiny I don’t want.”

  “I suppose so.” Then a wave of something like doubt hit him. “No, that’s not it. Listen, I haven’t seen you in months. And now that we’ve talked, I still feel as though I haven’t seen you. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” She presented him with a serene expression. For all he could read in it, she could have been all the way across the plaza.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I can’t help you with that, Wedge.”

  “Iella, have we stopped being friends?”

  She was silent a long moment. “I suppose we have.”

  Wedge felt his breath catch. It took him a moment to recover it. “When did that happen? How did it happen?”

  “It’s not you, Wedge. It’s me.” Her mask of serenity slipped, leaving her expression tired, even dismayed. “I just had another direction to go. You’re not there.”

  “That’s not an answer. That’s Intelligence gibberish covering up an answer.” It surprised Wedge, how hurt his tone sounded.

  “I have to go.”

  “Every time we’ve ever spoken, I’ve been straight with you. I want an answer from you.”

  She put her hood up. Suddenly he could no longer see her features. “I have to go,” she said, and turned away.

  As she moved off into the darkness, her bodyguard detached himself from the building’s shadow and followed.

  Wedge stood there and watched her fade into the darkness of the plaza’s shadowy edges. It occurred to him that this departure was just the image, the reflection of something that must have happened long ago. He just didn’t remember when, and the mystery of it was like a little, stony knot of pain next to his heart.

  Chapter Five

  That pain hadn’t subsided by morning. He thought about the situation with Iella, could come to no hypothesis that covered all the facts, and set it aside for the time being. He set aside thinking about it, anyway; the ache stubbornly refused to be set aside.

  By the time breakfast was done, his datapad had still received no word from Tomer about appointments with the perator for the purposes of diplomacy. Nor was there news on the men who had attacked them last night. Once again the day was his.

  He asked Cheriss to call ahead to the air base and order Red Flight’s Blade-32 aircraft to be loaded with weakened lasers and pigment-cloud missiles… and to spread the word that Wedge Antilles might be accepting challenges this day, but only from fighters similarly equipped.

  They were already on the wheeled transport and heading toward the air base when she concluded that call. Out of the corner of his eye, Wedge saw her pocket her comlink, look at him, look toward the transport’s controls, and look at him a second time.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  “Not a problem, no. Well, maybe.”

  He turned toward her, but she looked forward along their travel route, avoiding his eyes. “Last night, when you slipped away… that was dangerous, you know.”

  “The Adumari have no respect for someone who can’t confront danger.”

  “True. But if you were to die when I was supposed to be acting as guide for you, I would lose considerable honor.”

  “If I elude your attention, you have nothing to be ashamed of even if I get myself killed.”

  Her expression tightened. “Still. When you left… was it to see a woman?”

  The answer “It’s none of your business” rose to the top of his mind, he even heard it in his most snappish tone, but he restrained himself from saying it. He didn’t know how badly such a response might cut her. “Yes, it was.”

  “If you slipped away just to avoid exposing me to something—”

  “No, it was nothing like that.”

  “I’m not as young as I look, you needn’t worry about shocking me—”

  “Cheriss.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “Listen. When I was your age, I borrowed a Headhunter, that’s a type of starfighter, from a friend, and used it to kill the men who were responsible for my parents’ deaths. A deliberate act of revenge. The whole universe changed. All the things that had surprised or shocked or offended me just the day before became nothing, instantly.” He opened his eyes, sought out her gaze, and finally was able to hold it. “Like me, you’ve had blood on your hands from an early age. So I know you’re not going to be shocked. I’m not trying to protect you.”

  “Was she… a pilot? The woman last night?”

  He considered that question, wondered just how far he was willing to answer her curiosity, and said, “No.”

  Her face brightened. “No? No. No. I hope you fly well today. I mean, I know you will fly well today, but I hope others see. Remember to specify match numbers when you accept a challenge.”

  Wedge nodded. He’d already learned about that protocol. If he didn’t “specify match numbers” when accepting a challenge, such as by saying “we accept four,” the attackers could bring as many pilots as they wanted against him. The usual protocol was to accept as many challengers as he had pilots in his own flight or squadron.

  He watched as Cheriss, suddenly, mysteriously transformed into a happy young woman again, trotted up to the front of the transport and leaned over the rail into the wind.

  He moved back to his pilots. “Any of you understand that? Her mood swing?”

  Tycho said, “I think I’d shoot myself before getting involved in this conversation.”

  Hobbie shrugged. “Not one of my languages, Wedge.”

  Janson threw up his arms, tossing his cloak back over his shoulders. It was a practice move; he’d already done it forty times this morning. He drew the cloak back around him, where Wedge could see its flexible flatscreen panels in front, the moving images they showed of Janson on the receiving stand the other night, and he nodded. “I understood her, boss. But you don’t want to know. Trust me on this.”

  “Anytime Janson says ‘you don’t want to know,’” Wedge said, “it’s like juggling thermal detonators. Each time you grab and throw, you know your thumb might hit the trigger…” He sighed and turned to Janson. “I want to know.”

  “You asked for it… You told her your lady friend wasn’t a pilot, right? Cheriss also isn’t a pilot. Here, she can’t compete with pilots in prestige. But you saw a lady who wasn’t a pilot. You just told Cheriss, ‘Yes, you too have a chance with me.’”

  Wedge stood there, contemplating, unconsciously rocking in place to compensate for the transport’s swaying motion across the ground. “Wes, you were right,” he said.

  “You didn’t want to know.”

  “I didn’t want to know.”

  Janson grinned. “Boom.”

&nbs
p; Wedge and Tycho flew a head-to-head pass against Janson and Hobbie. As the numbers on their range meters rolled toward zero, he watched the brackets on the lightboard as they surrounded the two “enemy” Blade-32s. At first, the brackets were fuzzy and indistinct; then they grew in solidity as the lightboard sensor technology gradually improved its lock on them. At the same time, his sensor board began emitting a deep, ominous, throbbing noise, warning of the enemy’s improving chance to target him.

  The lightboard brackets went to full opacity at the same instant the throbbing warning hit its maximum volume. Wedge immediately rolled to port and dove, losing hundreds of meters of altitude in a matter of seconds, then came nose-up again, seeking Janson and Hobbie, who were similarly energetic in their attempt to elude a laser lock.

  Wedge got the Blade-32 oriented toward his two targets, pleased with the way the starfighter increasingly felt natural to him. Visuals and his lightboard showed Janson breaking to starboard, Hobbie to port; he looped after the former and trusted Tycho to complement his action by going after the latter target.

  He barely had Janson lined up in his weapon brackets when his target opened fire on him, stitching him with several blue pulses from his vehicle’s rear-firing lasers. Wedge growled at himself; unused to dueling with vehicles with rear weapons, he’d forgotten about them momentarily, while Janson, an experienced rear gunner, had utilized them from the start. But Wedge’s sensor board indicated that the simulated laser damage he’d sustained was not critical. Wedge began bobbing and sideslipping, attempts to keep Janson from achieving another targeting lock, and waited for his opportunity.

  It came a moment later. Janson’s Blade began a quick drift to port. Wedge hit the trigger for his vehicle’s missiles, launched one into and slightly left of Janson’s drift, then traversed right and fired again. Janson, quick on the reflex, shied right out of the first missile’s path… and the second missile detonated two meters ahead of his Blade, blanketing the starfighter in a thick cloud of obnoxious orange paint. Janson emerged from the explosion with streaks of orange along his flanks and a large spot of it on his forward viewport.

  “I am slain,” Janson said, his tone lofty. “What mischance ever brought me to this dismal world, where bags of paint would spell my doom?”

  “You’ve been listening to the Adumari too much,” Wedge said. He checked his lightboard. It showed Tycho and Hobbie, a few kilometers out, heading toward them in formation. “How’d you do, Tycho?”

  “A rare one for Hobbie,” Tycho said. “Brought me to one hundred percent damage with laser fire.”

  “Tycho’s too used to really maneuverable fighters,” Hobbie said. “TIE fighters, A-wings… the X-wing is the most sluggish thing he’s ever spent a lot of time with. The Blade is just too much like flying a boulder for him.”

  The four formed up again, began a long loop around the broad tract of forest that Giltella Air Base had assigned for their training exercises.

  “Still no challenges,” Wedge said. “By this time yesterday, we’d had three or four of them at least.”

  “I don’t think they’re going to go for simulated weapons,” Tycho said. “They’re so keen to see blood, Wedge. The last group of people I saw with that sort of enthusiasm for killing was Imperial stormtroopers fresh from boot camp. It’s kind of unnerving.”

  “I still have to figure out what sort of reason to give them for simulated duels,” Wedge said. “Something they’ll accept within the parameters of their honor code.”

  “Oh, that’s simple,” Hobbie said. “Do to them what you do to us at times like that.”

  Wedge frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Tell them what you’re doing but not why. Then let them speculate. Listen to them as they speculate. When they come up with an idea you really, really like, tell them ‘You finally guessed right. That was my reasoning all along.’”

  “I don’t do that,” Wedge said. “Much.”

  “All the time, boss.”

  Wedge caught a new pattern of motion on his lightboard, six blips incoming. “Heads up. We have something.”

  A moment later, a new voice came across the comm board, a brassy one that rang in their ears: “Strike the Moons Flightknife issues greetings to New Republic Red Flight, and a challenge!”

  Wedge kept his comm unit tuned to broadcast at low strength and only on Red Flight’s frequency. “Tycho, call Giltella Air Base and make sure these guys are really equipped with sim weapons.” He switched to the general frequency and upped his broadcast power. “Red Flight to Strike the Moons Flightknife, greetings. I will consider your challenge. Please give me the particulars about your pilots.”

  “I am Liak ke Mattino, captain, fourteen years’ experience, eighteen war kills, thirty-three duel kills, one ground kill. I bring five pilots before you. In order of precedence, they are…”

  Wedge listened to the litany of accomplishments with half his attention. He could have obtained the same information by tapping on the blip representing ke Mattino and the other Blades on the lightboard; the board’s text screen would have then shown the appropriate data from the transponders on their fighters. But demanding an oral recitation was a good way to stall.

  Tycho’s reply came a minute later, toward the end of Captain ke Mattino’s inventory: “Giltella confirms Strike the Moons is equipped with sims, General.”

  “Thanks, Tycho.” Wedge switched back to general frequency. “Captain, we accept your challenge. We accept four, your choice. Standing by.”

  They waited while the Strike the Moons pilots chose among themselves. Two Blade-32’s peeled away from the Cartann half squad and circled out to a much greater distance. Then the other four fighters banked in the direction of Red Flight.

  “Break by wings,” Wedge said. “Fire at will.” He banked hard to starboard, Tycho tucked in behind him and to his left, and waited to see how the enemy would react.

  All four enemy Blades turned to follow Wedge and Tycho.

  Wedge shook his head. That was an odd tactical choice. He heard the first throbbing of targeting locks being brought against him and began evasive maneuvering. For practice’s sake, he opened fire on his pursuers with his lasers, though he had no better laser locks than they did. On his lightboard, he could see Hobbie and Janson pulling into position in pursuit of the four Blades.

  The laser locks grew stronger. Wedge said, “Let’s give Wes and Hobbie something to shoot at,” and shoved his control yoke forward, sending his Blade into a steep dive, and rotating so they still only had a side angle on him.

  The four pursuers followed but did not rotate. Wedge kept up his laser fire against one of them and grinned. If he understood the simple Adumari lightbounce system correctly, the bigger the metal cross section it saw, the farther away it could get a good laser lock. In exposing their bellies to Janson and Hobbie, the four Blades had substantially increased their cross sections, which the two New Republic pilots should be seeing just about—

  He saw missile streaks appear like magic lines between Hobbie’s and Janson’s Blades and two of the enemy craft. Paint clouds erupted, one an appalling pink, one a lavender, and one enemy Blade emerged from each. Both the “kills” broke off from the fight, moving out to meet the two pilots sitting out the conflict.

  That left two. No, one. One of the remaining Blades broke away to join the other kills. As it departed, it broadcast, “Ke Mattino congratulates Antilles on a good stop.”

  Wedge checked his sensor board. He must have racked up enough hits to put the enemy captain in the kill column. His own Blade showed twenty percent damage; he’d picked up a couple of grazes himself.

  The surviving enemy Blade came doggedly on after Wedge and Tycho. Wedge leveled off smoothly and switched his comm system back to Red Flight frequency. “Let’s try a simple one,” he said. “Break to starboard and rejoin Wes and Hobbie. I’ll lead him back for a head-to-head against you.”

  “Done, boss.” Tycho broke away sharply. As Wedge expected, the
pursuing Blade paid him no heed, continuing on after Wedge.

  Wedge juked and jinked, making himself a hard a target to hit, though he saw his simulated laser damage climb to thirty percent, then to thirty five percent. This pilot was a good shot. But his maneuvering pointed him back toward the other three members of Red Flight. As soon as his sensor board indicated that he could get a good shot at his own pilots, the blip that was the last enemy Blade changed to a kill marker and circled off to rejoin its fellows.

  “A good exercise, Strike the Moons,” Wedge said. “Care to go again?”

  There was a noticeable delay before the enemy captain replied. “Again? The duel is done.”

  “Yes, but nobody’s a smoking crater, and we have fuel enough for two or three more at least. Do you want to go again, maybe let the two pilots who didn’t go last time come against us now?”

  There was still confusion in the captain’s voice, but he said, “We could do that.” And moments later, four Blades, two that had taken part in the previous exercise and two that had not, broke away from the circling formation and came again against Red Flight.

  Captain ke Mattino was a tiny man, lean of form and rising barely to Wedge’s nose, but his long and elaborately curled mustache doubtless helped increase his personal majesty to acceptable levels. He sat opposite Wedge in the Giltella Air Base pilots’ bar and nodded as Wedge spoke, every bob of his head setting his mustache to swaying.

  “The problem is not in your skills,” Wedge said. “It’s in your tactics. In every exchange, you kept your whole group together and went with all ferocity after the highest-profile enemy… me. You know what that makes you?”

  Ke Mattino looked suspicious. “Dead?”

  “Well, I was going to say predictable. But predictability, in this case, meant dead, so you’re right.” Wedge glanced down the table, where his three pilots and ke Mattino’s listened intently.