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 walkby 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 besome 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 defectionto the New
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 walkby 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 besome 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 defectionto the New
Similar Books
