Tycho, Janson, and Hobbie joined him in moments, and Wedge spotted another individual headed their way from the direction of the stage. This man was about Wedge’s height, with intelligent eyes and features framed by dark hair and a close-cut black beard. He was dressed in New Republic clothing cut similar to a military uniform but without rank or unit designations. He held out a hand to Wedge. “Sir. Delighted to meet you. I’m—”
“Ejector Darpen!” That was Janson, his voice and
expression betraying surprise—and the good cheer that meant he now had some new trouble to cause.
The newcomer glanced at Janson and shook his head regretfully. “I should have known. Wes Janson. Now my life can take on the aspect of a personal hell.” He returned his attention to Wedge. “Tomer Darpen. New Republic Diplomatic Corps. I’m your liaison to the people of Adumar.”
“Good to have one,” Wedge said. “This is Colonel Tycho Celchu, Major Hobbie Klivian. Janson you’ve obviously experienced already. Mind telling us what that assault during our arrival was all about? I assume an assassination attempt.”
Tomer winced. “Not precisely. They were probably young, undisciplined pilots trying to achieve some personal honor by killing you in a fair dogfight. I doubt it was anything personal.”
“You do.” Wedge gave him a dark look. “I take it very personally. We just had to vape four pilots in what is theoretically a friendly zone. Is this likely to happen again?”
Tomer shrugged. “Probably not. We’ll adjust security measures to reduce the likelihood.”
Wedge hesitated, not satisfied by Tomer’s explanations; there was obviously a lot more he wasn’t saying. “All right, for now. What’s expected of us here?”
“Not much.” Tomer gestured at the crowd. “A short speech for the assembly. Speaking of which …” He pulled a round silver object, three centimeters across, from a pocket. It had a clip on the back. By use of the clip, without prelude or request for permission, Tomer fixed it to Wedge’s collar. “This is an Adumari comlink. This one is keyed to the speakers on the poles where the flatcams are.”
Wedge raised an eyebrow. “Flatcams? They don’t record in holo?”
“No, but we have some holocams up there, too, for our own records and to keep our documentarian from going mad. Anyway, please don’t do anything too elaborate with the speech until you’re used to the Adumari dialect of Basic; pronunciation is a bit tricky, and the crowd may not understand you. After the speech, we settle you into quarters, give you some orientation, and you can dress for the ball. That’s where all the politicking and introducing really take place.”
Wedge fingered the Adumari comlink. He didn’t care for the familiar way Tomer had placed it on him, but he decided not to pursue the matter at this time. “We don’t meet the planetary president or representative here?”
Tomer shook his head. “No, the, ah,
perator
of Cartann offers you considerable honor by not showing up here.”
Wedge said,
“Perator
is what—planetary president?”
“Well, here it’s an inherited rather than elected title,” Tomer said. “But he has the support of the people through demonstrations of his piloting leadership during his youth. And his absence here means, basically, that he doesn’t steal any of the attention the crowd would otherwise pay you.” He gestured toward the edge of the landing area, where steps led up to the stage. “After you. After all of you, actually. Mere civilians, even former pilots, don’t presume to walk beside active pilots unless invited.”
Janson smiled. “I like this place. I’m going to go shopping for land and build myself a retreat.” He fell in step behind Wedge. “Hey, boss, do you have a speech ready?”
“No.”
“So you’re going to sound like a complete idiot, right?”
Wedge turned to offer him a smile that was more malice than cheerfulness. “Once, maybe. But since I
made general and have to do this all the time, I’ve developed the Antilles Four-Step Instant Speech.”
Janson gave him a dubious look. “This I have to hear.”
Once on the stage, Wedge headed to its center and raised his hand with a theatricality that wasn’t really part of his nature—just a by-product of the numerous public-relations tours he’d taken after the death of Emperor Palpatine. The crowd roar increased, but he waved it down and the noise dropped again. He thumbed the switch on the Adumari comlink.
Step one: Remind them who everyone is in case they’ve forgotten
. “People of Adumar, I am Wedge Antilles, and it’s my pleasure to meet you at last.” His words blasted out from speakers set up on four strategically positioned metal poles around the plaza.
The audience roared again, but the noise quickly modulated into a chant: “Car-tann … Car-tann … Cartann …” Wedge wondered what that was all about, but dismissed it from his mind. That answer would wait.
Step two: Remind them what you’re here for
. “And as a representative of the New Republic, I’m pleased to be present at this historic meeting of our great peoples.”
The cheering became more generalized, with the “Car-tann” chants slowly dying out.
Step three: Something personal, so they’ll know you’re paying attention
. Wedge gestured out at the flat display panels. “I must admit, I find this display very heartwarming. It’s possibly the best greeting I’ve ever received. I’ll have to find out if I can replicate it on the walls of my quarters back home.” Some laughter mixed in with the shouting and cheering.
Step four: Wrap it up before you make a fool of yourself
. “I expect to have more to say once I’ve settled in, but for now, thank you for this warm welcome.” He waved again and took a step back, as if abandoning a lectern, then switched off the comlink. The crowd’s cheers continued.
His pilots advanced to flank him and joined in waving at the crowd. He heard Tomer’s voice from immediately behind him: “This is good. If you can just stand here and wave for a while, that’ll satisfy diplomatic obligations, and then we can get you to your quarters.”
“All right.” Wedge took some time to look at the crowd.
They were men, women, and children, all ages, consistently light-complected, though their hair color ranged throughout the color spectrum—Wedge suspected that many of the colors were artificial in origin. Facial hair was common among the men, especially elaborate mustaches.
There was a wide variance in the color and cut of their clothing, but some consistencies as well. Males and many females wore tights and close-fitting boots in black, with long shirts with flowing sleeves. Other women wore long dresses, tight from the torso down but again with the broad, rippling sleeves. About half of the people wore headgear, some sort of tight-fitting cloth or leather skullcap matching one color from the rest of their attire; many of the skullcaps featured a sort of visor, a curved band of what looked like heavily polarized transparisteel, that fell before the wearer’s eyes or could be raised up to their foreheads.
Belts were common, usually narrow single-color loops with no buckle or attachment showing. Some people wore three or four in different colors; others wore them looping from one hip to the opposite shoulder; others still wore both waist and shoulder belt rigs.
And weapons were everywhere. From most of these belts hung sheathed long blades, short blades, pistols of some variety. Wedge could see few in the audience who were not armed in some way; even the children had knives at their belts.
It occurred to Wedge, belatedly, that he could see no security detail on duty around this stage. He glanced at
Tycho; the colonel’s return glance indicated that he, too, noticed the lack.
Wedge said, “Tomer, I suppose I’m not concerned if you’re not, but what are you using for security here?”
Tomer’s answer was tinged with amusement. “Why, the crowd.”
“Ah. And what if they wanted to cause a problem?”
“Others would stop them,” Tomer said. “For instance, let’s say someone jumped on the stage with the intent of killing you. He’d give you fair warning, of course, and choice of weapons.”
“Of course,” Wedge repeated.
“Then you could choose to kill him yourself or refuse him. If you refused, he should withdraw, but might theoretically press the issue, if he was stupid.”
“That’s where security issues become a trifle more important,” Wedge said.
“If he pressed the issue, which is a grave breach of etiquette—”
Wedge heard Janson snort in amusement.
“—then someone in the crowd would probably shoot him dead, just to please you.”
Wedge glanced back at the diplomat. “Just like that.”
“Just like that.”
“Oh, stop worrying, Wedge.” Janson’s grin was infectious. “It’s obvious they adore you. You could throw up all over yourself and they’d love it. By nightfall they’d all be doing it. They’d call it the ‘Wedge Purge.’ They’d be eating different-colored foods just to add variety.”
Wedge felt his stomach lurch. He half turned to glare accusingly at Tycho. “I thought maybe you’d be able to do what I never could. Get Wes up to an emotional age of fourteen, maybe fifteen.”
Tycho gave him a tight little shake of the head. “No power in the universe could do that. Not Darth Vader
and the dark side of the Force, not the nuclear devastation of an exploding sun.”
Janson waved at the audience. “They’d be competing for distance and volume.”
“Wes, just shut up. Tomer, how is it that you know this reprobate?”
The diplomat offered a rueful shake of his head. “I was once a pilot. Briefly. Tierfon Yellow Aces. My talents lay elsewhere, though, so I ended up in a less violent service.”
Janson nodded amiably. “His talents certainly did lie elsewhere. They weren’t in landing. Tomer here made the Aces’ list for a landing almost horrible enough to kill him two different ways.”
Tomer sighed and ignored him.
“His Y-wing was shot to pieces and his repulsorlifts were dead,” Janson continued. “Had to land, though, or he’d never get dinner. Luckily we were based on a low-grav moon at the time, big long stretch of duracrete serving as a landing zone. All the other Y-wings clear off the landing zone and he lines up on it, descends toward it like he was landing an atmospheric fighter without repulsorlifts. Drops his skids as he gets close. The skids take the initial impact but he bounces, so he’s like some sort of hop-and-grab insect all down the duracrete. But he’s lucky enough that he stays top side up. Finally he’s bled off a lot of momentum, but he loses control and his Y-wing rolls. Comes to a stop on its belly and he’s safe. Then”—Janson’s face became more merry as he relived the incident—“his ejector seat malfunctions and shoots him off toward space. With grav that low, he achieves escape velocity. We had to send a rescue shuttle up after him or he’d still be sailing through the void, one cold cadaver.”
“I saved the astromech,” Tomer said. “And the Y-wing was repairable.”
“Sure,” Janson said. “But seeing you as that wishbone
skidded to a stop, seeing you sag in relief—and then, poof! you’re headed toward the stars—”
Tomer caught Wedge’s eye. “As you can see, I’ve provided amusement for years.”
“Efficient use of effort,” Hobbie said. “When do we eat?”
3
One of those processional vehicles—a giant flatbed that rode the ground on wheels, with a raised front control panel where the driver stood, and with braces for the passengers to lean back against as they rode—conveyed Red Flight, Tomer, and Hallis from the plaza. It wasn’t fast going; the crowd did not want to part to admit them, but preferred to shout and jump and wave to attract the pilots’ attention. Wedge solved that problem by moving to the vehicle’s side and reaching out to shake hands as they passed; suddenly the members of the crowd wanted to be beside the vehicle rather than before it, and the vehicle’s speed increased. The other pilots moved to the sides as well, and within minutes the vehicle was beyond the edges of the crowd and heading out into the city’s avenues.
Wedge saw that the city’s love affair with balconies was not limited to the avenues they’d flown above. Every building on every street facing was thick with balconies. Some had rope bridges hung between adjacent balconies, and a few had such strung across streets. Wherever they
drove, people thronged their balcony rails and waved down at them. The building exteriors were also decorated, on the ground floor at eye level, with panels about a meter wide by half a meter high that showed two-dimensional images. Tomer called them flatscreens, and some buildings had continuous banks of them all around their exteriors.
“I am so glad the people of this planet like to wave and shake hands,” Janson said.
Wedge gave him a curious glance. “Why is that?”
“Well, what if their usual greeting for visiting dignitaries was to throw paint?”
“Point taken.”
Their conveyance pulled up before one of the taller and more richly appointed buildings they’d seen, and minutes later Tomer led the four pilots into a suite of rooms on an upper floor; their support crew had already been separated off, installed in rooms lower down in the building. “These are the quarters of a bachelor half squad recently reduced in combat,” Tomer said. “The survivor gladly abandoned it for the duration of your stay, for your comfort.”
Wedge took a look around. The floor, again, looked like stone, this time a green marble thickly decorated with silvery veins, but like the plaza flooring it gave slightly when stepped upon. There was one main room, mostly open, with a few padded chairs around the edges. Several arched exits led to round-topped doors of a silver hue. The walls were hung with light blue draperies; just behind the top of the drapes, banks of lights shone up on the off-white ceiling, offering indirect lighting for the chamber.
Tomer pointed to four of the doorways. “Bedchambers there, there, there, and there.” Two of the building porters, adolescent boys who could not stop grinning, obligingly carried the pilots’ bags to those chambers.
Tomer gestured to the bank of drapes opposite the entry into the main chamber: “Your balcony there. It’s a pilot’s balcony, by the way.”