uniform." "I understand." Tomer nodded, sympathy evident on his face. "I got
out of Starfighter Command before the dress uniform was even designed. Umm, if
you're looking for alternatives, I'm certain that the court would consider it
a sign of honor if you wore local dress instead of your dress uniforms."
"Yes," Hobbie said. "Yes yes yes," Janson said.
Wedge repressed a smile. The New Republic pilots' dress uniform wasn't
too bad, but it had been designed in the depths of some government public
relations department, without the input of those who would have to wear it,
and many pilots just did not care for it. He cleared his throat. "That's a
possibility. If you'd be so kind as to send up some examples of local dress...
?" Tomer smiled. "One snap of my fingers and you'll
have your very own fashion show. I'll see right to it." He gestured for
the porter, who had been hovering at the exit, to proceed him, and he left.
Wedge turned to Janson. "How well did you know him? Do you trust him?"
Janson considered. "Let's just say that he's cleaned up better than I
expected."
"No, let's not just say that. Let's be a little more informative."
Janson's gaze wandered back in time. "Well, in the Tierfon Yellow Aces,
he always had something going, Floating sabacc games, trade in the newest
holodramas and comedies, a locker that always seemed to have some liquor in it
no matter how much he sold. I never had the impression that he was a black
marketeer, but he was only one notch above that. When he mustered out and no
one ever heard from him again, we figured he'd gone smuggler." He shrugged.
"But the diplomatic corps seems ideal for him. He can persuade and convince
and scam and manipulate, and yet remain a patriot."
Hobbie offered up a rare smile. "Not a bad metaphor for the early days of
the Rebel Alliance."
Tycho offered him a mock glower. "Cynic."
They were four very different men as they walked toward the Outer Court
of the Royal Residence, or palace, of Cartann.
Wedge had chosen green for most of his outfit-boots, hose, beltand had
chosen a tunic in a creamy off-white. He chose to remain bareheaded. His
service blaster was bolstered at his hip; Tomer seemed to think that wearing
weapons was more than appropriate in a social situation, though he had said
Wedge would have to surrender it when in a chamber occupied by the perator,
Beside it hung a device Tomer had said was common-
place in Cartann, the comfan. It was a small hemisphere with a handle. On
the flat side of the hemisphere were numerous little vents; at the bottom of
the handle were an on-off switch and an intake vent. When switched on, the
device would draw air in through the intake vent, cool it, and expel it
through the other vents, making it a handy personal comfort device. Tomer had
said that handling the comfan was itself an art form, with every possible
gesture assigned a meaning by the Cartann court... but outsiders such as Wedge
would be known not to understand the language of comfan manipulation. The
warmth of Wedge's tunic suggested to him that he'd be better off carrying such
a thing.
Tycho's tunic was a material that shimmered and changed color as it
moved; depending on the angle at which one viewed it, portions ranged in hue
from sky blue to a pearlescent royal blue. Most of his other garments,
including a rakish-looking hip cloak, were black, but he also wore a skullcap
in the same material as his tunic. The skullcap came forward in a peak over
his brow, an extension that looked like the sharp beak of a bird of prey, a
comparison Wedge decided was apt, and the semi-transparent visor over his eyes
lent him a distant, mysterious look.
Hobbie was a riot of lines and angles. His boots, tights, and belt were a
basic blue, his tunic a glorious red; but every hem of every garment was
decorated with trim of eye-hurting yellow, making it almost a dizzying
experience to look at him walk. "There are three types of dress clothing,"
Hobbie had said. "The kind that offends the wearer, the kind that offends the
viewers, and the kind that offends everybody. I'm going for the third type.
Fair is fair."
Janson had chosen what Wedge had first misunderstood as a minimalist
approach. His tights, his tunic, all his accoutrements were blackmost of them
a matte
black, though the tunic offered a little shine. He wore no headgear. But
then he capped it off with a hooded cloak that made up for the rest of his
outfit's lack of drama. Nearly floor-length, it was a curtain of nebular red-
purple shot through with crystalline stars that blinked on and off with
internal light.
He carried his service blaster on his right hip, but also carried a new
weapon. On his belt at his left hip was a sheath carrying the Adumari
blastsword, "preferred weapon for settling personal disputes in Cartann," as
Tomer had explained. It looked much like a vibroblade the length of a man's
arm, but the hilt was protected by a curved metal guard. The blade was sharp
starting a few centimeters above the guard, but the tip of the weapon was not
a sharp point; rather, it was a small flared nozzle. When the device was
powered upby turning on a switch at the pommel, the knob at the very base of
the hiltthe tip would fire off something like a blaster bolt whenever it
contacted a solid object.
"So it's like a blaster you have to hit someone with," Janson had said.
"I have to have one."
Tycho had shaken his head, looking as mournful as Hobbie for a moment.
"Don't give him a new kind of weapon," he had told Wedge. "It would be like
giving a lightsaber to a two-year-old."
But Wedge had allowed it, and now Janson's customary swagger swung the
blastsword's sheathed blade around behind him, making it precarious to walk
close to him.
Accompanied by Tomer, they paused at the arched entryway to a large
ballroom designated the Royal Outer Court. Tomer stepped forward to speak to
the guards on duty. There were two of them, large men armed with what looked
like polearm equivalents of the blastswords. Between them, across the
entryway, was stretched a sort of silver mesh material; Wedge could see well-
dressed people dancing and socializing, but it was as if viewing
them through a warped and mottled piece of unusually reflective
transparisteel. He spotted two-headed Hallis in the crowd, her attention
turned toward a large knot of men and women.
Tomer returned. "Odd," he said. "We're to be admitted, of coursethis is
your night! But we're not to be announced."
"You mean," Hobbie said, "nobody is going to bellow our names across the
crowd, so that every body-turns and stares at us and we have nothing to say,
so we stand there like idiots while they wait. That sort of announced?"
"Yes," Tomer said. "It's customary. Why the custom was suspended for
tonight I don't know. You'll have to surrender your sidearms to the guards, of
course."
Tomer stopped Janson's action of unsheathing his blastsword. "No, you can
take that in. Blastswords are fit for polite society. It's only blasters they
object to."
The semitransparent curtain flicked to one side instantly. Conversation
washed out over them, as did a swell of music played on stringed instruments
at a fast pace, and a wash of air that assailed Wedge's nose and informed him
that perfuming was another Adumari habit.
Tomer led the pilots into the outer hall. They attracted no immediate
notice. The hall itself was a tall two-story chamber, with a balcony all
around the second story, thick with onlookers; its walls were draped with
tapestries in a shimmering silver hue, and the lights behind the tapestries
offered not quite enough illumination. Two tapestries were drawn aside,
revealing enormous flatscreens on stony walls; the screens showed, in
magnification, whatever stood before them.
Tomer led the pilots straight to the knot of people that held Hallis's
attention. As they approached, Wedge could see that at its center was one man,
unusually tall, with a close-trimmed white beard and alert, active eyes. His
garments were all a shimmering red-gold; with every motion he looked as though
part of his clothing were on fire. As the pilots neared, he looked at Tomer
and asked, in a raspy but well-controlled voice, "What have you brought me, O
speaker for distant rulers?" He spoke with the same accent Wedge had heard on
the pilots who had attacked Red Flight, in which many vowels sounded like
difficulty comprehending it.
Tomer offered a smile that, to Wedge, looked a little artificially
tolerant. "Pekaelic ke Teldan, perator of Car-tann, smiter of the Tetano, hero
of Lameril Ridge, master of the Golden Yoke, I beg you allow me to present to
you these four pilots Major Derek Klivian, Major Wes Jan-son, Colonel Tycho
Celchu, and General Wedge Antilles, all of the New Republic Starfighter
Command."
With each recitation of a name, the crowd around the perator offered an
"ooh," especially for Wedge. The perator nodded in slow and stately fashion to
each and extended a hand to Wedge. Wedge shook it in standard New Republic
fashion, hoping that was the reaction called for, and that he wasn't
precipitating a war by failing to kneel and put the hand on his forehead or
some such thing. But the perator merely smiled.
"You are well come to Cartann," the perator said to Wedge. "I look
forward to hearing your words and seeing your displays of skill. But first, I
have a present for the four of you." He waved behind him, beckoning someone
forward.
Into the open space surrounding the perator stepped a young woman. Her
garments were all white, though festooned with what looked like ribbons and
military service decorations, and she carried blastsword, knife, comfan, and
pistol at her belt. She was not tall, being a double handspan shorter than
Wedge, but walked with the confident gait of someone a head taller than anyone
in the crowd, despite the fact that she was a year or two from what Wedge
would consider full adulthood. Her freckled features were pretty, open,
bearing the expression of a youth rushing recklessly into life. Her black hair
was in a long braid drawn over her shoulder, and her eyes were a dark blue
that seemed almost purple in the dim light of the chamber.
"This young lady," the perator said, "is the most recent winner of the
Cartann Ground Championship. With that victory comes certain obligations and
prerogatives. Pilots, I present you Cheriss ke Hanadi; I know that you have
the most informed Tomer Darpen to give you outlook upon Cartann, but Cheriss
will serve you as native guide throughout your stay."
Wedge gave the perator a slight bow. "Thank you, sir." He spared a glance
for Tomer, but the career diplomat did not seem in the least curious or
disconcerted; this was obviously not an unusual sort of occurrence.
"I am honored to serve," Cheriss said. She stared at Wedge with
disconcerting intensity, but Wedge could detect no animosity in her
expressionjust curiosity. "If General Antilles wishes diversion during the
evening, I have a show to put ona non-title from some runny-nosed lordling."
The perator returned his attention to Wedge. "Tonight," he said, "is an
informal night. Meet the heroes and nobles and celebrities we have assembled.
Tomorrow is soon enough to begin the tedious affairs of discussion and
negotiations, no?" He offered another smile, then turned his back on the
pilots and moved away. His knot of courtiers moved with him like a set of
shields moving with a Starfighter. Hallis turned between perator and Wedge,
indecisive, then stayed behind, her attention and her recording unit's gaze on
the New Republic pilots.
Tomer stood openmouthed, his expression uncomprehending. "After all his
curiosity about our pilots, all his arrangementsand 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?"
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. "White-cap, wake-time." He saw
the lights reappear in White-cap'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. Wh
en he
lowers his visor, he does not see with the king's eyesyou 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 pilotsmale 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.