Star Wars - X-Wing - Starfighters of Adumar

by Aaron Allston

He spun around. The other diner turned to face him, surprise evident on

  his features as well.

  Despite the man's garmentshe was dressed in Car-tann splendor, much as

  Wedge wasWedge 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. "Cher-iss, 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 yo u, 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 missionenough 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 tosocialize, 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

  escapeesto 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 Wedgenot 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 bornthe 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."

  The minister nodded, his smile fixed, and turned away, immediately

  speaking to his own entourage, something about the courtesy and attentiveness

  of New Republic pilots. Once he was a couple of meters away and still moving,

  Wedge gestured for his pilots.

  They stepped in. So did Cheriss and Tomer.

  Wedge looked at the two of them. "Shoo," he said.

  "I thought perhaps you needed some advice," Tomer said.

  "I am here if you need interpretation of some word or action you do not

  yet understand," Cheriss said.

  "Tell you what," Wedge said. "From now on, when I gesture with two hands

  for people to move in, it means everybody. When I gesture with one hand, it

  means just the pilots. Will that work?"

  They nodded.

  Wedge gestured with one hand. Reluctance evident on their faces, the two

  of them backed off and hovered a few meters away at the edges of the crowd.

  "What's up?"Tycho asked.

  "I'm going to allow Cheriss to put on whatever show it was she was

  talking about. I'm going to pay a lot of attention to it."

  Tycho offered a confused frown. "Why?"

  "Because the hangers-on seem mostly to be concentrating on me right now.

  If I do this, it'll give you some freedom to act." Wedge turned to Janson.

  "Wes, at exactly ninety degrees to your right, about twelve meters, there's a

  table with a woman at it."

  "Oh, good."

  "I want you to wait until the crowd is on me and Cheriss's demonstration.

  Then break free and approach her. Tycho, Hobbie, make sure his actions aren't

  being noticed. If they are, give him a double-click on the comlink to warn him

  off."

  Janson smiled. "Thanks, Wedge, for looking after me. You know, you're one

  of the most considerate commanders, not like Tycho here"

  "Wes, she's Iella Wessiri." Janson's eyes widened. "What?" Iella Wessiri

  was a New Republic Intelligence agent, a former partner and long-time friend

  of Rogue Squadron member Corran Horn. She had been very helpful to the Rogues

  during the taking of the world Coruscant from the Empire. Her husband Diric,

  an unwilling traitor brainwashed by Imperial Intelligence head Ysanne Isard,

  had died during those events. Corran and Wedge had both helped her through the

  trying times to follow, and Wedge had eventually grown interested in her

  himself, until things had conspired to separate them for good. His career.

  Hers. Ultimately, his relationship with Qwi Xux. After that began, he'd almost

  never run into Iella.

  "If it's really her," Wedge continued, "she's probably here on an

  Intelligence assignment. Don't do anything to blow her coverjust be your

  usual obnoxious self and let her shoot you down."

  "I resent the implication that she would. That any woman would."

  "But suggest to her that your commander finds her interesting and would

  like to see her at some time. I'd like to know what she's up to. Whether she's

  here to support us. Whether we can help her. That sort of thing."

  Janson nodded. "Understood. And if it's not actually Iella?"

  "You're on your own."

  Janson's grin returned.

  Wedge spoke to Cheriss, and she spoke to some sort of functionary, and

  moments later that man drew a blast-sword. He thumbed it on and waved it in a

  circle over his head. Wherever the tip moved through the air, it traced a

  glowing yellow line, so his motion created a shining circle above him. As soon

  as he ceased his motion, it began to fade.

  This attracted the attention of the crowd and conversation quelled. "We

  have a non-title ground challenge," he said. "Lord Pilot Depird ke Fanax

  challenges Cartann Ground Champion Cheriss ke Hanadi, vengeance for her defeat

  of Jeapird ke Fanax at the last championship."

  There was applause from the crowd, which withdrew from the speaker,

  forming an open circle in the middle of the chamber.

  Wedge turned to Tomer. "Wait, wait. I thought she was going to put on

  some sort of show or demonstration."

  Tomer's expression was serious. "She is. To entertain you, she offered to

  accept a combat challenge. As the ground champion, she receives a lot of them.

  And you told her to go ahead."

  "I didn't know that's what she meant. I'm putting a stop to this." Wedge

  took a step forward, but Tomer's hand fell on his shoulder and restrained him.

  "Don't," Tomer said. His voice was a plea. "It's too late. The challenge

  was accepted. You're out of the loop. All you can do now is embarrass Cheriss

  and look like an idiotyou'll be demonstrating weakness."

  Wedge glared, then fell back. "You could have told me."

  "You spoke with such confidence. I thought you understood."

  Cheriss took off her belt, handing it to the man who'd made the

  announcement, and drew her blastsword and knife. She held the latter in a

  reverse grip the blade laid back along her forearm, and took an experimental

  thrust or two with the blastsword. It was not powered up and left no glowing

  lines behind. Her smile was no longer cheerful; hers was the del ight of a

  predator that had run its prey to ground.

  Into the circle stepped a young man. He was perhaps a year or two older

  than Cheriss, lean and graceful, his clothing all in blacks and yellows, his

  mustache stylishly trim. He whipped his hip cloak from his shoulders and threw

  it into the crowd, then reached to the belt held by someone at the edge of the

  crowd and drew a blastsword and knife. He held his knife in a more

  conventional grip than Cheriss did. "I am here to correct the results of an

  accident," he said, his voice light and unconcerned, "and to demonstrate what

  we all knowthat wherever a ground-pounder can merely achieve, a flier can

  excel."

  There was applause at his words. He thumbed on the power of the

  blastsword and twirled it before him, leaving a figure-eight pattern that

  glowed redly in the air.

  Wedge saw Hallis trying to move through the crowd to get to the leading

  edge. Farther around the rim of the crowd, he saw the perator standing, his

  retinue giving him a little pocket of space.

  "To the perator" the announcer said. Both Cheriss and the challenger,

  Depird, bowed to the perator and flourished their blades in an identica
l

  pattern, a circle bisected by a cross; Cheriss's blade was now powered up and

  the symbol of her flourish glowed blue for a moment before fading.

  "Honor or death," the announcer said, and took a step back, putting him

  at the edge of the open space.

  Depird wasted no time. He moved forward, not a rush but a fast stalk,

  until he was almost within range of a thrust from Cheriss's long blade, and

  raised his blastsword to a high guard, well above his head, its point

  unerringly aimed at Cheriss's head; as he advanced, Cheriss took a pose with

  her knife hand forward, her blastsword hand back, her predatory smile still in

  place.

  Depird took a step in and thrust with his dagger, inviting a counterblow

  from Cheriss's blastsword, but she swept the attack away, striking the back of

  his hand with her own dagger hand. Depird followed through with a thrust of

  the blastsword, which she took on the curved guard of her sword. When his

  point hit her guard, there was a crack like a blaster rifle firing, and smoke

  rose from a darkened patch on her guard.

  With a flick of arm and wrist, Cheriss disengaged her blastsword from

  Depird's, then swung her guard up in a punch that caught Depird full in the

  jaw. He staggered back, his expression outraged, and Wedge could see that a

  patch on his jaw was blistereddoubtless from the heat the guard had absorbed

  from his attack.

  The crowd reacted, some members applauding, some murmuring in a

  disapproving tone. Tomer said, "Cheriss is considered a gutter-fighter, vulgar

  by the standards of the blastsword art. With this court, the fact that she

  wins most of the time is her primary saving grace."

  Depird shook his head as though to clear it, then began to circle

  Cheriss. She waited for only a quarter circuit before attacking, a step

  forward followed by a thrust from her blastswordand then it was on in full,

  Depird catching her assault on his blade and attempting a riposte, Cheriss

  blocking that move with the guard on her dagger and returning a full-extension

  thrust that caused Depird to leap back nearly into the leading edge of the

  crowd. Every motion of the swords was accompanied by an arc of light from

  their tips; every impact of a sword tip hitting a weapon guard or blade was

  accompanied by the sharp crack of energy emission.

  "It's a very pretty sort of competition," Tomer said.

  Wedge didn't bother to glare; Tomer's attention was fully on the fight.