Starfighters of Adumar

by Aaron Allston

  The third Interceptor, Wedge’s target, detonated in a brilliant flash. He saw Tycho fly through the debris cloud. “Two, you all right?”

  “Unhurt.”

  “I’m not.” That was Hobbie’s voice. “Took a couple of shots from the head-to-head. Power down to fifty-eight percent. Starboard lasers gone.”

  On the sensor board, the two Interceptors had joined up and were looping around to come in behind the X-wings.

  “Four, full speed ahead, whatever you can manage,” Wedge said. “Three, stay with him. Two, you and I play crippled.” He reduced speed and began slewing back and forth in a manner that suggested damaged air surfaces and malfunctioning controls. “Gate, can you give me some smoke, sparks, anything to suggest I’m hit?”

  I WILL APPLY A LASER TORCH TO THE SURFACE OF THE REAR HULL. THE PAINT WILL IGNITE AND CAUSE SMOKE. THE DAMAGE WILL BE COSMETIC ONLY.

  “Do it.” This was a gamble, drawing the Interceptors to him and Tycho, but if the enemy pursued Hobbie instead, they were more than likely to shoot down the damaged X-wing.

  The enemy took the bait. The two Interceptors stayed together and arced to follow Wedge and Tycho.

  Wedge switched to proton torpedoes and reduced forward speed, hard, a gambit normally used to force a novice or inattentive pursuer to overshoot. It didn’t; the TIE pilot on his tail was too experienced, and fired off a laser salvo that hammered at the tail of Wedge’s X-wing.

  But Tycho shot on ahead, his pursuer staying tight behind him, and that pursuer crossed, in a smooth and predictable arc, into Wedge’s brackets. The brackets flickered to red and he fired.

  The Interceptor in his sights became a sky full of smoke and debris. Wedge headed straight into the destruction cloud. As soon as it surrounded him, he banked down and to port, hoping the Interceptor would lose him for a critical second or two.

  It did; Wedge saw it shoot through the cloud, waver for a second, and then loop around in pursuit of him.

  Then, as Tycho, at the end of his own loop, appeared in Wedge’s forward viewport, the TIE pilot stood the Interceptor on its tail and rose skyward at a rate no vehicle on Adumari could match.

  Wedge rose in its wake and fired after it, one laser barrage… but his targeting computer couldn’t get a lock on the fast-moving, extraordinarily maneuverable Interceptor. “Phennir?” he asked.

  There was no reply from the Interceptor, but Tycho said, “I think so. And I’ll give you odds that he’s about to tell his commanding officer that things aren’t going so well down here, and it’s time to bring in the rest of the Imperial fleet.”

  “If he is, you’d better pray that I’ve accomplished one thing with diplomacy while I’ve been here.” He turned back toward the heart of the engagement zone. “Form up on me. We’re going to give the pilots of Cartann what they’ve been asking for for so long.”

  The loss of the Interceptors did have an effect on the forces of Cartann. They flew against the united Adumari forces with increasing desperation and diminishing confidence. As their flying became more conservative, the Adumari forces’ focus began to take a greater and greater toll on them.

  And then there were the X-wings, roaring among the Blades at speeds none of them could match, dancing in and out of engagements almost effortlessly, sending enemy pilot after pilot down in flames, doing exactly what the Interceptors had been doing to Cartann’s enemies moments before. Even Hobbie’s crippled snubfighter could match a Blade’s speed, and was superior to it in defenses, maneuverability, and firepower; Janson and Hobbie acted asa two-fighter screen for the surviving Meteor as the giant wing-shaped craft picked off Cartann’s fliers with its long-distance lasers.

  Wedge set his course for a half squadron of Blades now forming up at high altitude; doubtless they meant to dive into a strafing run on fighters at lower altitudes. But as soon as he had his nose pointed up toward them, one of his targets spoke up: “Hold your fire. Skull-Biters surrender.”

  Wedge rose toward them, his finger still on the trigger. “Say that again.”

  “Skull-Biters Flightknife surrenders to Red Flight. Our weapons are powered down.”

  Another voice cut in: “Lords of Dismay Flightknife, two reporting, surrenders to General Wedge Antilles.”

  Wedge switched hastily to command frequency. “Eye Three, what’s going on?”

  “Not sure, Red Leader. A lot of traffic from the perator’s palace. Now surrendering—wait.” She was off the comm waves a few seconds. In that time, Wedge and Tycho surpassed the waiting Blades’ altitude and looped over lazily for a return descent. Then Iella was back. “Surrenders confirmed. The palace is commanding air forces to surrender. And they’re surrendering to you. Less honor lost than giving up to the ‘lesser nations.’”

  “Understood.”

  “Holdout requests your immediate presence at the perator’s palace.”

  Wedge growled to himself and switched back to the general frequency. “This is Antilles. I accept the surrender of Skull-Biters and Lords of Dismay. Red Three and Red Four now authorized to accept surrenders in my name, during my absence.” He switched back to squadron frequency. “Come on, Tycho. We have a royal appointment.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  No laser installations fired on them as they crossed the city again. Small-arms fire from balconies all around struck the X-wings as they descended toward the perator’s palace outer yard, but that stopped as soon as the snubfighters were below the level of the walls.

  In the outer courtyard, laser battery crews stood beside their pop-up emplacements with their hands up and behind their heads. Soldiers stood in similar positions. There were Blades, many of them damaged, on the grounds; their pilots stood by in attitudes of surrender. Wedge saw two men he thought were members of the elite Halbegardian invasion force keeping at least two hundred men and women under cover with nothing but their blaster rifles. And those two Halbegardians took the time to salute him as he slid out of his cockpit and dropped to the courtyard surface. A woman in the same uniform beckoned them from the steps up into the palace.

  The Outer Court of the palace was not the place of festivities, or even gentility, it had been during previous visits. The air was thick with the smell of burned flesh, and the bodies of liveried guards still lay where they’d fallen. Courtiers were packed against one wall, held at bay by the blasters of invaders—members of the Holdout team and Halbegardian elites.

  The perator, stripped of his retinue, stood with captors around him. Wedge saw, with relief, Cheriss among them. The flatscreens on the walls were bared and active; one showed Escalion, the perator of the Yedagon Confederacy, surrounded by advisors in the planning room at Yedagon City, while the other was broken into numerous smaller squares, some of which were blank and some of which showed scenes similar to the broadcast from Yedagon; the only difference was in the furnishings and the people staring out from the screen.

  As he approached with Tycho, Wedge heard running feet approaching from behind. He turned to look, alert against some new attack, but it was Hallis who rounded the doorway and ran into the room; she skidded awkwardly to a halt, looked around, and then moved off to stand before a column from which she could record with the ordinary holocam she held in her hands.

  “So you’ve brought the alien general,” the perator said. There was mockery to his tone. “Why bother? It doesn’t take a famous pilot to pull the trigger on me. Any of you could do it as well.”

  “That’s not what we want to do.” That was Tomer Darpen, standing among the captors present. “We’d really prefer—”

  “I wasn’t aware,” Wedge said, “that you held a post with the united Adumari forces involved in this operation.”

  Tomer blinked. “Well, that’s not relevant. We have to—”

  “Be quiet, Tomer. Or I’ll authorize Colonel Celchu to shoot you.” Wedge approached Cheriss. “What’s the situation?”

  Her expression was an interesting study, a mix of exultation and guilt. “We hold the planning c
hambers and have compelled his senior officers to surrender—and to signal surrender to the flightknives.”

  “That’s done.”

  “But the perator won’t surrender.”

  The perator, clad in spotless white as if to suggest he had never taken an action to mar his reputation, moved forward, ignoring the blasters aimed at him, until he stood before Wedge. “Not honorable,” he explained. His voice was weary but calm. “Surrender requires cooperation. I would rather die than cooperate.”

  “So we kill him,” said one of the Halbegardian elites, but others turned to look at the flatscreens showing multiple images. It was evident to Wedge, from the way those shown in the flatscreens were intensely watching, that the images of the events taking place in this chamber were being broadcast to them.

  One of the figures in one of the smaller flatscreen squares, a gray-haired woman with broad shoulders and an authoritarian bearing, spoke; her voice emerged from the flatscreen speakers. “No. Pekaelic can only be condemned by a council of his peers, and that is not the problem before us now.”

  Wedge leaned over to whisper in Cheriss’s ear. “What happens if Pekaelic dies?”

  “He has not named a successor. The council of nobles of Cartann would choose his successor. Some of the nations held in Cartann’s grip would probably take the opportunity to break away. There would be much confusion…”

  “I see.” Wedge raised his voice. “Perator, let’s speak simply. No diplomatic nonsense. If you persist in this posture and get yourself killed, your enemies will celebrate, but Cartann and its holdings become disorganized for a while. Long enough for the Empire to see that you’re not going to be joining them willingly. Long enough for the Empire to send a fleet large enough to blow the Allegiance out of space and then pound your whole planet flat. In a week, you’ll all be slaves, or worse. And where’s the honor in that?”

  “There is none,” the perator said. “But I will still not surrender. I have never surrendered. It is not within me.”

  Wedge sighed, exasperated. Then a new thought occurred to him. “Could you retire?”

  “What?”

  “Retire. Without shame. Not surrender, not bow to your enemies. Just… quit.”

  “Abdicate.” The perator considered. “I could honorably grant the throne to one of my sons. But my sons are pilots.” His expression turned bleak. “After today, I don’t even know if they are still alive.”

  “I suggest you find out.” Wedge took a step back to give the perator space.

  A minister was allowed to join the perator, then to go, with Halbegardian guards, to one of the palace’s comm centers.

  “Royal heirs are always in danger,” Cheriss told Wedge. “At least in Cartann. They are usually raised away from their true parents, under assumed names, to keep them safe.”

  Wedge grimaced. “So they can’t even be children to their living parents. Cheriss—”

  “Don’t say it. I can see that it is bad.”

  He pulled out his comlink and activated it. “Red Leader to Eye Three. Update, please.” He turned the volume down and held it between his ear and his cupped hand.

  “Except for a couple of minor skirmishes, the air battle is done,” Iella said. “Cartann Blades are landing in fields all over the place under the lasers of the united force. But, more important, the Cutting Lens-class sensor ships showed one of the Star Destroyers, presumably Agonizer, leaving orbit. It left behind a small vehicle, which I’m tentatively identifying from a visual scan as a Standard Imperial shuttle. It’s descending toward Cartann City.”

  Wedge felt a surge of triumph. “Have a couple of Blades escort it in, all the way to the palace. I’m pretty sure it’s a friendly.”

  “Will confirm and do so.”

  “Thanks. Red Leader out.”

  Minutes later, the minister returned and hurried to the perator’s side. The words he whispered to his ruler were good ones; the perator sagged for a moment, in what was obviously relief, then straightened. He beckoned Wedge to him, ignoring all others in the chamber.

  “My sons survive,” he said. “My oldest is being brought here now.”

  “Congratulations,” Wedge said.

  The perator gave him a close look. “Well done. I couldn’t even detect the mockery.”

  “I didn’t offer you any, perator. I think you should be punished for what you’ve done… but I’d never wish on anyone a punishment as severe as the loss of his children.”

  “Ah.” Though he did not step back, the perator retreated, his thoughts and concerns suddenly light-years away.

  Minutes later, a quartet of Halbegardian elites marched into the chamber, a pilot in Cartann black between them. The pilot was a young man with an earnest expression and thick black hair.

  With a start, Wedge realized that he knew the young man. He was Balass ke Rassa, a pilot who’d flown against Wedge in simulated combat.

  Balass did not acknowledge Wedge or any of the others near the perator; he marched up to his father and halted military style before him.

  The perator looked upon him, searching his features. Wedge wondered how long it had been since he’d seen his son—months? Years?

  “You know why I’ve had you brought here,” the perator said.

  Balass nodded.

  “Will you accept?”

  “If honor allows.” Balass turned to one of his guards. “But I cannot in my present state. My pistol.” He held out his hand and snapped his fingers, imperious.

  The guard looked around, confused, then his gaze fell on Wedge.

  Wedge nodded.

  The guard pulled a small Adumari blaster pistol from beneath his coat and handed it to Balass. But the prince was not done; after he holstered the weapon, he said, “Blastsword.”

  Wedge nodded again. But when the guard reached for the weapon at his side, Balass said, “And not one of your Halbegardian toys. A proper Cartann blastsword.”

  Cheriss unbuckled the belt from her waist and put it around the prince. It barely fit, on the last notch, but he did not object. Cheriss stood back and away from him, her face solemn.

  Balass turned again to his father. “Now I will accept.”

  The perator nodded. “I, Pekaelic ke Teldan, renounce my claim to the throne of Cartann and all titles pertaining thereto, in favor of my eldest son, Balass ke Teldan, known these last two-and-twenty years as Balass ke Rassa.”

  His son waited a beat, then said, “I, Balass ke Teldan, accept these rights and duties, and, though the circumstances be rushed and ceremony entirely absent, proclaim myself perator of Cartann.”

  There was no applause; there were no cheers to mark the sudden transfer of power from one set of shoulders to another.

  Escalion, from the flatscreen, said, “I congratulate you on your poise, Perator Balass. Now, can you do what your father could not? Can you end this conflict by honorable surrender?”

  Balass turned to the screen and shook his head. “No,” he said. “We remain at war.”

  Wedge heard startled exclamations from the people in the hall and from both flatscreens. The Halbegardian guards in the chamber trained their weapons on the new ruler. Balass seemed unaffected by all this; he just stared into Escalion’s flatscreen, or rather to the point at the top of the screen where its flatcam was installed, and kept a slight smile, possibly a mocking one, on his face.

  “You understand,” Escalion said, “you doom your nation to further punishment if you persist in this arrogance.”

  “I was about to say the same thing to you,” Balass said. “Only substituting ‘our world’ for ‘your nation.’ Now be quiet a bit while I talk. I’ll try to make you understand.”

  Balass paced, talking as he did so, turning from time to time so that he divided his attention between the dignitaries on the two flatscreens and those standing before him. “You lot seem to have concentrated so hard on the tactical situation before you that you have forgotten the strategic. Whether I surrender or not, the Empire knows Aduma
r will not be allying itself with them willingly. Indeed, I’m told that their giant ship has already left orbit… not a good sign for us.

  “If I surrender, the New Republic cannot bring in ships to aid us in the conflict yet to come. Well, they can eventually. But they can bring in no more ships except under flags of truce with us or flags of war against us. And we cannot offer flags of truce as a united world until all ramifications of Cartann’s surrender are explored. Which of Cartann’s protectorates will splinter away and declare independence? Which will cling to Cartann and transfer loyalty to the united Adumari force you represent? These questions will take time to resolve.”

  Men and women, a few of them, were now nodding on the flatscreen that was broken into multiple images.

  Balass continued, “But if I do not surrender—if you, the united Adumari coalition, accept at this moment my offer of truce without repercussion for our recent battles—then Cartann can join your union as an equal partner. Now, instantly, with terms to follow when we have time for negotiations. I can cast the votes of Cartann’s protectorates, then free those nations when we have the luxury of time. Lords and ladies, if you abandon your grudge against Cartann, if you consider the old Cartann to have departed with my father’s abdication and a new one to stand before you, we can forge a world union, in tentative form at least, in minutes. Or you can have your revenge and watch our world fall.

  “Now, it is time for you to decide.” He turned to face the many-faceted flatscreen, his hands on his hips, his expression imperious.

  Wedge suppressed a whistle. If Balass pulled this off, he’d save his nation any number of troubles—years or decades of reparation payments, the perceived dishonor of wartime surrender, and much more. Wedge had seldom seen a leader take such a hurdle within seconds of accepting his position.

  The figures on the flatscreens began talking with one another, their voices not broadcast over the speakers. One by one, the images of distant courtrooms and planning chambers winked down to neutral gray.