Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [30]
“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 won—he 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 one 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 not—they 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 balcony—in 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 ascender—the slow-moving, rattling, open-sided Adumari version of the turbolift—down 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