Her smile faded, replaced by an expression of confusion. “What’s a simulator?”
“A device that simulates what you see and feel when you’re in a fighter’s cockpit. It uses computers, holograms, and inertial compensators to mimic almost exactly the experience of flying, so you can get in a lot of training without risking valuable machinery or even more valuable pilots. You don’t have anything like that?”
“Well … in other countries, pilots sometimes duel with weakened lasers matched with laser receptors, and with missiles that have weakened charges that create a large pigment cloud, so they don’t have to kill one another.”
“In other countries … but in Cartann, all your pilot duels are live-fire?”
Cheriss nodded. “Yes. Oh, not all are fatal. A pilot might eject and the winner might decide not to shoot him on the way to the ground. That’s what happened today
with the Imperials. When that happens, both will live. Assuming the crowd on the ground doesn’t beat the loser to death for his defeat.”
“How do you keep from losing pilots at an astounding rate?”
She considered. “Well, that’s why the government instituted the Protocols. Pilots who wish to duel must demonstrate that both will benefit from a duel.”
“For example?”
“If a new pilot wants to duel an older, experienced pilot, that situation probably fails to meet the Protocols. You see, the new pilot would benefit if he won—he would have received training at the hands of a better, and would gain fame for having killed him. But the old pilot would not really benefit. He could mark one more kill on his board, but it would be of no consequence, so he would not benefit. Therefore his commander would not approve the duel.
“But if a new pilot had invented a new maneuver or fighting technique, the older pilot could benefit from facing it. If his commander was impressed enough with the younger pilot’s inventiveness, he might permit the duel.”
“You say other countries perform simulated-weapons duels. Is there a loss of honor in using them?”
“In Cartann, yes. There, I suppose not—they lose enough honor just for belonging to a lesser nation.”
“What would it mean if I agreed to a duel, but insisted on using simulated weapons?”
Her face went slack, the expression Wedge had come to recognize as meaning she was thinking hard. Finally she said, “I’m not sure. Either you would lose honor, or the use of simulated weapons would gain in honor.”
“If I did it again and again, and won every time?”
“I think, I
have
to think, that simulations would gain in honor.”
“Interesting. Perhaps, tomorrow, when we come out
here I’ll ask for Red Flight to be equipped with weakened lasers and paint missiles.”
Tomer had no news for them when they returned to their quarters late that afternoon. No appointment with the
perator
or his ministers to discuss the possibility of Adumar’s entry into the New Republic. No revised orders from Intelligence.
They accepted a dinner invitation Wedge had received at the previous night’s celebration, at the lavish home of Cartann’s Minister of Trade. Yet the politician, a lean man who hobbled on an artificial leg, the result of ejecting from a disintegrating Blade-28 and being hit by shrapnel from his own fighter, had no interest in discussing trade; he wanted to hear nothing but tales of Wedge’s exploits.
They dined at a long table on the minister’s broad balcony—in order, Wedge suspected, that the owners of the balconies all around might see them and be envious of the minister’s guests. Wedge and his pilots quickly learned to spell one another, each taking up the thread of a story in turn so that the others might eat. Cheriss kept quiet throughout, listening wide-eyed to tales of Endor and Borleias and Coruscant.
Afterward, they took the ascender—the slow-moving, rattling, open-sided Adumari version of the turbolift—down to the third floor aboveground. The building’s first three stories were mostly taken up with a massive lobby, a showcase to impress visitors, and the ascender did not go all the way to the ground; visitors had to descend those three stories by a sweeping staircase, and at the outside door they would reclaim their blasters.
Janson led the way down the stairs at a half trot. “I hope we get to your diplomatic duties soon, Wedge. I really look forward to them.”
Wedge grinned. “As opposed to night after night of dinners with star-struck functionaries?”
“You said it,” Janson said. “I really hate all the adulation.” Then, as he rounded the main curve in the staircase, six Adumari men, climbing the stairs, drew blastswords, the foremost two of them lunging at him.
Time seemed to dilate for Wedge. He saw Janson whip off his preposterous cloak and entangle the two blastswords; the weapons’ points fired off, pumping blaster energy into the garment, setting it afire in two places. The other four men charged around Janson and his two opponents, passing them on the wall side of the stairs.
Wedge leaped forward onto the curved banister—polished hardwood, it did not budge under his weight and offered little friction. He slid down it as if mounted sidesaddle on a riding beast. As he passed Janson, he brought his left leg up and unloaded a kick against one of Janson’s opponents, the maneuver almost pitching Wedge over the side to the floor two stories down. The blow caught the man full in the face, throwing him back and down the stairs, rolling almost as fast as Wedge slid.
Wedge regained his balance and dropped off the banister to land beside the man, who lay faceup sprawled across half a dozen carpeted steps. Wedge snatched up the man’s blastsword and turned back up the stairs.
The last of the men who’d been rushing past Janson had turned again to descend toward Wedge. Janson had his own enemy wrapped up in a wampa-hug and was bending the man back across the banister; the enemy’s face contorted in pain as his spine curved too far in a direction it was not meant to go. Janson’s blastsword was still in its sheath; his burning cloak lay on the step beside his foot, its flames licking higher.
Cheriss had her blastsword out; she nimbly deflected the blades of two of the oncoming men. That left one to
edge past her and go after Hobbie and Tycho, but as Wedge watched, the two moved in concert. Hobbie lunged toward the swordsman and jerked back just as suddenly, drawing an ineffectual lunge from the man’s blade, and Tycho took the opportunity to leap full on the man, slamming him down onto the steps. In a moment Tycho was straddling the man, raining punishing blows on his face, as Hobbie retrieved the blastsword.
Wedge backed away from the man descending after him. He cursed the unfamiliar weapon in his grip. Hand to hand, or blaster to blaster, he was confident that he could at least hold his own against an attacker, but not with a weapon as esoteric as the blastsword.
Then Wedge set the point of the blastsword to the carpet at the base of one of the steps. It unloaded its energy into the carpet, emitting a sharp “bang” and a small cloud of red-brown smoke. Wedge dragged the point all the way across the bottom of the stair, sustaining the sword’s blaster emission, sending up a curtain of smoke before him.
He could still see his opponent, and the man—tall, mustached, smiling in anticipation of victory—shook his head as if correcting the actions of a pupil. “You waste all your charge to put smoke between us?” he asked. “That will be your last mistake, Wedge Antilles.”
“Oh, I have plenty more to make.” Wedge grabbed at the flap of carpet he’d cut free and, with all his strength, yanked. The carpet resisted, the adhesive that made it conform to the shape of the stairs holding; then it gave way. The descending assassin’s feet went out from under him; he flailed wildly as he lost his balance, thumped down onto the stairs, and slid down toward Wedge.
Wedge stood his ground and brought the point of his blastsword up into contact with the armpit of his attacker’s sword arm. He heard and felt the impact of
blaster tip against skin, smelled the familiar odor of burning flesh. His opponent shrieked and dropped his sword.
Wedge glanced back up at the others. One of Cheriss’s foes was down, a mass of char where his throat should be, and as he watched she disarmed the other with an expert twirl of their locked blades. Hobbie stepped in and hit the man, a punch that seemed to start a kilometer or two behind him, taking the man in the gut and folding him over. Janson gave his own enemy a little shove and that man, already broken like a toy, toppled to crash down onto the tile floor below. Nor did Tycho’s opponent look anxious to continue the fight; his face was a mass of contusions, his eyes closed.
Janson began stomping on his cloak to put out the fire. Wedge heard a smattering of applause and whistling from the ground floor. He spared the floor a glance; men and women, bright in the lavender-and-gold livery of this building’s workers, were merely cheering their efforts.
“Cheriss,” Wedge said. “Who’s the leader?”
“You are, General Antilles.”
“I mean,
their
leader.”
She gestured with her sword point at the one Wedge had kicked in the face; he lay halfway between Wedge and Hobbie. He did not move, but his eyes were fluttering.
“Hobbie, get building security and see if you can get our blasters back. Wes, Tycho, pick up blastswords and poke the first one of them who offers trouble. Cheriss, help me with this one.” He moved up the stairs, somewhat tentative because the damage he’d done to the carpeting made walking tricky, and stood over the man he’d kicked.
Wedge moved his sword point back and forth over the man’s throat. “What was all this about?”
It took a moment for the man’s eyes to track on the blastsword tip. “What else?” the man said. “Honor. The chance to kill the famous general from the stars. Tomorrow I would kill the Imperial pilot.”
Cheriss gave him a less than respectful smile. “You couldn’t kill a feed-reptile if it spotted you two legs and an eye. He’s lying, General. He’s a paid assassin.”
The man scowled at her and shook his head, a mute protest of innocence.
“Cheriss, how do you know that?”
She gestured at the man, her expression one of contempt. “First, look at his clothes.”
The man, like most of the attackers, was dressed in what Wedge was beginning to recognize as barely acceptable clothing for a building as prosperous as this. His clothes were stylishly black, but on closer examination, the tunic was threadbare in places, the leather of his boots shined but much worn. The blastsword lying beside him had a guard that was much scarred, seldom polished.
“So?” Wedge asked.
“Second,” she said, “this.” She hauled back and kicked the man hard in the side.
He arched his back and groaned. He opened his mouth, doubtless to offer a curse or threat, and then remember Wedge’s sword point hovering centimeters above his face. He remained silent.
Wedge frowned at the girl. “We don’t torture for information, Cheriss. That’s not our way.”
She turned innocent eyes to him. “Torture? Never. This time, General,
listen
.” She hauled back and kicked the man again, possibly harder than before.
Over the man’s groan, Wedge distinctly heard a clinking noise from beneath the man’s tunic.
Cautious, Wedge pulled the tail of the tunic up through the man’s belt. Beneath, attached to a second, slimmer belt, was a transparent pouch filled with shining golden disks.
“Adumari credcoins?” Wedge asked.
“Perats,” Cheriss said. “Do you see Pekaelic’s face on the obverse? I see at least twenty of them. Not a fortune, but definitely an improvement in his estate.”
Wedge nodded to Tycho, who searched the others. He found pouches of coins, most of them about half as full as this man’s, on each.
“You’re saying that someone with this kind of spending money should have better garments,” Wedge said.
Cheriss nodded.
Wedge returned his attention to his prisoner. “Who paid you?”
“This money is from the last man I killed,” the man said.
“Then you’ve killed a minister or a wealthy merchant,” Cheriss said. “And his family will be wealthy enough to prosecute you all the way to the grave. I’ll tell the Cartann Guard what you’ve just admitted to. Whoever the last important man to be killed was, you’ll take the blame for it.”
The man opened his mouth as if to offer a denial, then shut it stubbornly.
Cheriss caught Wedge’s eye and gave him a tight shake of her head. Her meaning was clear; the man wouldn’t talk.
Hobbie came bounding up the stairs, leading a handful of men and women in the eye-hurting livery of the building. All wore sheathed blastswords but carried some sort of sidearms in their hands. “It’s a no on our blasters,” Hobbie said. “Until we leave the building.”
“Rules,” said the foremost of the liveried men, “are rules, I fear. But you will suffer no more inconveniences while in our building. Are we here to be witnesses to your kill, or do you wish them given over to the Cartann Guard?”
Wedge frowned at the man, who appeared to be about twenty, very fair, very exuberant. “Do you mean it’s legal for me to just kill them?”
“Of course. You beat them fairly. Unconventionally, but fairly. And until you kill them, release them, or hand them over, the duel is not done.”
“It wasn’t a duel. It was an assassination attempt.” Wedge finally remembered to turn the power off on his blastsword. “I turn them over to you for the Cartann Guard. These men were paid to kill us; perhaps the Guard will want to find out by whom.”
“Of course,” the young man said. “We will hold them if you wish to depart.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Do you wish to take trophies?”
Wedge glanced at Cheriss. She said, “What’s theirs is yours; you have won. What they carry, I mean. You cannot claim what is in their homes, at their moneykeepers’.”
“I see.” Wedge glanced among his pilots. “Red Flight, arm yourselves. Blastswords and sheaths. If we’re going to have this happen again, I don’t want us to have to rely only on fists and vibroblades.”
Cheriss smiled at him. “You did very well with fists and vibroblades. You are brawlers. I like that. Cartann swordsmen are too effete.”