Star Wars_ X-Wing 09_ Starfighters of Adumar - Aaron Allston [49]
The bleakness of that vision settled as a chill upon him. It was all the more frightening because he knew that even in the face of what it would cost him, he would have to refuse orders insisting that he do things Tomer’s way. If he didn’t, he might as well be Turr Phennir, flying for the Empire.
Had a decision like that cost him the friendship of Iella Wessiri? Had the moment come and gone without him noticing? He didn’t know. But on the eve of perhaps losing what was left of his life, he resolved to see her and find out.
“Yes, another. And this time, a bit stronger.”
It wasn’t the words that attracted Wedge’s attention, but the accent: the clipped, precise tones of Coruscant, or of a dozen worlds that emulated the former Imperial throne world.
Within a nearby booth, its flap held open for the moment by a bartender, was a man in dark, somber Adumari dress. His body could not be seen within the folds of his voluminous black cloak, but he was of only average height, and his face suggested that he was lean. His hair was gray, his features sharp and suggesting intelligence.
Wedge knew that face. When the bartender hurried off to fetch the man’s drink and let the flap fall back into place, Wedge rose and set a few coins on the bar top. He parted the flap covering the booth and slid into the seat opposite the man.
The gray-headed man offered him a cool smile. “I have a blaster trained on you,” he said. “Perhaps you’d better leave.”
“You’d do the Empire a big favor by pulling the trigger,” Wedge said. “Admiral Rogriss.”
The man frowned. The gesture was a bit exaggerated, as though he were more drunk than he looked. “I know that voice, don’t I? I certainly know the accent. Is it you, Antilles?”
Wedge raised his mask.
Rogriss brought his pistol up and then set it on the tabletop. “I’d never shoot you,” he said, “not even for the bounty on your head. I want to see how you get out of this mess you’re in. Or, more likely, how you fail.”
At close range, Wedge could offer the man a closer inspection.
They’d never met in person, but Wedge had seen his face on recorded transmissions. Five years ago, Admiral Teren Rogriss had surreptitiously aided the Han Solo task force pursuing the Warlord Zsinj. As Han Solo’s opposite number, chief of the Imperial task force hunting Zsinj, Rogriss had risked charges of treason by cooperating with the New Republic, commanding an Interdictor-class cruiser in collaboration with Solo’s task force. Later, he’d led the Imperial effort to to win back territories left disorganized by Zsinj’s death.
Today, Rogriss seemed little changed, though a bit of the fire and animation Wedge remembered from the recordings seemed to be gone. Perhaps it was the effect of alcohol. “What’s a much-decorated fleet commander doing on a backwater mission like this?” Wedge asked.
Rogriss offered him a half smile. “Fleet commander no more, General. Battling with Warlord Teradoc and your Admiral Ackbar for Zsinj’s leavings, I fared rather poorly. I’m sure you heard.”
“I did. But that happens a lot to Ackbar’s opponents.”
Rogriss shrugged. “I cost your New Republic a lot in that struggle. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of. And I remain an admiral, but with just one ship under my command, the Agonizer.”
“An Imperial Star Destroyer,” Wedge said. So Rogriss’s ship had to be the counterpart of the Allegiance, orbiting Adumar opposite the New Republic ship. “That’s still prestigious.”
“Says the man who normally conducts business from the bridge of a Super Star Destroyer.”
“Admiral, have you ever wondered why the Emperor gave such nasty names to his Star Destroyers? Executor, Agonizer, Iron Fist,