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Hobbie, his expression regretful, nodded. Janson followed suit. Tycho didn’t respond, and Hallis merely looked between them, her body completely still, only her eyes moving.

Janson said, “All that stuff about them being pilot-happy … it’s wrong. The only things they seem to want are honor and death. I would not want to fly with an Adumari pilot in my squadron.”

“I can’t entirely agree,” said Tycho. “We’ve already had luck in bringing some of them around. Our training exercises have been successes. If they hadn’t been, Tomer wouldn’t have blasted in here, spitting smoke and aiming lasers. And I think Cheriss, in the other room, is another good indicator. She’s as devoted to this whole death-and-honor thing as any Adumari I’ve met, but I don’t think it would take too much to turn her around to a more civilized way of thinking. I think a better question is this: What effect will it have on the New Republic if we bring Adumar in the way it is now?”

“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