Starfighters of Adumar (15 page)

“There’s no telling,” Wedge said. “But it’s something I need to think about. I think I need a drink.”

“Oh, good,” Janson said.

“Alone.”

Inside, Cheriss had advice to offer—rather too much of it, until it became clear to her that Wedge really meant that he wanted some time alone. Then she settled down and merely asked, “Do you want a brewtap where you will be recognized and mobbed, one where you will be unrecognized, or one where you will be recognized but ignored? And do you want one with entertainments or shadowy corners?”

“Unrecognized,” he told her. “Shadows.”

“Garham’s-on-the-Downstream,” she said. “Hold on.”

She went to the closet off the main room, the one where enormous quantities of clothing had been delivered their first day in Cartann. Clothes remained there until selected by one of the pilots, at which time they would end up in that pilot’s armoire. But this closet was still mostly full, Tomer’s people keeping it well stocked from day to day. Cheriss reached in and brought something over to Wedge: a face mask, made to cover its wearer from upper lip to forehead, in a lavender material with the appearance of suede but the weight of foamed plastic.

Wedge looked at it. “Lavender. I have bad memories of lavender clothing. I don’t think it’s me,” he said.

“Precisely my point.”

“Ah. A good point, too.” He put it on, put up the hood of his cloak, and turned to his pilots. “Well?”

Janson affected surprise. “Who are you? What have you done with Wedge?”

Wedge sighed. “Always good to have a pal in the audience.”

Garham’s-on-the-Downstream was not quite what Wedge expected. It was no dive. Less than two city blocks from his quarters, it boasted expensive columns of stone, curtained booths, excellent service, and decent drinks—though most of them were variations on two types of drink, an ale (“brew”) and a liquor (“hard”) derived from Adumar’s most common grain,
chartash
.

It was, however, set up for privacy. It had an entrance off a darkened side street, the low-yield lighting cast shadows in every corner, and the booths all offered privacy. Unfortunately, the booths were all full at this hour, so Wedge took a chair at the bar, in the most shadowy corner.

He nursed a brew and watched the people of Cartann. He pondered their fates and his own.

It was a simple question, really. If Adumar were magically to pull a world government from its sleeve, and all Wedge had to do to entice that government to join the New Republic was fight a few pilots who were anxious to duel him to the death, could he refuse?

No, there was a second question. If Adumar joined the New Republic, who would be the better for it?

First things first. On the occasions he bothered to think about it, Wedge considered himself a soldier. He had joined a cause, the Rebel Alliance, that was aligned with his particular set of ethics and beliefs. He obeyed orders and risked his life in order to achieve a set of ends he believed in. He issued orders and risked the lives of others likewise.

But the pilots who wanted to come against him here
were not enemies. They were potential allies … ones who wanted to kill him, or die at his hands, in order to profit from the so-called honor to be had from such a fate.

The others in the brewtap were men, mostly, though one in ten or so was a woman. Wedge assumed from the posture and conversation of these women that they were like the men here—pilots or minor nobles out for a night of drinks and anonymous trouble. The fact that none had sidled up to him with a glib offer told him that there were no professional companions here.

The people at the bar exchanged smiles and bitter comments, wove their hands around in the air to illustrate some piloting maneuver, argued at first quietly and then with increasing heat and volume about some common acquaintance or romantic rivalry. It was just the same as almost any bar Wedge had visited. With one difference: One of the arguers extended a fist, the knuckle of his middle finger protruding, and lightly rapped the chin of the other. The second man stiffened and nodded. The two of them tossed coins on the bar top and rapidly departed, their hands already on the hilts of their blastswords.

Wedge shook his head. There it was again, the dueling, the almost maniacal disregard for the value of life. Would it harm the New Republic to have such a vital culture—one so inexplicably devoted to the futile snuffing out of lives—join it?

If he was to be honest with himself, Wedge had to admit that it would probably do the New Republic no harm. Visitors from other worlds to Adumar would probably not get caught up in the dueling mania, while Adumari pilots joining the New Republic military were very likely to have their perspectives broadened by what they experienced out in the galaxy. Wedge could already see this happening with the pilots he flew simulated duels against.

So that answered the second question. Bringing Adumar into the New Republic would do no harm, and would offer the potential for increased proton torpedo production.

Which left the first question. If the way to bring Adumar in involved some of these duels—live-fire, not simulated—could Wedge do it?

Wedge wrestled with that one. He decided that other questions remained unanswered, questions critical to this whole mission: What were the conditions of victory? What exactly needed to be done to convince the
perator
of Cartann to side with the New Republic?

Tomer had hinted that it was a popularity contest. Wedge and Turr Phennir were struggling to achieve as much popularity with the people of Adumar as they could. Whenever the
perator
got around to making his decision, whichever pilot was most popular would give his side an edge—perhaps the decisive edge.

But agreeing to those terms, implicitly or explicitly, made all eight pilots, New Republic and Empire, toys of these death-loving Adumari. They had to keep killing—and, perhaps, dying—until the Adumari tired of the game and got around to their decision.

If Wedge could bring it down to a specific duel or event, for example a one-on-one with Turr Phennir, whose outcome unquestionably determined Adumar’s choice, then he’d participate. That would be a military action against a clear enemy, with a clear result. It was this preposterous notion of building public acclaim until someone arbitrarily decided that the contest was done that galled him.

Final question: If General Cracken supported the local Intelligence head’s orders, mandating that Wedge begin the slaughter of Adumari pilot-duelists, what would he do?

No matter how he thought his way around the
problem, the answer always came back:
To do this would be to dishonor myself and my uniform. I would refuse those orders
.

With that finally came another thought:
Which means I would have to face court-martial or resign my commission
.

Wedge suddenly found himself short of breath.

It wasn’t the thought of losing his rank that hit him; it was the realization that leaving the military would be the same as abandoning what little remained of his life.

His home system, Corellia, was closed to him; joining the Rebel Alliance had put him on the enemies list of the Corellian Diktat, the ruler. His family was gone, parents dead and sister missing for long years. Almost everyone he knew was associated with the New Republic military, and the few long-time friends who weren’t, such as Mirax Terrik, had busy lives that intersected his only infrequently. If he resigned, most of these people would disappear completely from his life, leaving him as alone as a pilot who ejected into space with no hope of rescue.

The bleakness of that vision settled as a chill upon him. It was all the more frightening because he knew that even in the face of what it would cost him, he would have to refuse orders insisting that he do things Tomer’s way. If he didn’t, he might as well be Turr Phennir, flying for the Empire.

Had a decision like that cost him the friendship of Iella Wessiri? Had the moment come and gone without him noticing? He didn’t know. But on the eve of perhaps losing what was left of his life, he resolved to see her and find out.

“Yes, another. And this time, a bit stronger.”

It wasn’t the words that attracted Wedge’s attention, but the accent: the clipped, precise tones of Coruscant, or of a dozen worlds that emulated the former Imperial throne world.

Within a nearby booth, its flap held open for the moment
by a bartender, was a man in dark, somber Adumari dress. His body could not be seen within the folds of his voluminous black cloak, but he was of only average height, and his face suggested that he was lean. His hair was gray, his features sharp and suggesting intelligence.

Wedge knew that face. When the bartender hurried off to fetch the man’s drink and let the flap fall back into place, Wedge rose and set a few coins on the bar top. He parted the flap covering the booth and slid into the seat opposite the man.

The gray-headed man offered him a cool smile. “I have a blaster trained on you,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better leave.”

“You’d do the Empire a big favor by pulling the trigger,” Wedge said. “Admiral Rogriss.”

The man frowned. The gesture was a bit exaggerated, as though he were more drunk than he looked. “I know that voice, don’t I? I certainly know the accent. Is it you, Antilles?”

Wedge raised his mask.

Rogriss brought his pistol up and then set it on the tabletop. “I’d never shoot you,” he said, “not even for the bounty on your head. I want to see how you get out of this mess you’re in. Or, more likely, how you fail.”

At close range, Wedge could offer the man a closer inspection.

They’d never met in person, but Wedge had seen his face on recorded transmissions. Five years ago, Admiral Teren Rogriss had surreptitiously aided the Han Solo task force pursuing the Warlord Zsinj. As Han Solo’s opposite number, chief of the Imperial task force hunting Zsinj, Rogriss had risked charges of treason by cooperating with the New Republic, commanding an
Interdictor
-class cruiser in collaboration with Solo’s task force. Later, he’d led the Imperial effort to to win back territories left disorganized by Zsinj’s death.

Today, Rogriss seemed little changed, though a bit of
the fire and animation Wedge remembered from the recordings seemed to be gone. Perhaps it was the effect of alcohol. “What’s a much-decorated fleet commander doing on a backwater mission like this?” Wedge asked.

Rogriss offered him a half smile. “Fleet commander no more, General. Battling with Warlord Teradoc and your Admiral Ackbar for Zsinj’s leavings, I fared rather poorly. I’m sure you heard.”

“I did. But that happens a lot to Ackbar’s opponents.”

Rogriss shrugged. “I cost your New Republic a lot in that struggle. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. And I remain an admiral, but with just one ship under my command, the
Agonizer
.”

“An Imperial Star Destroyer,” Wedge said. So Rogriss’s ship had to be the counterpart of the
Allegiance
, orbiting Adumar opposite the New Republic ship. “That’s still prestigious.”

“Says the man who normally conducts business from the bridge of a Super Star Destroyer.”

“Admiral, have you ever wondered why the Emperor gave such nasty names to his Star Destroyers?
Executor, Agonizer, Iron Fist, Venom
?”

“I’ve heard every schoolboy theory ever proposed on that matter.”

“This one comes from Luke Skywalker—”

“Having exhausted the schoolboys, we now turn to the farmboys? How charming.”

“—who has a certain perspective on the matter the rest of us don’t. He thinks it all has to do with corruption, with the seduction of the not-too-unwilling.”

Rogriss gestured for him to keep speaking, but his expression suggested that he’d heard it all before. The bartender brought Rogriss his drink, and Wedge waited until the man departed before continuing.

“Put a man or woman in a situation where the actions he’s obliged to take, such as serving Emperor Palpatine, are a certain path to personal corruption. Fill his
ears with words saying that his actions are honorable ones. But surround him with constant reminders of the wrongness of what he’s doing. Our victim will cling to the words but will, at some level, always be aware of the wrongness—he can’t escape it. The symbols, such as the names of ships he commands, won’t let him forget. He’s always aware of his descent, of his slow transference to the dark side. Skywalker thinks the Emperor found this knowing acceptance of corruption, this half-accepting, half-struggling process, particularly delicious.”

Rogriss pointed his finger at Wedge as though it were a loaded blaster. “You Rebels remain so very self-righteous,” he said. “Always speaking of honor, as though you invented the concept. I’ve spent my whole life in honorable conflict. I’ve conquered worlds to bring civilization to them—literacy and medicine and sanitation and discipline. I’ve fought the forces of chaos to keep galactic civilization from flying apart. I’ve had only a few weeks of each year to spend with my own children. I’ve made all these sacrifices … only to be lectured about honor by someone a generation younger than I am. That’s reward for you.”

“You’re not drinking here, alone, anonymous, because you like the company. Or because you like the local brew, I’ll bet. You’re here wrestling with a question of honor, aren’t you?” Wedge was speculating madly, but the fact that honor seemed to be such a sore point with Rogriss made his wild shot more likely to strike home.

“What about you?”

“I was,” Wedge admitted. “I solved it. And you?”

Rogriss drew himself up stiffly. The action, made a little unsteady by the amount of alcohol he’d had to drink, was perhaps not as dignified as he’d hoped. “Where duty is clear, there is no question about honor.”

Wedge laughed. “I wish that were so. Well, I’ll leave you to keep wrestling. Best of luck, Admiral.” he rose and departed.

Out on the street, he went to considerable effort to make sure that no one followed him—that no aide of Rogriss’s meant to do him harm. But he saw no shadows pacing his and could finally relax on his way to his quarters.