She straightened from the cabinet and gave him a serious look. “Someone rappelled down to your balcony today from an upper story. I think he was doing something to your X-wings. Just scawling something on them, I think.”
In moments, they were out on the balcony, looking over their snubfighters. Hallis followed and slid the main door to the balcony shut behind her. People on balconies all around and across the street called out to them, waving.
Wedge waved back distractedly. He saw nothing changed on his X-wing’s exterior, and there was certainly nothing new written on it. He addressed his astromech, which was still set up behind the cockpit. “Gate, report on any interference with this snubfighter.” He brought out his datapad so the R5 unit could transmit its response to him.
Its screen came up with the words NO INTERFERENCE NOTED.
“There wasn’t any that I know of,” Hallis said. “I lied about that.”
Wedge gave her a curious look. “Maybe you’d better explain that.”
“I wanted to get you out on the balcony. There aren’t any listening devices out here.”
“We know there are listening devices inside,” Wedge said. “We don’t say anything there we can’t afford to have overheard.”
“That’s good,” Hallis said. “I came by here this morning to let you know I’d be recording the Imperial pilots, to ask if you wanted me to look out for anything in particular. But when I got here, you’d already gone. As I was leaving, I saw someone headed toward your door. And your door admitted him.”
“Saves wear and tear,” Janson said. “When the thieves can just walk in instead of having to break the door down.”
“Did you get a good look at him?” Wedge asked.
“Better than that, I got some recordings of him. I followed him in, got in just before the door closed. Hid behind tapestries and furniture while he went from room to room. The one time I got a good look at what he was doing in the rooms, he seemed to be checking up on emplaced items—almost certainly transmitters. Then, when I left, I followed him to where he was going.”
Wedge exchanged glances with the other pilots. Suddenly Hallis didn’t seem so ridiculous a figure after all. Wedge had underestimated her ability, mistaking eccentricity for a basic lack of competence. He wouldn’t do that a second time.
Janson frowned. “I hope you’ll excuse a silly question—but how does a lady with two heads follow anyone?”
Hallis gave him an indulgent smile. “I took Whitecap off while I was tailing him, Major. I’m fully aware of the sort of commotion he causes when I wear him. But what I know—and what you don’t know—is that people, when they look at me, only see the two-headed lady. They don’t give me a close look, they don’t register my features. Meaning that I can tuck Whitecap under my cloak and take off my goggles, and nobody recognizes me. I doubt even you would.”
Janson opened his mouth as if to protest and then shut it again, his expression thoughtful.
“Hallis, are you Intelligence-trained?” Wedge asked.
She shook her head. “Sludgenews-trained. Are you familiar with sludgenews?”
Tycho made a face. “A minor evil found in many heavily populated worlds, especially in the Corporate Sector. News on which celebrities are in love this week, complete with holos recorded by someone who sneaked onto their private estates and then escaped again. Revelations on how the shapes of nebulae determine your fate. Stories about women who claim to have borne a son to Emperor Palpatine. Stores that there never was a New Republic/Imperial war, that it was all cooked up to foster wartime productivity and profit the starfighter manufacturers. Stories claiming that Darth Vader is still alive, about to lead a revolt to reinstitute the Empire. That sort of thing.”
Hallis nodded. “It’s a very competitive field. You learn to hustle, to bribe, to sneak, to plant transmitters, to read past the text stream to the data stream… or you fail and get out. I learned it all, and then I got out anyway. It’s a brand of newsmaking that doesn’t exactly make the galaxy a better place.”
“So you followed our intruder out of here,” Wedge said.
“Yes. He didn’t even leave the building. He went into a room on the third floor. Third Alabaster it’s called. I don’t know whether it was his room or not; its door admitted him, but then so did yours. I waited around for a while to see who else might go in or come out, but its corridor is just a little too public, so I left.”
“That’s good work,” Wedge said. “I assume that he’s probably New Republic Intelligence, keeping up on us… but it’s not safe to assume anything for too long. We’ll have to find out whose quarters those are and start tracing some connections. Thank you, Hallis.”
She offered him a nod.
From the corner of his eye, Wedge saw Cheriss appear at the transparent door into the pilots’ quarters. She waved but didn’t come through the door—sensitive, doubtless, to the fact that she might not yet be welcome. But a second later, Tomer Darpen brushed past her, slid the door open, and emerged onto the balcony, his expression dark. “I need to speak with General Antilles,” he said. “Everyone else please leave.”
No one budged. Wedge could feel their eyes upon him, but he gave them no signal. Wedge spoke, his tone artificially mild: “People I haven’t invited over don’t get to tell my guests to leave. Try again.”
Tomer said nothing for a few seconds, during which time Wedge supposed he was trying to compose himself, and then said, “This is an official exchange between the diplomatic delegation to Adumar, that’s me, and the point diplomat, that’s you. It’s not going to be entirely friendly. It may include things you don’t want your pilots to hear, but obviously you can insist they stay if you must. But I’m going to have to ask this young lady to leave, if only to the next room—”
“My pilots have heard lots of grown-up words,” Wedge said. “Even Janson. And this young lady is Hallis.”
Tomer looked at her, confused. “Where’s your other head?”
She gave him a sorrowful look. “When I was walking around today, I met a young man who had no head. Just a stump that suggested he had a long, sad story to tell. But of course he couldn’t, because he had no head. So I gave Whitecap to him. The man now has the voice and mannerisms of a 3PO unit, but they’re better than nothing.”
Tomer’s mouth worked for a moment or two. Then he turned his glare back on Wedge. “There. Now you’ve corrupted her, too. That’s what I came over to talk to you about. This has to stop.”
“What has to stop?”
“All this business with your duels. What is this nonsense with simulated weapons?”
“A simple way to give the Adumari the encounters they obviously want so very much, without getting them killed. Or me, or my pilots.”
Tomer rolled exasperated eyes toward the floor of the balcony above. “General Antilles, you’re changing things. There are now Adumari pilots, famous pilots, talking about doing more sim-weapon exercises.”
“Good.”
“You’re not here to change things! You’re here to gain their respect, according to their culture, and to demonstrate that they should throw in with the New Republic.”
“Meaning what? Meaning that I should stop doing duels—”
“No, that would cost you the respect you’ve earned in their eyes.”
“—or start doing live-weapon duels?”
Tomer was silent.
“That’s it, isn’t it? You think I should go up in the skies day after day and shoot down eager Adumari pilots.”
“That’s what Turr Phennir and his men are doing.”
Wedge felt cold anger creep through his guts. When he spoke again, his voice was very quiet. “So you’re saying that I should win playing by the Empire’s rules.”
Tomer hesitated. “In this case, yes.”
“Never.”
“If you don’t, we lose Adumar to the Empire. And there go the proton torpedo supplies you were hoping for. And more of your pilots die, and the Empire gains new
ground. All because you’re too squeamish to do what common sense demands of you.”
Wedge took an involuntary step toward Tomer. The diplomat jolted backward. “Listen,” Wedge said, “and try to understand. This isn’t some civil trial where all positions, all propositions, are equally valid until the judge decides which one is right. If we act like the Empire, we become the Empire. And then, even if we defeat the Empire, we’ve still lost—because the Empire is once again in control. Just with a new name and with new faces printed on the crednotes.”
Tomer shook his head. “No. Chief of State Leia Organa Solo is in charge. It doesn’t matter what we do here. Her opinions, her ethics, still define what the New Republic is.”
“You’re deluded.”
“And you’re a naive fool, and you’re going to lose Adumar for us with your naivete.”
Wedge offered him a tight, unfriendly smile. “Would you like this diplomatic mission to use a different approach? Turr Phennir’s approach?”
“I hate to say it, but yes.”
“Then get a different diplomat.”
Tomer hesitated again. “Not feasible. You’re just going to have to fall in line.” He heaved a regretful sigh. “General Antilles, that constitutes an order.”
“You don’t give me orders, Darpen.”
“No, of course not.” Tomer shrugged, apology on his face. “These are orders from the regional director of Intelligence, and since Intelligence was actually the first division to institute activity in this system, all New Republic activities currently ongoing, including diplomatic, fall under its authority. The director has issued orders that you cease these simulated training missions.”
“Who is the regional director of Intelligence?”
Tomer shook his head. “I can’t tell you that. He or she likes to maintain anonymity.”
Wedge offered him a frosty smile. “Well, I can tell you who the local director isn’t.”
“Who’s that?”
“General Cracken. I received my initial orders from Cracken, and they didn’t say anything about being answerable to one of his subordinates. When I get a message from Cracken telling me to do what you’ve just said, I will, of course, comply. Until then—not a chance.”
“But—”
“And now it’s time for you to go.”
“No, we need to talk this through.”
“You can leave through the door or go flying over the rail, Tomer.”
Tomer read his eyes, then shook his head angrily and turned away.
Only when the door had slid in place behind Tomer did Wedge relax again. He took a long breath. “Hallis, are you recording? In any way?”
She shook her head. “General, I’m an ethical documentarian. One reason why I’m no longer in sludge.”
“Good.” Wedge wrestled a moment with the words he was about to say. “Are any of you wondering whether Adumar is worth bringing into the New Republic?”
Hobbie, his expression regretful, nodded. Janson followed suit. Tycho didn’t respond, and Hallis merely looked between them, her body completely still, only her eyes moving.
Janson said, “All that stuff about them being pilot-happy… it’s wrong. The only things they seem to want are honor and death. I would not want to fly with an Adumari pilot in my squadron.”
“I can’t entirely agree,” said Tycho. “We’ve already had luck in bringing some of them around. Our training exercises have been successes. If they hadn’t been, Tomer wouldn’t have blasted in here, spitting smoke and aiming lasers. And I think Cheriss, in the other room, is another good indicator. She’s as devoted to this whole death-and-honor thing as any Adumari I’ve met, but I don’t think it would take too much to turn her around to a more civilized way of thinking. I think a better question is this: What effect will it have on the New Republic if we bring Adumar in the way it is now?”
“There’s no telling,” Wedge said. “But it’s something I need to think about. I think I need a drink.”
“Oh, good,” Janson said.
“Alone.”
Inside, Cheriss had advice to offer—rather too much of it, until it became clear to her that Wedge really meant that he wanted some time alone. Then she settled down and merely asked, “Do you want a brewtap where you will be recognized and mobbed, one where you will be unrecognized, or one where you will be recognized but ignored? And do you want one with entertainments or shadowy corners?”
“Unrecognized,” he told her. “Shadows.”
“Garham’s-on-the-Downstream,” she said. “Hold on.”
She went to the closet off the main room, the one where enormous quantities of clothing had been delivered their first day in Cartann. Clothes remained there until selected by one of the pilots, at which time they would end up in that pilot’s armoire. But this closet was still mostly full, Tomer’s people keeping it well stocked from day to day. Cheriss reached in and brought something over to Wedge: a face mask, made to cover its wearer from upper lip to forehead, in a lavender material with the appearance of suede but the weight of foamed plastic.
Wedge looked at it. “Lavender. I have bad memories of lavender clothing. I don’t think it’s me,” he said.
“Precisely my point.”
“Ah. A good point, too.” He put it on, put up the hood of his cloak, and turned to his pilots. “Well?”
Janson affected surprise. “Who are you? What have you done with Wedge?”
Wedge sighed. “Always good to have a pal in the audience.”
Garham’s-on-the-Downstream was not quite what Wedge expected. It was no dive. Less than two city blocks from his quarters, it boasted expensive columns of stone, curtained booths, excellent service, and decent drinks—though most of them were variations on two types of drink, an ale (“brew”) and a liquor (“hard”) derived from Adumar’s most common grain, chartash.
It was, however, set up for privacy. It had an entrance off a darkened side street, the low-yield lighting cast shadows in every corner, and the booths all offered privacy. Unfortunately, the booths were all full at this hour, so Wedge took a chair at the bar, in the most shadowy corner.
He nursed a brew and watched the people of Cartann. He pondered their fates and his own.
It was a simple question, really. If Adumar were magically to pull a world government from its sleeve, and all Wedge had to do to entice that government to join the New Republic was fight a few pilots who were anxious to duel him to the death, could he refuse?
No, there was a second question. If Adumar joined the New Republic, who would be the better for it?
First things first. On the occasions he bothered to think about it, Wedge considered himself a soldier. He had joined a cause, the Rebel Alliance, that was aligned with his particular set of ethics and beliefs. He obeyed orders and risked his life in order to achieve a set of ends he believed in. He issued orders and risked the lives of others likewise.
But the pilots who wanted to come against him here were not enemies. They were potential allies… ones who wanted to kill him, or die at his hands, in order to profit from the so-called honor to be had from such a fate.
The others in the brewtap were men, mostly, though one in ten or so was a woman. Wedge assumed from the posture and conversation of these women that they were like the men here—pilots or minor nobles out for a night of drinks and anonymous trouble. The fact that none had sidled up to him with a glib offer told him that there were no professional companions here.
The people at the bar exchanged smiles and bitter comments, wove their hands around in the air to illustrate some piloting maneuver, argued at first quietly and then with increasing heat and volume about some common acquaintance or romantic rivalry. It was just the same as almost any bar Wedge had visited. With one difference: One of the arguers extended a fist, the knuckle of his middle finger protruding, and lightly rapped the chin of the other. The second man stiffened and nodded. The two of them tossed coins on the bar top and rapidly departed, their hands already o
n the hilts of their blastswords.
Wedge shook his head. There it was again, the dueling, the almost maniacal disregard for the value of life. Would it harm the New Republic to have such a vital culture—one so inexplicably devoted to the futile snuffing out of lives—join it?
If he was to be honest with himself, Wedge had to admit that it would probably do the New Republic no harm. Visitors from other worlds to Adumar would probably not get caught up in the dueling mania, while Adumari pilots joining the New Republic military were very likely to have their perspectives broadened by what they experienced out in the galaxy. Wedge could already see this happening with the pilots he flew simulated duels against.
So that answered the second question. Bringing Adumar into the New Republic would do no harm, and would offer the potential for increased proton torpedo production.
Which left the first question. If the way to bring Adumar in involved some of these duels—live-fire, not simulated—could Wedge do it?
Wedge wrestled with that one. He decided that other questions remained unanswered, questions critical to this whole mission: What were the conditions of victory? What exactly needed to be done to convince the perator of Cartann to side with the New Republic?
Tomer had hinted that it was a popularity contest. Wedge and Turr Phennir were struggling to achieve as much popularity with the people of Adumar as they could. Whenever the perator got around to making his decision, whichever pilot was most popular would give his side an edge—perhaps the decisive edge.
But agreeing to those terms, implicitly or explicitly, made all eight pilots, New Republic and Empire, toys of these death-loving Adumari. They had to keep killing—and, perhaps, dying—until the Adumari tired of the game and got around to their decision.
If Wedge could bring it down to a specific duel or event, for example a one-on-one with Turr Phennir, whose outcome unquestionably determined Adumar’s choice, then he’d participate. That would be a military action against a clear enemy, with a clear result. It was this preposterous notion of building public acclaim until someone arbitrarily decided that the contest was done that galled him.
Starfighters of Adumar Page 11
