Tomer stood openmouthed, his expression uncomprehending. “After all his curiosity about our pilots, all his arrangements—and he has not even one question for
you tonight. I’m baffled.” He gave Cheriss a sharp look. “Cheriss, do you know why he has chosen to conduct tonight the way he has?”
She tore her attention from Wedge to answer. “Oh, certainly.”
“Why?”
She smiled in return. “I can’t answer that. Not yet. I’m forbidden.”
Tomer’s expression turned glum. “I hate secrets,” he said.
Wedge said, “Whitecap, sleep-time.”
The 3PO head on Hallis’s shoulder responded, in the distinctively fussy 3PO voice, “Certainly, sir,” and the lights in its eyes went out.
Hallis made a noise of exasperation.
Wedge ignored her. “Tomer, a couple of questions. If he’s the ruling representative of all of Adumar, why is he simply introduced as the
perator
of Cartann?”
“He is the heir to the throne of Cartann.” Tomer shrugged. “Cartann is his nation. The concept of a single world government is somewhat new here. It does not invoke the sense of pride that the traditional throne of a nation does.”
“Oh.” Wedge leaned in close and whispered so that only Tomer could hear. “And now he has offered us the services of a guide. Is that some sort of present? Should we have brought a gift to offer him?”
Tomer smiled and whispered back, “Oh, no. Your very presence and what it means to him is present enough.”
Wedge leaned back, not entirely reassured. “Whitecap, wake-time.” He saw the lights reappear in Whitecap’s eyes.
He turned once again into the high-beam intensity of Cheriss’s stare. “Well, what’s the best way to conduct ourselves at this gathering?”
Cheriss smiled and gestured. “There are long tables along those walls where there is food. You can just walk
by and take what you choose. The pilots and nobles here would be most happy if you would wander, meet them, tell them of your exploits. There are so many, though, that greeting them and saying you look forward to longer discussions later will be enough. When the
perator
leaves the hall or drops his visor, this means constraints are off; you can loosen your belt, act with less restraint, issue challenges, even leave if you choose.”
Tomer frowned. “When he lowers his visor? That’s the same as him leaving?”
Cheriss nodded energetically. “Both are signals of distance. When he lowers his visor, he does not see with the king’s eyes—you understand? He wants to stay and enjoy but not affect the behavior of the court.”
Tomer looked distinctly unhappy. “How could I have missed that little detail? Are there parallels in lesser courts—”
Janson interposed his head, glaring at Tomer. “Discuss nuance later. Feed the pilots now.”
Tomer relented with a smile. “Sorry. Of course. I’ve forgotten the role of the stomach in interplanetary relations.”
It took them nearly thirty minutes to cross the thirty meters to the food. In that time, they ran across group after group of admirers, most of them pilots—male pilots, female pilots, pilots still in their teen years, pilots as old as Wedge’s parents would have been if they had survived. Wedge shook hand after hand, smiled at face after face and name after name he knew he would never recall despite his best efforts. By the time they reached the buffet-style tables, all four pilots had an appetite and eagerly went after the foods ready there, despite their unfamiliar appearance. Most of the dishes consisted of bowls of some sort of meat or vegetable simmered in heavy, spicy marinades; Wedge found one he liked, what seemed to be
some sort of fowl in a stinging marinade with ground spices clearly visible, and stayed with it even after Cheriss informed him that it was
farumme
, the same sort of riding reptile Wedge had spotted during his arrival flight.
“So, Cheriss,” Wedge said, “what can you tell us about the Adumari fighters we encountered on our arrival?”
“The pilots or the machines?”
“I meant the machines.”
Her expression became blank. “The Blade-Thirty-two,” she said. “Preeminent atmospheric superiority fighter, though the Thirty-two-alpha is equipped for spaceflight and the Thirty-two-beta also has what you call a hyperdrive.” She sounded as though she were reciting from a specifications chart. “It’s a single-pilot craft in most configurations, with three main weapons systems—”
Someone bumped into Wedge from behind. He glanced over his shoulder; another diner had taken a step backward straight into Wedge. The diner half turned toward him, saying, “My apologies.”
“No offense taken,” Wedge said, and turned back to Cheriss … then froze. The other diner’s accent was clipped, precise … Imperial.
He spun around. The other diner turned to face him, surprise evident on his features as well.
Despite the man’s garments—he was dressed in Cartann splendor, much as Wedge was—Wedge 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. “Cheriss, 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 you, 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 mission—enough 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 to—socialize, 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 escapees—to 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 Wedge—not 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 born—the 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.”