Starfighters of Adumar

by Aaron Allston

  “See here, Antilles—”

  “No, just listen, Rogriss. We’re in kind of the same position here. Play by the rules, do as we’re told, keep our careers—and lose everything. Or risk, and probably lose, everything—except our word. The thing is, our word is the one thing no one can take from us unless we leave it vulnerable. All I’m saying to you—if I’m right about what you’re being called on to do—is that you shouldn’t offer up your honor like that. You should refuse to break your word. And if your world suddenly becomes hostile to you because you choose to preserve your honor, you can come to us instead of going home and facing execution.”

  “You’re absurd.”

  “I’ve been told that before.”

  Rogriss turned away… but did not move. After a moment he turned back. “Speaking hypothetically, if what you said were true, and I did what you recommended, my children could never be made to understand what I’d done.”

  “Have you raised them to be like you? Analytical, intelligent, suspicious, mean?”

  Rogriss smiled again, this time showing teeth. “I’d express it a different way. But yes.”

  “Then they won’t believe what they’re told just because someone in authority told them. And you’ve got it backward. If my suspicions about your orders are correct, and you disobeyed them and went home, you’d be executed and might never even have last words to say to your children. If you come over, our Intelligence division can get messages to them, and I’ll guarantee they’ll do so… or I’ll arrange to do it personally. You’ll have your chance to make your reasons known to your daughter and son. Even a chance to offer them passage to the New Republic, if that’s something they want.”

  “Ah.” Rogriss shrugged. “You spin interesting fictions, Antilles.”

  Wedge held out a datacard to him. “On this is my emergency contact frequency. You should be able to reach me this way at any time. If you want to accept my offer. Even if you just want to gloat.”

  Rogriss took it. “I can’t pass up an opportunity to gloat.”

  “What Imperial admiral could?”

  “Good-bye, General.”

  “Good evening, Admiral.”

  Rogriss’s walk, as he left, was slower than before, but more sure. Was he weighed down by Wedge’s offer, or by being reminded of the dilemma before him? Or had he simply sobered up a bit? Wedge didn’t know.

  Before the pilots turned in for the evening, their datapads received a transmission from Tomer. The perator had called another gathering on the world government question for his palace the following evening.

  Wedge and Red Flight spent the next morning and afternoon at their usual pursuit, what they were now calling “flight school”—accepting challenges from Adumari pilots and demonstrating to them the New Republic way of doing things. There were fewer challenges today, giving them some long, peaceful stretches when they could just fly for the joy of it.

  Today, after the flying, there was no parade lining of well-wishers accompanying them on their way back to their quarters, just a few admirers crowded at the air base gates. There was no Cheriss to tell them how the Imperial flyers had done with their day’s challenges. The ride back to their building was quiet and uneventful.

  “No friends left,” Janson said, leaning against the rail. “We’ve managed to make everyone hate us.”

  Tycho offered him a half smile. “I thought that’s what you’d been trying to achieve your whole life.”

  “Good point.” Janson straightened. “What am I complaining about? No, wait, I know—they haven’t yet erected statues of us to throw rotten fruit at.”

  “Give us another day,” Hobbie said.

  They again wore their New Republic dress uniforms for the night’s event. This time, entering the Royal Outer Court ballroom, they had no problem spotting the Imperial pilots—they, too, were in dress uniforms, the spotless grays that spoke of decades of the Empire’s rule. Dull by the standards of Adumari dress, they still stood out in the crowd.

  “They followed our lead,” Janson said. His grin was infectious. “I bet they had to be ordered to. Stings a bit, doesn’t it, General Phennir?” He was more than a dozen meters from the Imperial officer, who could not have heard his words, but Phennir still glowered at him.

  Tomer joined them. “It’s going to be war,” he said, his tone regretful. “There’s no stopping it now.”

  “Do me a favor and kill power to this performance,” Wedge said. “Maybe you are a little sad that a war is resulting… but the rest of it is all according to your plan.”

  Tomer looked confused. “My plan? I think you’re more than a little mixed up, General.”

  “No. It’s pretty much cut and dried. Let’s go back in time a little bit. You’re assigned here as regional head of Intelligence with the task of bringing Adumar into the New Republic.”

  “I’m just a diplomat—”

  “Shut up. But they need a world government to make the task a simpler one and you get to work persuading the rulers of Adumar’s nations to consider such a change. All very well and good so far.”

  Tomer shook his head, a denial, but his attention was fully on Wedge.

  “Now, it gets sticky. They want to talk to famous pilots, so you send for me, intending to keep me around as entertainment for the Cartann court, since I have no diplomatic skills to speak of. As soon as I arrive, you discover that the Empire is also here, which drastically moves up the time frame you’re working in. The longer the Empire has to work on it, the more they can appeal to the Adumari love of blood sports and death in combat, so you have to act fast. That means creating a world government by the fastest means possible—by persuading the perator of Cartann to implement one through leverage and conquest, something that appeals to him anyway. We fly fighters for the public’s amusement while you arrange to sacrifice hundreds, maybe thousands, of innocents in a war that will accomplish your mission.”

  “You’re interpreting everything in the most negative possible way.”

  Wedge felt a surge of triumph; Tomer was no longer denying his role in the Intelligence side of these affairs. “And the thing is, you have to win. Bringing this off successfully is the only thing that will save you. You know that you can’t explain your whole revised plan to General Cracken; he’d never go for it. Which is why you could never come up with an order from Cracken for me to play along with you. You had to implement a communications blackout to keep word of any kind, other than your own reports, from reaching him. It’s success on Adumar or the end of your career, isn’t it, Tomer? Your career might not even survive if you’re successful. Chief of State Organa Solo, when she reviews these events, might just decide that you’re a war criminal, not a successful diplomat.”

  Tomer glared for a long moment. “You could have helped. Things would have been better.”

  “I might have been able to help… if you’d been straight with me from the start. If you hadn’t settled on Cartann running everything, through a war of conquest, as the only way to get your job done.”

  “You use the tools available to you—here’s the perator.”

  The ruler of Cartann emerged from his doorway, his retinue of guards and advisors around him like a set of living shields. Wedge saw Hallis, this time wearing subdued sea-green and her hair arrayed as it had been yesterday; she maneuvered to be as close as she could to the ruler, which was still outside the boundaries suggested by the placement of his outermost guards.

  The perator offered up his charismatic smile for the assembly. This time, there were to be no flatscreens broadcasting his words, though once again they were amplified so all would hear. “It is with deep sorrow that I must announce that certain elements have chosen not to enter into our plans for the future. In specific, the seditious forces ruling the nation of Halbegardia and the Yedagon Confederacy have decided to issue statements of defiance. Their actions are clearly intended to endanger our future relations with other worlds and could leave Adumar a weak, disorganized planet, ri
pe for conquest from outside. So for the sake of the security of all Adumari everywhere, I declare Halbegardia and Yedagon to be outside our protection… and the targets of efforts of pacification to begin very soon.”

  He paused, and applause broke out among his courtiers. This day, Wedge saw smaller clusters of foreign dignitaries in the hall. He suspected that the ones present yesterday but not today were either under arrest or en route back to their native lands.

  The perator raised hands against the applause and it died away. “Will the pilot-heroes of the Empire and the New Republic please approach?”

  Wedge put on his business face and led Tycho, Janson, and Hobbie forward. To his right, the Imperial pilots had formed up in similar military precision. The crowd parted before them, and the two groups of pilots came to a halt at almost exactly the same moment, three meters from the perator.

  The ruler beamed at them. “You eight pilots have brought considerable delight and knowledge to Adumar, but it has all been in circumstances somewhat different than those that brought you fame. I would now like to rectify that. Would you—and it would please us greatly if you would—lead units of the Cartann armed forces in action against our enemies, so that we might grasp the full measure of your skill and honor?”

  Turr Phennir was first to speak, his voice nearly as rich and warm as the perator’s. “It would be my tremendous honor to demonstrate what we have to offer the people of Cartann and Adumar.”

  The perator smiled upon him, then turned to Wedge. “And our representatives of the New Republic?”

  Wedge cleared his throat. This was not going to be good. “We must decline.”

  The ruler’s expression became one of sorrow, regret. “But why? Can it be that you care for us less than your Imperial counterparts?”

  Wedge considered his words for a split second. “No, I suspect we care more. But we must demonstrate it differently. In this case, with a refusal.”

  “I see.” The perator nodded, his expression suggesting that he would remain reasonable in the face of hurtful treachery. “Please withdraw.”

  Wedge and his pilots about-faced and made their retreat.

  They passed Tomer going the other way. “That was your last chance to do anything positive,” Tomer said. “Now it’s up to me to undo the damage you’ve done.” The diplomat hurried on to join the perator’s retinue.

  “So,” Janson said. “What’s it like to be an ex-diplomat?”

  Wedge grinned. “I’ve been better.”

  “Think they’ll escort us up to Allegiance, or just put us on the business end of a planetary defense laser cannon and blast us up there?”

  Tomer had made it to the perator’s side. His eyes, his hand gestures, all said that he was pleading with the ruler. The perator shook his head again and again, then stopped to listen. But when Tomer finally turned away and left the ruler’s retinue, his expression was downcast.

  “General Antilles!” the perator called. “No, do not step forward. I do not wish you to be any closer to me than you already are.”

  Wedge stood, waiting, ignoring the rebuke implicit in the ruler’s tone.

  “I declare you to be an enemy of the state of Cartann,” the perator said. “But I am told by Lord Tomer Darpen that it might cost Cartann friendships to have you executed as you deserve.”

  Hobbie murmured, “This has just gotten a lot worse.”

  “So I declare you and your pilots exiles. Remove yourself from Cartann, by gauntlet to Giltella Air Base, and never show yourselves before me again.”

  Wordlessly, Wedge turned away from the perator and headed toward the chamber’s exit. He felt blood draining from his head. The weight of his failure as a diplomat, anticipated for so long, was finally on him. The moment of failure did not feel good. In fact, he couldn’t remember feeling worse in recent times.

  Yes he could. It was worse when he became certain, for those brief moments, that he had lost Iella forever. He’d survived that and overcome it. He’d get through this.

  Tomer, walking quickly, reached his side. “You’re in trouble.”

  “I thought my troubles were over.”

  “No. You’ll probably be dead before you get to your Blades.”

  Wedge stopped. “Blades? We’re returning to our X-wings.”

  Tomer shook his head. “They’re being impounded.”

  “Impound—”

  “Even as we speak. They’ll be gone from your balcony before you can get back, hauled off like cargo. You need to be thinking about the gauntlet if you’re to survive.”

  Wedge took a look around. No members of the crowd stood nearer than half a dozen meters. Most regarded him with expressions of sympathy—or sudden revulsion. It matched what he was feeling at the thought of the Adumari touching his X-wings, at the realization that he needed answers from this man he wanted so desperately to punch. “All right. What does ‘gauntlet to the air base’ mean?”

  “It means you have to get to Giltella Air Base by whatever means you can manage. They’ll have four spaceworthy Blades ready for you. If you can get up to the Allegiance in them, past the Blades that are sure to be gunning for you up in the air, you get to live. But—” Tomer shrugged, helpless—“anyone can kill you, Wedge. It’s legal. From the door out of the perator’s palace to the Allegiance, you’re all fair game.”

  “Which means,” Hobbie said, “the longer we wait, the more forces they can organize to bring to bear against us.”

  Tomer nodded. “Yes. In theory, you could also use the time to communicate with your friends and array them against your enemies. But you have no friends on-planet to aid you.” He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. The perator was in such a towering rage. He would have had you killed outright if I hadn’t—”

  “We’ll discuss your contribution to this whole mess later,” Wedge said. He felt very cold inside, cold with anger at Tomer and the perator and Adumar in general, cold with the realization that the gauntlet he was about to face was likely to kill him long before he was able to employ his most useful skills.

  He turned back to the crowd and raised his voice. “Who’ll offer blastswords to four doomed men?”

  For long moments, no one moved.

  Then a dignitary from a nation that had fallen in line with Cartann came forward, a slender man in a gold tunic, and wordlessly offered his sword belt and sheathed blastsword to Wedge. A pilot Red Flight had flown against came to put another in Tycho’s hands. A woman, a minister by her age and dress, demanded the swords of her two guards and brought them forward to offer them to Hobbie and Janson. Wedge thanked each of them.

  He saw Iella approaching, a surreptitious route that kept her toward the back of the crowd; he caught her eye and gave her a little shake of the head. She understood and stopped where she was. Nothing she could give him here would do him much good… and she could blow her cover, doing herself considerable harm. Wedge merely hoped Tomer hadn’t caught their little exchange.

  At the doorway, they reclaimed their blaster pistols. Moments later, they stood arrayed at the exit from the perator’s palace, steps down to the courtyard and main gates beyond, while an expectant crowd gathered behind them… and another crowd, expectant for another reason, gathered out in the courtyard. Seeing the distinctive New Republic uniforms waiting within the doorway, the courtyard crowd shouted for the pilots to come out.

  “We have to get clear of pursuit and out of sight for a few minutes,” Wedge said. “But we’re not going to play their game.” He pulled out his comlink and activated it. “Gate, relay this message up to Allegiance.” He heard his astromech’s answering whistle, and continued, “General Antilles to Allegiance. Requesting emergency evacuation from planetary surface.”

  There was no answer.

  “Antilles to Allegiance, come in.”

  Nothing.

  Wedge turned worried eyes to the other pilots. “All right. So I was wrong. We’ve somehow been countered. We’re going to do it their way.” He checked the charge
on his blaster and the others followed suit with theirs. “Your orders,” he said.

  “Ready,” Tycho said.

  “Whatever they expect us to do, we don’t do. Four, what do they expect us to do?”

  Hobbie said, “Run out toward the gate and get shot.”

  “Correct. So we don’t.” Wedge scanned the courtyard. He saw gathered men and women, three dozen or more of them, waiting for them to emerge. He saw parked wheeled transports—and one repulsorlift transport against the wall, scores of meters to the left of the gate. He nodded in its direction. “That one’s our target,” he said. “Go.”

  They moved out and onto the stairs at a trot. As soon as men and women in the crowd raised blasters, Wedge and company opened fire and broke left, circling around the edge of the waiting crowd.

  Incoming fire looked like stormtrooper new-recruit target practice, filling the air, inaccurate, but promising eventual deadly hits through sheer volume.

  That wasn’t to be. Janson lagged behind and shot precisely, using his sights and the native skill with blasters that had been his since childhood.

  When the leading edge of shooters began collapsing, firer after firer taking Janson’s blaster shots in face and chest and gut, the line wavered. Some of the shooters dove for cover—the only cover being provided by the bodies of their fellows. Others redoubled their efforts, firing faster and with even less accuracy.

  Wedge, halfway across the courtyard, felt heat against the back of his neck and tensed himself against pain to follow—but there was no pain, just the sensation of superheated air from a near miss by a blaster bolt. He fired as he ran, his shots nowhere near as accurate as Janson’s, but just as intimidating; the line of shooters did not surge toward him.

  And then the repulsorlift transport was before him, hanging in the air. He hurtled over the rear, skidding forward toward the control mechanism, and leaned over the front to shoot the line tethering the craft to the wall. He felt the impact of Tycho landing in the bed behind him, more impacts of blaster shots hitting the vehicle’s side.