Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [40]
“But circumstance dictates tactics,” ke Mattino said, his voice a protest. “The greatest honor comes from killing the most prestigious enemy.”
“No,” Tycho said. “That’s the second greatest honor. The greatest honor comes from protecting those who are depending on you. Which you can’t do if you get yourself killed.”
Wedge nodded. “The question is, are you earning honor so that your loved ones can be proud of you as they stand over your grave, or so they can be proud of you when you come home at night?” He raised his brewglass to drain it, but was hit by a hollow feeling as his words came back on him: The question was merely an academic one to him. He had no one to come home to. He even had fewer friends than he’d thought, having somehow lost Iella while he wasn’t looking.
To disguise his sudden feeling of disquiet, he went to the bar to get his brewglass refilled, leaving Tycho to continue in charge of the conversation. Two words were still haunting the back of his mind, intruding when he wasn’t absolutely focused on some other subject: Lost Iella.
By the time he got back to the table, the pilots there were on their feet, shaking hands. “Unfortunately,” ke Mattino was saying, “other duties do demand some small portion of our time. Is there a chance you will be accepting challenges again tomorrow?”
“Until our own duties demand all our time, there’s a high likelihood of it,” Wedge said. “In fact, tomorrow, we may bring the X-wings over and show you how we fight at home.”
“That is something I would wish most fervently to see,” ke Mattino said. He saluted, waving his tight fist a few centimeters before his sternum in an odd pattern. It took Wedge a moment to recognize the motion: It was the same as Cheriss’s salute the night of her duel, but without the blastsword in hand. “I hope to see you on the morrow,” the captain said, then turned away, pulling his hip cloak around him in a dramatic flourish.
• • •
Today, the people of Cartann had apparently discovered that Wedge and his pilots were flying at the air base. When they and Cheriss departed the base on their rolling transport, the street was thick with admirers. They clustered up against the rails, offering things to Wedge and the pilots—flowers, Adumari daggers, folded notes scented with a variety of exotic perfumes, necklaces, metal miniatures of the Blade-32 fighter-craft, objects too numerous to catalogue. Wedge accepted none of them, preferring instead to shake hands with as many of his admirers as could reach him, and his pilots followed suit.
Their procession slowed to a halt at a major cross avenue, however, blocked by a similar parade—people thronging around an identical wheeled transport returning from Cartann Bladedrome. Aboard, Turr Phennir and his Imperial pilots accepted the gifts and accolades from the crowd. Phennir gave Wedge a mocking smile as his transport rolled serenely past the stalled New Republic entourage.
“What’s his record for today?” Wedge asked.
“He accepted two challenges, and he and his pilots shot down two half flightknives,” Cheriss said. “Experienced pilots, good ones. He gained considerable honor today.”
“Yes, he’s just rolling in the honor coupons,” Wedge said. He didn’t bother to refrain from glaring at Phennir’s retreating parade. “They stick to the blood all over him.” He caught sight of Cheriss’s confused expression and waved the thought away.
Tycho, at Wedge’s ear, murmured, “Phennir has known for a day or two what we just found out today. That Adumari pilots just aren’t very good.”
“A few of them have decent technical skills,” Wedge said. “But not many. The attrition they experience has to be keeping their level of proficiency pretty low. Add that to their lousy tactical choices …”
“Small wonder they treat us like supermen,” Tycho said. “Us, and that happy band of Imperial murderers over there.”
In the days to come, Wedge’s routine requests for an audience with the perator to discuss diplomatic