Tycho frowned. “I’m not sad.”
“No, but you look sad. Makes the ladies of Cartann’s court want to comfort you. They’re so sad about wanting to comfort you that you could comfort them.”
Hobbie snorted. “And Tycho the only one of us with a successful relationship with a woman. Missed opportunities, Tycho.”
They paused before the door to give its security flatcams—primitive devices by New Republic standards,
but still capable of facial recognition—time to analyze their features. Janson continued, “Hobbie is ‘the dour one.’ Not too much romance in that, Hobbie. And Wedge is ‘the diligent one.’ That may not sound too romantic, Wedge, but ‘diligent’ has a couple of colloquial meanings here that add to your luster—”
“I don’t want to know,” Wedge said. The doors opened. “Say, look who’s here.”
Hallis sat on the monstrously overinflated chair situated in one corner, her legs up over one of the chair arms. She waved. Her recording unit, Whitecap, said, “Say, look who’s here” in inimitable 3PO unit tones.
Wedge led his pilots in. “What’s with Whitecap?” he asked.
“What’s with Whitecap?” Whitecap asked.
Hallis made a cross face. “Oh, something’s gone wrong in his hardware.”
“Oh, something’s gone …”
“I was recording some of General Phennir’s challenge matches out at the Cartann Bladedrome. When the pilots were leaving, the crowd got a bit unruly and I was knocked down. Since then, Whitecap repeats back everything anyone says within earshot. I can’t get him to stop.”
“… get him to stop.”
Janson grinned at her. “Some days make you just want to beat your heads against a wall, don’t they?”
Hobbie said, “Maybe not. The young lady might not have her heads on straight, after all.”
Tycho said, “Still, I think she ought to get her heads examined.”
Wedge looked at them, appalled.
“Pilots,” Hallis said. “How did I ever get this assignment? Who did I offend?”
“… did I offend?”
“Still,” she said, “you’d better be nice to me. I know
you don’t take me seriously, but you ought to.” Her expression was unusually earnest.
“… you ought to.”
Wedge sprawled on a sofalike piece of furniture large enough to accommodate three full-sized people comfortably. “Hallis, it would be easier if you didn’t look like something out of a tale to frighten children.”
“… to frighten children.”
“All right,” she said.
“All right.”
She pulled her goggles off and set them aside. Then she reached up to press a control on Whitecap’s clamp; with a hissing noise, it relaxed and the recording unit began tilting from her shoulder. She caught it as it pitched forward, then moved across the room to set it within a cabinet. She closed the cabinet door with an irritated thump; from inside, Whitecap did a credible job of imitating the noise. “Better?”
Wedge tried to make his tone neutral, nonjudgmental. “What is it, Hallis?”
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 Re/files/02/11/93/f021193/public/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?”