Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [12]
“Leader, Three. You set this up yourself, didn’t you?”
“Three, Two. Less chatter.” Wedge thought he detected a trace of amusement in Tycho’s admonition.
The navicomputer indicated that the plaza was the terminus of their trip. He could see one area that had to be their landing zone. At the center of the plaza was a circular fountain, the centerpiece of which seemed to be a statue representing one of those split-tailed fighters aiming straight into the sky; near it was a stage with rails around the edge and a mass of people upon it, and near that was a railed-off area clear of people. Already parked on the landing zone was the shuttle from the Allegiance.
Wedge continued forward until he was not far short of one set of screens—the one before him showed him and Rogue Squadron, in dress uniform, in a celebration of the fall of Coruscant to the New Republic—and arced hard to starboard. He led Red Flight in a full circle around the plaza, then descended to touch down on the landing zone.
When his canopy opened, admitting a wash of heavy, humid air that made him guess this part of Adumar was in its late summer season, he was deafened by the roar from the crowd. He took off his helmet and was rewarded by another roar as his features were revealed. “Gate,” he said, “close it up and run the power-down checklist. Notify me by comm if anyone approaches.”
His R5 unit chirped a confirmation. Wedge suppressed a noise of dissatisfaction. He’d have preferred to have a few minutes to do his routine post-flight check on his vehicle, but the demands of this social situation obviously wouldn’t permit him the luxury.
No flight crew approached with ladders, so he swung expertly over the side of his cockpit, hung off the side of his X-wing for a moment by his hands, and then dropped to the plaza surface below, landing in a crouch. The plaza surface, for all that it looked like well-fitted square stones, gave slightly under the impact of his landing; it seemed to be a prettily decorated sheet of some flexible material.
Tycho, Janson, and Hobbie joined him in moments, and Wedge spotted another individual headed their way from the direction of the stage. This man was about Wedge’s height, with intelligent eyes and features framed by dark hair and a close-cut black beard. He was dressed in New Republic clothing cut similar to a military uniform but without rank or unit designations. He held out a hand to Wedge. “Sir. Delighted to meet you. I’m—”
“Ejector Darpen!” That was Janson, his voice and expression betraying surprise—and the good cheer that meant he now had some new trouble to cause.
The newcomer glanced at Janson and shook his head regretfully. “I should have known. Wes Janson. Now my life can take on the aspect of a personal hell.” He returned his attention to Wedge. “Tomer Darpen. New Republic Diplomatic Corps. I’m your liaison to the people of Adumar.”
“Good to have one,” Wedge said. “This is Colonel Tycho Celchu, Major Hobbie Klivian. Janson you’ve obviously experienced already. Mind telling us what that assault during our arrival was all about? I assume an assassination attempt.”
Tomer winced. “Not precisely. They were probably young, undisciplined pilots trying to achieve some personal honor by killing you in a fair dogfight. I doubt it was anything personal.”
“You do.” Wedge gave him a dark look. “I take it very personally. We just had to vape four pilots in what is theoretically a friendly zone. Is this likely to happen