"I've been reviewing engineering records and damage statistics," Tycho
said.
Janson laughed. "While we've been maneuvering?" "Restraining myself so
you could keep up with me left me plenty of time for intellectual pursuits,"
Tycho said. "I also composed a symphony and drafted a plan to bring peace to
the galaxy. Anyway, without shields, these things come apart under any missile
hit. But they're structurally tough, more so than X-wings, so they hang
together after taking more collateral damage or laser hits. I'd like to see
how much maneuverability they lose with a set of shields, hyperdrive, maybe a
gunner's seat installed. If it's not too great a loss, we may have a viable
fighter-bomber here, something useful in fleet actions against capital ships."
"Good point," Wedge said. He rolled his fighter over and up again,
decided he didn't much like the way the atmosphere bit at his flight surfaces.
"All right, let's take them back to the hangar. Wedge Antilles out."
That was a code signal, the use of his full name. After bringing his
fighter around so that it was headed back toward Giltella Air Base, one of two
bases close to the city of Cartann, he switched the microphone off his
fighter's comm system, then pulled an elaborate comlink headset out of a
flight-suit pocket. Tycho had brought these back from the Allegiance last
night, comlinks with scrambler attachments. Wedge set its registers to a
previously agreed-upon scramble code.
Hobbie had determined that their clothes were free of listening devices,
but he'd found two such objects in their quarters, obviously of New Republic
make. Not being Intelligence-trained, he'd said that he wasn't confident that
he could find them all. That meant their quarters were not a safe place to
discuss things in confidence. With Cheriss or Tomer with them most of the rest
of the time, this left few occasions for private conversation between them.
Wedge dialed the power down on his headset so its signal was unlikely to
be intercepted at ranges of more than a few hundred meters. He pulled off his
pilot's helmet, setting it in the little cargo space behind his seat, and put
on the headset. "One to Flight. Are you reading? Answer by number." "Two,
ready."
"Three, ready to run off at the mouth." "Four, I'm a go."
"All right, gentlemen, what's news?" "One, Four. On the lightboard, I
keep seeing fighter maneuvers about one hundred fifty Adumar klicks southwest
" "That's keps."
"Thank you, Three. Southwest, and with what I've been able to tell from
these broken-up signals, they've been doing pretty much what we have. My bet
is that Turr Phennir and his pilots are also out familiarizing themselves with
the Blades." "Good to know, Four."
"One, Three. There's something I just don't get."
"This is news?"
Wedge smiled. "Quiet, Four. Go ahead, Three."
"Why does the perator of Cartann assume that the Empire just won't move
in here and take over? Why does he think they'll cooperate in this competition
to win their favor and then just go home if they lose?"
Wedge thought about that. "Three, here's a guess. You're thinking in
terms of the Empire we knew when we joined the Rebellion. Today's Empire is a
fraction of that size, with a heightened sense of economy. To conquer this
world, they'd have to commit and probably spend a lot of resources. To do so,
they might even have to smash flat the very industry they want to obtain. The
Empire would win, no doubt. But they'd lose more than they'd gain. It would
probably never be a cost-effective decision."
"Good point, One. I just can never think of the Empire as anything but
this gigantic thing with limitless resources."
"Back to normal communications," Wedge said. "The air base is coming up."
Ahead were the familiar colors and shapes of the Cartann air base from which
they had taken offseveral concentric rings, hangar buildings surrounding
central control buildings, all of them with elaborate balconies.
Minutes later, they had landed and returned the Blade-32s back to the
flightknife that had loaned them, declined yet another challenge from that
flightknife, and been rejoined by Cheriss just outside the hangar. "Did you
enjoy them?" she asked, her eyes shining.
"Yes, we did," Wedge said, and led the way toward the wheeled contrivance
that would carry them back into the city. "Very hardy fighter-craft." The
girl's expression suggested that she awaited further praise for the Blades, so
he added. "Obviously a vehicle of conquest."
She nodded, happy. "There is none better. And it is obvious that you've
learned to master it very swiftly."
"Well... we managed not to crash," Wedge amended. "I wouldn't say we've
mastered it."
"Oh, you were putting them through their paces as though you'd been
flying them for years," she said. "And the Imperial fighters accepted a
challenge today and shot down four members of Blood on the Flowers
Flightknife."
"Shot down?" Wedge frowned. "How many survived?"
"One," she said. "Ejected, badly wounded. He'll have some scars to brag
about." Her voice became a little more soft, more shy. "Will you be accepting
challenges, too? Maybe tomorrow?"
Wedge, out of the corner of his eye, saw Janson grinning at him. Wedge
slowed his pace and managed to step on Janson's foot before the other pilot
could adjust. Over Janson's yelp, he said, "Tell me, are all your challenges
live-fire exercises, or do you ever use simulators?"
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 wonhe 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 on
e 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 notthey 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 balconyin 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 ascenderthe slow-moving, rattling, open-sided
Adumari version of the turboliftdown 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 Hobble 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.
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 mantall, mustached, smiling in
anticipation of victoryshook 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 floo
r 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.